Daming Chengying

Autumn of the fourth year of Jianwen, August 29th, Nanjing. The Reunion Festival has just passed, and the autumn tiger is still showing off its power. Zhang Fu opened his eyes and saw an old blue-gray tent. The tent was very old, with dark marks on the corners that couldn't be washed away, and it was slightly softened by the sultry humidity of autumn. There is a herbal smell in the air, mixed with the unique humidity of the south, which fills the nasal cavity. His head felt like it had been split in the middle, his temples were throbbing, and his throat was as dry as a ball of cotton. He struggled to pull his hand out of the thin quilt - a small hand, a thin wrist, the nails were cut bald, and there were a few old frostbite scars on the knuckles. These are not his hands. This novel and its characters are purely fictitious. Any similarity is purely coincidental and should not be imitated.