The red flowers in the distance were blooming brilliantly, just like the blood on a man's clothes, flowing out from his chest drop by drop, dripping onto the ground, a bloody patch of blood. The man's face had lost all color, and he was nestled in the woman's arms, his eyes blank. The woman's face was full of tears, staring at the jade Buddha on the handle of the knife. The jade Buddha had long been dyed red, and the blood seemed to be blending into it, telling endless stories.
This novel and its characters are purely fictitious. Any similarity is purely coincidental and should not be imitated.
