Memories are records of the past. But what if the past were nothing but memories?
The grudges of the martial world unfold in the night rain, while its heroes gather over warmed wine.
“Xiaoyi, is it raining again?”
“Mm.”
The youth set down his bamboo hat and answered casually. He found a seat at the wine table, picked up a pot, and sat by the window, watching the rain as he drank.
What happens when a protagonist gets hold of the script he wrote for himself?
