When ancient book restorer Lin Sheng was sorting out the fragments, the moment his fingertips touched half of the faded costume, scarlet blood suddenly spread on the silk and satin. In the firelight of the winter night of the Republic of China, the warlord strangled the drama in his throat: "This "Lin Suo" will only be sung to me from now on." In the sound of silver bells in the dense forest of western Hunan, the golden silkworm Gu on the priest's fingertips penetrated his heart: "If you step out of the village gate, I will let these butterflies eat out your eyes." When three hundred ice corpses were wrapped in prayer flags from the snow-covered sacred mountain, and the local evil mirror revealed the dense white bones beneath the painted skin, he was shocked to realize that the man with cinnabar-like blood at the end of his eyes was the soul that he had gouged out with his own hands a hundred years ago. The scorched bone peony blooms between flesh and blood, and the reincarnation under the prayer flag has long since stopped. This karmic fire that has burned for seven lives will eventually burn both of them into twisted red ash in their birth charts.
