The crane at Binhai Pier has been spinning for twenty years, and the bluestone road under the hook is soaked in the blood of three generations. Zhao Xiaohu's broom never touches flowers, but only sweeps soot and blood stains - the blood that his mother coughed on the handkerchief, the blood that spattered on the cracks of the bricks when his father broke his leg, and the blood that seeped into the roadbed when Uncle Chen was hit by a crane hook all solidified into ice on the winter night of 1995. He was holding the word "Chen" on the handle of the electrician's knife. That was the surname of Old Chen's father, and it was also the surname common to all the workers who were bitten by the hook.
This is not martial arts, but a world of dock workers; there are no secret books, only the sweeper's notes written with broken legs, scalpels, and BP machine antennas. When the last page of the unpaid bill was stained red with blood, the undead under the bluestone finally heard: the sound of a broom being sharpened was louder than any grudges in the world.
