In the forty-two years of Wanli, there are three moments of Zi hour.
The bluestone slabs were soaked in the cold rain, and all the lanterns in Guishi suddenly went out.
Shen Qingya stood by the "Yin Yang Bridge", half a piece of residual jade around his waist glowing with dim light - it was the one he grabbed from his father before dying on the night of the Shen family's death.
The Yin Qi from the Ninth Realm of Wandering Soul crawled into the bone marrow along his knuckles. He looked at the warm yellow candlelight coming from the drug store on the corner of the street, and his nether eyes pierced suddenly - the thing on the desk that was offered as the "Century-old Wild Ginseng" was grinning its fangs, and half a bloody nail hung from its roots.
"Mr. Shen, are you here to collect information again?" Guishi Yaren huddled in the shadows, grinning from the corner of his mouth to his ears, "Last time you exchanged the news about 'the kid from the City God's Temple stole the confession' for the incense, but today... Have you brought something more ruthless?"
He didn't answer.
The blood of that night three years ago is still burning in my soul - thirty-seven members of the Shen family were all skinned and hung on the beams of the ancestral hall, but not even a shadow of the murderer was left.
And every transaction in this strange market is a knife he has been sharpening for three years.
"Master Shen, stay."
The scent of medicine hits the nose wrapped in cold rain.
Lin Suxin stood under the eaves holding half an old book with a musty smell, her Yuebai Confucian gown stained with mud. She wanted to imitate men and take the exam for merit, but she hid a lancet tempered with black dog's blood behind the medicine cabinet.
