When a piece of bronze bird locking piece wrapped around my finger, the nightmare began - the blood and rust on the bronze bird's belly pulsated under the light, and the sound of nails scraping against the inner wall rang in my ears. Its previous owner had been scared to death in the secret room, holding the fragments broken off from the evil object in his hand.
I, Shen Mo, a craftsman who earns a living by restoring antiques, was forced to push open the heavy door of "Tiangong Mansion". What is archived here is not antiques, but gluttonous stoves that devour living people, dream tapestry that weaves death dreams, and threads that replicate murderous puppets...
