The Secret Trail of the Mysterious Jade Tablet

In the cold laboratory of a museum, restorer Chen Yuan touched a fragment of a bronze mirror from the tomb of Duke Zhuang of Zheng.

In an instant, his consciousness was swallowed by blood and fire! The clamor of the Spring and Autumn battlefield engulfed him, and his gravely wounded body became that of Ji Yan, an illegitimate son never recorded in the history books.

His birth mother died unjustly in the cold palace, her anguished cries condemning the curse of the “Owl-Eye Oath.” Nan Qiao, clad in crimson, protected him with her life, while the secret she guarded lay buried in the netherworld of the “Yellow Springs”: an evil owl-eyed fetus, using Duke Zhuang’s bloodline as an altar and devouring the resentment of the dead, was taking shape! The powerful minister Ji Zhong pursued him relentlessly. Every glimpse into fragments of history came at the cost of burning away his life.

Bearing the broken mirror stained with his birth mother’s blood and tears, Chen Yuan (Ji Yan) had only one path to survival: entering the netherworld altar, a blood pool imprisoning Duke Zhuang’s spirit.

Within the abyss:

Nan Qiao burned her soul as a torch, and a flaming butterfly lit the road to hell;

His birth mother’s blood-written letter resonated with the broken mirror, tearing apart the barrier to the netherworld;

Upon the throne, Duke Zhuang’s spirit twisted beneath an evil seal, while a single look of release, spanning a thousand years, pierced through time and space;

Using the shattered mirror as a catalyst, heavenly karmic flames consumed the evil fetus and the bloodstained oath alike!

When the dust settled, Chen Yuan returned to the present, covered in ancient wounds and carrying the core fragment of the bronze mirror. The fragment was as warm as ever, as if he were still clasping someone’s fingertips.

Yet the whispers of history never ceased.

The autumn sunset blazed through the clouds above the campus. In a fleeting glimpse against the light, a figure with ink-black hair pinned up with an old hairpin stood silently.

Was it the last ember of the blood and fire in the mirror? Or... someone who had never returned?

A faint, wintry plum fragrance drifted through time and space:

Though the owl’s eye is destroyed, the promise remains.