When Chu Zhaoran fell into the ancestral temple, the bronze wind chimes on the eaves were making a dying buzz. Three kilograms of strong liquor burned into a sea of fire in his stomach, but it was unable to withstand the painful sound of his kneecap hitting the bricks. "Damn..." He stood up and was halfway through cursing when the smell of rust suddenly filled his throat - the bronze lamp filled with incense and ash in front of his ancestor's memorial tablet started to sway without any wind.
