Chu Jingchen's nails dug into the cracks of the blue bricks, and blood mixed with night dew snaked into thin lines on the steps of the arsenal. Three inches above his head hung half a blood moon, dyeing the rusty sword frame into skinned animal bones. "The wages from the night watch are not enough to buy a thin coffin." He kicked over the empty wine jar at his feet, and the pottery shards flew up, causing the bronze bell on the eaves to rise - the tongue of the bell had been removed three years ago.
A silver line suddenly cut through the darkness. "Young Master is so elegant." Luo Qingyu hung upside down from the beam, and the tip of her hair swept across the tip of his nose, "The elder said, if I throw another weapon, I will chop off your keel." The face of the sixteen-year-old girl glowed with porcelain light in the moonlight, but there were seven daggers of different standards wrapped around her belt.
