Outside the window, rain poured as if someone were tipping black ink from the sky, so thick that even the outline of the bell tower in the distance had blurred. Damp, cold air seeped through gaps in the old oak window frame, bringing a chill that smelled of mildew and aged paper. Gu Yun rubbed his stiff, frozen fingers and turned his gaze back to the desk before him.
Spread across the desk was an extremely old book.
It was unlike anything sold on the market. Its cover was made of some deep brown leather, cold and tough to the touch, worn so badly that its original appearance was impossible to make out. Only a few blurred, dark gold patterns hinted at its former elegance. The pages were thick and yellowed, their edges curled as though they had been turned and touched countless times, or singed by flames.
Gu Yun had found it in the lowest compartment of a dust-covered cabinet in the most remote corner of an old bookstore in the south of the city, a place almost no one knew about, called Xujing Studio. The owner, a gaunt old man who seemed frozen in time, had eyes that flickered like a candle flame in the wind as he handed Gu Yun the book. He named no price. He merely extended a withered, branch-like finger and tapped the cover, then let out a meaningless mutter from his throat. After that, he refused to look Gu Yun in the eye again.
