During the day, I am an ordinary person squeezing the subway with my mobile phone in my pocket, listening to my roommates talking about last night's football game, and watching the green radish sprouting on the windowsill.
But when the moon tilts, mucus will ooze out from the wall, the tentacles in the shadow are counting my bones, and the yellow mist will roll over the street corner with an inhuman roar.
They said it was Cthulhu, the indescribable chaos. I only recognize this Xiuchun knife in my hand - from the imperial prison in the late Ming Dynasty to the ruins today, the soul-soothing curse of two lives is locked in the pattern of the knife.
The stability of the outer world is a thin layer of ice, and the fangs of the inner world are digging under the ice. I have to cut down, for the sake of the unfinished chess game, for the light in the eyes of those who are awake - even if at the end of the sword's light is an abyss that humans should not understand.
