In the late spring of the seventh year of the Apocalypse, a pattering of cold rain fell lingeringly over Beijing like countless fine silver threads. Shen Ke pulled down the felt hat that had frayed the edges, trying to block the cold rain, and at the same time, he also wanted to hide his still green face in the shadows. He shrunk his neck and walked quickly through the wet chessboard street. The bluestone pavement underfoot was washed shiny by the rain, reflecting the rows of shop eaves on both sides, as well as the occasional pedestrians passing by in a hurry. The air is filled with the smell of damp earth, mixed with the aroma of inferior noodles wafting from street food stalls, and the faint noise from distant wine shops, forming a lively and slightly chaotic market picture.
