In the late spring of the 23rd year of Jiajing, it had been raining for half a month in Wuzhen, Jiangnan. The bluestone road was soaked black, reflecting the crumbling stilted buildings on both sides, like an ink painting spread by water.
Shaowei squatted behind the dilapidated wooden door of his house, holding half a piece of moldy wheat cake in his hand, but his ear was pressed against the door panel, listening carefully to the movement in the alley. He is sixteen years old, and his body is as thin as a reed after the rain. He only has a pair of eyes that are astonishingly bright - a light that hides calculation and tenacity, which is incompatible with his patched blue cloth shirt.
