It was winter in the twenty-eighth year of Qin Shihuang.
In Shangjun, a homeless shantytown on the outskirts of Fushi County, the north wind blows snow particles, like countless small knives, scraping people's faces and hands, causing heart-wrenching pain. Mo Aixi woke up from the cold, or in other words, from the ice particles in the thatch under her body.
She opened her eyes suddenly and saw a low shed roof made of branches and rags. The snow light leaked through the gaps, allowing her to barely see things clearly in the shed - a few piles of thatch that exuded a musty smell, a few hunched figures with sallow faces, and her thin and stiff burlap clothes, which were covered with patches.
"Hiss..." Mo Aixi wanted to move, but found that his whole body was sore, especially his forehead, as if he had been hit by a heavy object, and he was very dizzy. She sat up holding her forehead, and a chaotic memory flooded into her mind - it was not hers, but it was terrifyingly real.
