In the summer of the 13th Yonghe year of the Daqian Dynasty, torches outside the Shen family's ancestral hall were like dragons.
Shen Qinghe knelt on the last row of futons, sweat dripping from his forehead.
The wind in July swept over the back with a dryness, even the chirping of the cicadas stopped - this abnormally sultry heat was like an invisible net, making people breathless.
She lowered her eyes and stared at the blue bricks under the altar table, and quietly calculated the direction with her fingertips: there was no wind in the Xun position in the southeast, and the air in the Qian position in the northwest was turbid. Even the smoke from the incense condensed into balls and swirled around the family tree portrait.
"Kowtow——"
The deacon's shout made her fingertips tremble in shock.
The moment his forehead touched the bluestone, a slight tremor suddenly came from the ground, as if something huge turned over in the depths.
She raised her head suddenly, looking past the layers of worshiping clansmen, and landed on the winding ridgeline of the mountain behind the ancestral grave.
That is the "Dragon's Backbone of Woniuling" mentioned in Shen's ancestral motto.
