On the rosewood table, a pair of "white lion heads" with red jade-like pulp are rotating with Chen Yan's fingertips. The pulp between the walnut ribs is as warm as jade. They are his treasures that he has been playing with for eight years. The rain was pouring outside the window and thunder rolled across the sky. Suddenly, there was a strange tremor in the walnut. Chen Yan felt a burning sting at his fingertips, as if electric current penetrated into the bone marrow between his fingers.
He subconsciously clenched the walnuts tightly, but he heard a crisp "click" sound - the old walnuts that had withstood countless bumps in handball actually collapsed into pieces in the palm of his hand. What's even weirder is that the fragments did not scatter, but turned into a golden-red mist, enveloping his entire body.
A feeling of dizziness hit him overwhelmingly, and Chen Yan's last consciousness rested on a line of ancient seal characters that emerged in the mist of light - "The literary mind leads to the mysterious, and the soul of the instrument leads the way."
