In the wilderness of Cangwu in ancient times, the Xiling family and the Jiuli tribe lived across the river. When the morning dew and frost formed, the tribes' cooking smoke curled up, and the bonfires flickered on and off where the evening wind blew sand. She learned the art of weaving hemp in the depths of the mulberry forest, and the code for the survival of the tribe was hidden in her fingertips; he practiced the skill of shooting the sun on the hunting ground, and the trembling of the bowstring was the lifeblood of the tribe's prosperity.
The drumbeat of tribal marriage broke the tranquility, suspicion grew like wild grass, and hatred set fire to the prairie. Mulberry and hemp collide with animal bones, brocade and arrow feathers are intertwined. Some people swear an oath on a moonlit night, while others betray in the morning mist. The dew falls silently, soaked with blood and tears; the wind rises in a tangible way, carrying love and hatred. In this wild and hot land, all living beings struggle between survival and morality, and seek fate and struggle. Every step is based on the pulse of the ancient earth, and every cry echoes between the sky, the earth, and the sky.
