At the end of winter in the eleventh year of Shaoxing, one day at noon, the Southern Song Dynasty court was in a peaceful place - the capital Lin'an, at the Nanshi Gate. At this moment, there were crowds of people sobbing softly.
The whimpering wind roared, and a voice as cold as stone penetrated the siege like a sharp arrow.
"Sir, the criminal has been brought!"
"Got it!"
The sound of anklets as thick as a child's arm could be heard rattling from far to near, but Mo Qixie, then the young minister of Dali Temple, turned a deaf ear. He sat indifferently on the imperial chair in the middle behind the table, not looking at the two death row prisoners who were about to be executed.
