Autumn, Year Seven of Yongchang, Bianjing.
Zhao Yan, a taciturn restorer of ancient books, runs the ancestral Jiya Studio. He makes a living repairing worm-eaten, water-stained old volumes for the rich and powerful. His craftsmanship is superb, his temperament solitary, and his days are as calm as old ink left on his desk.
Then, on a rainy night, Liu San, a book merchant from the western part of the city, burst through the shop door, soaked to the skin. He dropped a half-volume of Records of Strange Tales in front of Zhao Yan. It was soaked in dark red stains and reeked of ominous blood.
Hidden between its pages were paintings on skin as thin as a cicada's wing. The woman in one of them looked vividly alive.
That night, a woman in white stood by Zhao Yan's bed. Her voice was as ethereal as tearing silk. “Since you have peeled away my painted skin, my lord, you must give me a new body.”
