Rain is the eternal background sound of this city.
Ling Chen stood on a street corner in Shanghai in 1934. The cold rain dripped down the edge of his outdated felt hat and soaked the stiff collar. He didn't like rain, especially rain that smelled like history. The air is filled with moist coal ash, the fishy smell of the Huangpu River, and the aroma of frying oil wafting from street food stalls, mixing into a fresh and decadent flavor that is unique to this era.
His mission is very simple, as simple as just one sentence. But in order to convey this sentence, he traveled retrograde for seventy years.
His left hand was inserted into the pocket of his wool coat, and his fingertips unconsciously rubbed a cold metal pocket watch. The cover of the watch is smooth without any scales. Only under certain light can you see the Ouroboros engraved on it that surrounds itself. This is the "anchor of time", his passport and his shackles. Every time the pointer moves counterclockwise, it means a violent intrusion into the timeline, and the price is the random stripping of his own future memories.
