Chen Mo thought his life would be like this - thirty-eight years old, a restorer of ancient books in the city library, with twenty-three years left on his mortgage. Life was like an old book spread out and dried in the sun, with every word smelling of dusty certainty. Until that early morning, he peeled off seven cold sheepskins from a blood book in the late Ming Dynasty. That night, all the lights in the basement went out, and something crawled out from behind the Republic of China newspaper rack. The sound of scales scraping the ground was like a dull knife grinding bones. It said: "Inherit the secret of heaven to me." Chen Mo held the paper knife, leaned his back against the workbench, and breathed according to the posture on the sheepskin for the first time in the heavy rain of fire sprinklers - and then saw his hands shimmering with golden light. This is not cultivating immortals, this is a pursuit that has lasted for three hundred years. And he, an ordinary person who didn't even dare to read the physical examination report carefully, became the only living key to the ancient inheritance. When the global spiritual energy quietly revived and ancient traditions appeared one after another, Chen Mo discovered that the end of the twisted postures on the parchment scrolls was not immortality, but a war that mortals must win. Because those who lose will not even leave their bodies behind.
