Pain.
The pain was excruciating, as if someone was stirring up my brain with a red-hot iron.
Fu Xing took a sharp breath of air and broke free from the drowning-like suffocation. With a "plop", he fell directly from the hard wooden bed to the ground.
"Hey, my little ancestor, why are you so hysterical in broad daylight?"
A drake's throat with a strong smell of dry smoke penetrated his ears. Fu Xing ignored the bruise on his forehead and raised his head in confusion.
What came into view was a cramped and dim store, and the air was filled with a strange smell of old moldy wood, earthy smell, and low-quality sandalwood. There were several sacks of broken porcelain pieces piled up in the corner of the wall, and on the counter with mottled red paint was a Changsha kiln ewer with the porcelain missing - it was the "treasure of the store" that he had not wiped clean three times.
He remembered this place until he turned to ashes.
Qingzhou Antique Street, Debao Zhai.
The place where he, Fu Xing, worked as an apprentice in his early twenties.
"Uncle Zhang?" Fu Xing's throat was as dry as a handful of sand.
The old man standing behind the counter, wearing a white washed gown and stroking the cigarette rod distressedly, was the shopkeeper of Debao Zhai, Zhang Dayan. This old man has a great reputation, but in fact his eyesight is only that much, and he will just make ends meet in these streets for the rest of his life.
Yes, I brought in the pile of rotten pottery jars that had just been collected at the door and washed them. Be quick with your movements. Soon the daughter of the Su family will bring someone to patrol the streets.
