The night sky of New Chang'an City is a dark red marinated in neon lights and holographic billboards, like a piece of bacon that has been left out for too long and is leaking grease. On New Year's Eve of the year Bingwu, the world should have been boiling hot. But some corners are deeper and quieter than the freezers in the morgue. Lu Li was sitting in such a corner, holding the copper coin that he had dug out of the deceased's clenched palm between his fingertips. Rusty, a twisted horse, riding a blurry flying swallow. He closed his eyes, not because he was tired, but because he didn't dare to look anymore. At that glance just now, he "saw" - the horse's mane condensed with flames, the horse's eyes burning hollow, wrapped in unspeakable resentment and coldness, heading straight towards the camera (no, towards the deceased, towards him). This is not a murder weapon, this is a warning. The next Bingwu reincarnation has begun. His bloody fingers inadvertently touched the cold label on the evidence bag: Excavated from the ancient tombs in Jiazi District, coffin No. Bingwu. The blood seeped into the patina, and something that had been sleeping neatly opened its eyes gently in the abyss where no one could hear it.
