Song Jinghong died on a rainy night in the Great Song Dynasty.
When he opened his eyes again, he had become a modern detective nearing retirement, with only six months to live.
The diagnosis was terminal pancreatic cancer. Before him stood a daughter who was cold and distant.
Clutching his badge, he wanted to live once, for the last six months, in this unfamiliar body.
But his first case plunged him into the depths of despair:
On a rainy night, a family of three had been nailed inside their home.
The red cloth left at the scene was exactly like the one he had seen a thousand years earlier while investigating a family massacre.
In the second case, a dismembered victim's right-hand fingers had been cut off.
It was the strangest and most crucial detail in the unsolved case from back then.
The third case, the fourth...
At each murder scene, the unsolved case he had failed to crack was being reenacted.
Someone was writing him a letter in blood.
A letter a thousand years in the making.
“Dad,” his daughter said at his hospital bed, handing him his notebook. “Why are the last three pages blank?”
Song Jinghong looked at the final countdown on his test results.
He knew the answer:
The first page had to be filled with the killer's blood.
The second, with the ink of the truth.
The third...
Had to bear the name of the person who, on that rainy night a thousand years ago, had pushed him into the abyss from behind.
