For three hundred years in the Great Zhou Calendar, miasma spread over Mount Jiuyi. In the eyes of the world, "Qingfeng Shehuo" is a grand ceremony for calming the pulse. The gongs and drums beat on the bones, and the paper pricks the eye sockets with cinnabar seeping out. Cultivators use swords to seek immortality, while ordinary people burn lamps to worship ghosts and gods. The two realms are separated by an inexhaustible boundary river, and the bones of successive sacrifices are buried underneath. He Changgeng is a Nuo noodle master who specializes in making fire for the sky. I haven't seen Leng Yue in thirty years, and I only have the seventy-two evil tactics of social fire in my mind. He has seen raw bones used to refine talismans in southern Xinjiang, and he has seen blood rivers used as sacrifices in northern desert. Rules eat people, and rules also make people alive. When the old gods open their eyes and the incense continues, the human race can breathe a little longer on the cracked earth. This year it's my turn to be in Xiliang. The drums are ringing at the third watch, and what dances on the stage is not a drama god, but the Old Testament in human skin. The talisman flies backwards, and the formation eyes bite back. The first crack opened in the vein-holding stone, and He Changgeng touched the rusty copper guillotine around his waist. He knew that once the incense ceased, the old gods would fall. The fire will go out. Nuo noodles are broken. Who is going to add firewood, who is going to fill the hole, who is going to nail this dragon vein into the loess again. The fire of society is not extinguished, and all souls are burned.
