Jiang Li remembered the weight of that snow.
It wasn't alstroemeria, but the pen-washing water poured down from Kunlun Yuxu Palace, mixed with the smell of copper from the divine whip, and froze on his neck, becoming the "seal of ruined life" that would never scab.
For twelve years, he was a living dead dog in the Xiqi stable that even the underworld was unwilling to take in. Until that day, the sky fell.
That's not a tribulation, it's a screen - a canopy hanging above the nine heavens, broadcasting "The Uncut Version of the Gods" to the three realms.
Jiang Ziya's calmness as he warmed wine and killed Hua Xiong, Nezha's wild laughter when his dragon tendons were cramped, Yang Jian's indifference when he opened his heavenly eyes... All the "official histories" that had been beautified by heaven showed their true colors frame by frame under the forced replenishment of the sky.
The first frame was fixed on a snowy night twelve years ago: Jiang Ziya, who was revered by later generations as the "Sword Holder of the Gods", was holding the throat of a seven or eight-year-old child with one hand, the thunder pattern of the divine whip was branded on the carotid artery, and his voice was as gentle as lulling him to sleep:
"Don't be afraid, Li'er. Master just wants to lend you something... Borrow it from you and then return it to them."
Jiang Li smiled, revealing yellow teeth stained with horse manure.
"Master, whatever you borrow must be repaid. With interest."
——At that moment, the sentient beings in the three realms saw that the brand on the neck of the sinful slave in the stable was actually the only "living body vacancy" on the list of gods.
