When the snow fell in the third year of Jianwu, all twelve gates of the capital were opened.
Shen Qingwu knelt on the cold gold bricks of the Hall of Supreme Harmony, his knees hurting. Half of the lotus-colored jacket she was wearing was soaked with blood. The knife wound on her shoulder blade was so deep that the bone was visible. Blood beads hit the ground drop by drop along her fingertips, spreading dark red flowers on the gold bricks. Three steps away, the body of her father Shen Mu was lying on the ground, with a neat red line on his neck. His eyes were still wide open, looking in the direction of the Panlong caisson on the top of the palace.
