In the deep house with high red walls, the wind was filled with biting cold.
Nalan Zhiwei was half leaning on the carved soft couch, twisting a half-bloomed mandala between her fingertips. The dew on the petals reflected her pale, almost transparent face.
Her mother said she was a medicine jar, and her father said she was useless trash. But they didn't know that her fingertips had long been stained with poison. Everyone in this red wall owed her a life.
When she dropped the juice of Datura into the tea cup for the first time, the wind in the deep house could no longer blow the light in her eyes.
This is Shangguan Yanqing, the author of "When the Mandala Fades".
This is not a pleasant article to please everyone, it is written for those who understand the poison of mandala, the pain of puppets, and the struggle of women under the yoke of feudalism.
I don't chase data, I don't ask for help, I just focus on writing this story about revenge, awakening and brokenness.
If you can understand the metaphors between the lines and empathize with the heroine's sharp edge hidden in her sick bones, you are welcome to stay and accompany her through this bloody road of revenge.
If you are just a passing visitor, I hope you find a story that suits your needs.
Thanks to every soul on the same frequency, we will see each other in the corner where mandala blooms.
Concept: In a deep house at the end of the Qing Dynasty, she was a woman who was crushed by ethics, family, and the world. In the end, she could only use revenge to write a bloody footnote to this cannibalistic era.
