On the night of the palace change, Xiao Lang was completely swallowed up by the hateful personality he had cultivated for eighteen years.
He washed the palace with blood, watched the face that was 70% similar to his own collapse in the fire, and heard himself laughing crazily.
It wasn't until he stood in front of his mother's cold coffin that he suddenly remembered half a piece of sweet-scented osmanthus cake he had secretly given to his younger brother when he was five years old.
The body of hatred suddenly shattered.
He dug out the cinnabar mole between his eyebrows that symbolized the "star of misfortune", escaped from the imperial city under the pseudonym "Xiao Wuhen", and became a silent kite craftsman in a small town in the south of the Yangtze River.
I chop bamboo, paste paper, and mix colors every day, trying to put all the blood and fire from the first half of my life into the skeleton of the paper kite.
Until one rainy season, Shen Qingci, who had given him a piece of pine nut candy in the library of the Hanlin Academy when he was still "King Chen's counselor", knocked on his shop door wearing scarlet clothes soaked by the rain.
Under the green umbrella in his hand, half of his face was as pale as paper.
"Your Highness," the former imperial minister, now the chief minister of the cabinet who was seriously injured and on the run, took out an oil paper bag from his arms, his voice was so soft that it dispersed in the rain, "What you want... Pine nut candy."
Inside the oil paper bag were three candies that were slightly melted by body temperature.
And a wound across the chest and abdomen that was still oozing blood.
Intention: growth