Lu Mingzhu looked at the smudged ink marks on the sheepskin roll of her new deskmate Su Ling - she always hid her trembling fingertips when the morning light was at its peak, and the coughing sound leaked from under the plain gauze startled the butterflies beside the inkstone. He secretly used the flowing light and shadow to warm the honey from the Western Regions, but he didn't know that the blood-stained pulse records had already recorded the prophecy that green lotus would burn if touched by fire. When the holy fire-patterned cloak wrapped around the cold shoulders, and the sea buckthorn honey in the glass bottle condensed into amber on the snowy night, the young man finally understood the wet tears on the broken pages of the medical book: It turns out that the most burning thing is not the scorching sun in the desert, but the obsession to warm the eternally frozen spring.
Intention: Using the collision between the Holy Fire of Mingjiao and the Ten Thousand Flowers and Blue Lotus as a mirror, I ask whether the doctor can overcome it on his own - when the golden needle from the Yi Dao goes retrograde through the meridians for the sake of the common people, does it also sting the fire in her heart that is trying to warm her. The story uses illness as a blade to open up the hidden wounds under the shiny skin of children in the world: some cold diseases are born from numerology rather than wind and snow, and some warmth is better than blazing rather than eternal. In the end, the most gentle paradox is written among the silver bells and broken snow: the obsession of doing something despite knowing that it cannot be done is the glimmer of humanity that illuminates the eternal night.