When the Tibetan robe under the moonlight is stained with other people's blood and you pick up your wine bottle, it's best not to ask where you came from.
The price he gave was too hot:
Thirty altars of burning knives were used to exchange for a few lives, and the entire throat bone had to be gouged out by the tip of the knife.
Little did you know when you were smiling and accepting money, those throat bones would spell out your birth date.
The reflections in the swamp lie, the ice coffin of the salt mine is replicating your dead mother's face.
"Add one more item to the deal," the ice blade under the hidden robe pressed against your throbbing Adam's apple, "Teach me the temperature of pain."
In this confrontation between ice and blood:
Lies are the poison that tempers the blade, and memories become the blades that stab each other. What is more difficult to tame than the ancient beasts are the spring buds he planted on your scars.
(A hunt with heartbeats as the bet, under the out-of-control moonlight during the estrus period, reveals the true hunger of the immortal bones - should you dig out your trembling heartbeat, or trap this body-burning spring flood?)
Purpose: To relieve oppression and find the truth
Reader comments
It's such a long description of appearance and actions. I just want to skip it. There's only a little bit of plot in two chapters.
It's such a long description of appearance and actions. I just want to skip it. There's only a little bit of plot in two chapters.