Yongqing twenty-three years
Xie Heqing stood in front of the documents in Dali Temple, and ran his fingertips across the yellowed files. The tear mole on the left eye glowed coldly under the candlelight. It was the mark left by the blood debt of the Xie family.
Xie Zhaoming was leaning on the Grand Master's chair at the Ministry of Revenue, playing with the abacus in his hand. The cinnabar mole on the collarbone is as bright as blood. It was the gauze sand that my mother stabbed before she died. He remembered that his brother said: "Only when you are alive can you collect debts."
When the memorial about the floods in the south of the Yangtze River was delivered to the imperial court, Xie Zhaoming smelled the smell of blood in the account books; when the report of the war in the north came to the court, Xie Heqing felt the light of a sword in the case files.
One of them holds the white piece and is strategizing in the open; the other holds the black piece and is murdering every step of the way in the dark.
"Brother, when will this game of chess last?"
"Down to the point where everyone deserves to die."
Concept: History is a lie written by the victors, while love is the bargaining chip for survivors to protect the truth.