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Looking back in July, it's a cold night at Twelve Tombs Mountain. The woodcutter who came from the bottom of the mountain had lost his way and was late. At this hour, he was still carrying a load of firewood and dead branches. His calves were trembling as he walked on the shady road. Shadows were swirling, and even his own shadow was filled with an indescribable coldness and evil energy. In fact, it is reasonable to say that this is the hottest weather in July, but because of this feeling of discomfort in my heart, a few beads of cold sweat formed on my forehead.