Wood Hunter: the Secret of Lightning Struck Jujube Trees

I wanted to sell the piece of thunder-struck jujube wood for some money, but unexpectedly it split open overnight and a drop of blood flowed out. The blood was cold, like yin water seeping out from the ground, with a bit of the sour smell of burnt jujube wood. When I dug it out of the camphor wood box in the corner of my ancestral house, it was just an old piece of old material. My father never let me touch it, saying that it was "something left over from the year of thunder, and it's not clean." But my father left, the house leaked, the walls collapsed, I owed bills, and the shop couldn't open. I really couldn't bear it anymore. That night, I took a photo and posted it in the lumber dealer group with the caption: "Lightning struck jujube wood, inherited from ancestors, who wants it?" That night, it didn't rain or thunder, but the piece of wood cracked on its own. The next day, I woke up to someone whispering in my dream. He said I owed him a soul and had to pay it back with a mirror. I don't believe this. But the kitchen mirror cracked on its own, runes appeared on the wall of the ancestral house, and the long-dead jujube tree at the entrance of the old shop actually bloomed. That year, I was thirty-six years old, an ordinary carpenter in a county town, with no money, no life, and no hope. But I never thought that my life would start from a broken piece of wood and be split in half alive.