Feng Qiwu: Bronze Tribulation

A bronze pot engraved with the secret texts of the previous dynasty, an ancient well in the cold palace that reflects the abyss of power, and an identity mystery that has lasted for twelve years. When the female officer Shen Qingwu opened her clothes, revealing the burning phoenix birthmark on her heart, the mad prince in the wheelchair suddenly tightened his grip on half of the dragon-patterned jade tablet - the jagged gap on it actually perfectly matched the scar on the brow bone of her mother's head that rolled down when she was beheaded. What settled in the bronze pot was not water, but uncoagulated blood; It's not the wood that cracks the spokes of the wheelchair, it's the collapse of ethics; The Phoenix birthmark burns not the skin, but the history of castration. In the depths of Yongxiang, for whom does the bell toll? Is it a torture instrument with red marks worn by the iron chain in the dungeon of Zhenguo Palace? Or are they the undried tears in the eyes of the headless Bodhisattva in the hidden compartment of the Buddhist niche? When Shen Qingwu pressed the blood-stained jade certificate into the man's palm, he heard a low growl from his throat like a trapped beast: "Who are you?" She chuckled: "Your Highness, you might as well look into the well - is it my body you are holding, or your kingdom?"