Eight Needles Yihui

This is a novel about "cost". In the twenty-third year of Zhenguan, Li Shimin knelt down on the blue bricks of Hanfeng Hall in Cuiwei Palace, pressed his forehead into the cracks of the bricks, and exchanged his own fate for the chance of a Haozhou boy living six hundred years later. He didn't know who the boy was. He only knew that he couldn't stop the scenes in his dream - the Yellow River poured in, the barbarian horse trampled the palace gates, and the woman stood in the rain of Longyou Road holding her dead child. Eight pine needles fell from the jade pillow, passed through more than six hundred years, and fell into the snowy light of Fengtian Hall in the 31st year of Hongwu. In the middle are the retracted mud feet in the Jialan Palace, the purple robe in the broken kiln that has no origin, the tree on the mountain ridge that withered after eating three fruits, and the bowl of residual soup in the broken temple on a snowy night that I can no longer remember the taste of. There is also the burn scar on Queen Ma's chest that has never sweated again, the hole left after Zhu Biao's stake was removed after his death, and Zhu Xiongying's eight fingers spread out in his palm. The whole book is filled with forgotten senses and warmth within the framework of official history. It does not preach or preach. Just let the pine needles fall on the mattress, point down. Let those who should know better put together the missing piece of the puzzle.