Under Official History

Zhou Ning woke up from the pungent fog and black cobblestone streets. No cell phone, no memory. The street was deserted, and the dark high wall looked like a huge sarcophagus. But in the three seconds it took him to blink, a gentleman in black appeared out of thin air half a meter away. The other party's lips curved into a stiff arc, and he chuckled in the dead silence and uttered a horrifying greeting: "Why don't you go home... Arthur?" But when the musty-smelling door was slowly pushed open - there was no abyss behind the door, only his familiar modern apartment. Strong heartbeat, warm blood, familiar sofa and lights. Just when he thought all this was just a ridiculous hangover nightmare, he fell asleep in the familiar living room... Knowledge carries the aroma of blood, and reason peels off little by little in whispers. The glow is hot in the blind man's dream, and the blood nourishes the dry throat. Is it greed for taboos, obsession with senses, or paranoia about transcending death? Order is just a veil covering the eyelids, and the skin of reality has already quietly opened its cracks with desire. Woodland grows outside the Mansu Wall. Everyone who studies history knows that there are no walls in the sky.