The day that A Luo returned, the sunlight was cool and bright, gentle as moonlight. Wu Qian retrieved the clothes that the neighbouring auntie had washed and dried, spreading it on the wooden chair, having everyone else clear up their own. A Yin had just picked up a shawl with tassels, having a bit of a hard time remembering if was her own or Shijiu's, spreading it open to look at it carefully, and then, in the small openings made by the openwork patterns, saw A Luo stepping through the door. So, her and A Luo's reunion carried along with it a faint scent of honey locust. In a split second, the bustling hall fell into silence. One of Li Shiyi's legs straddled the the sofa's armrest, and Song Shijiu sat on a somewhat lower cushion, leaning against her, the motion of her hands folding a coat slowing. Wu Qian straightened, and A Yin set the shawl down, placing it on her knees and twisting it for a moment, instinctively moving her gaze away, staring at the pile of clothes f...

A Luo had said she didn't have any other magic, but A Yin felt that she did. For example, the art of entering dreams, she had to have studied to the point of perfection. A Yin opened her eyes; waking in the dark night, as silent as a coffin, the tip of her nose was filled with the antique wooden scent of the bed, carved with decorated patterns; the receptacles at all sides were this familiar, and it trapped her beautiful dream within, sealing it with long nails, and then buried it underground, turning it into a secret lost to death. Longing was something which, once it started, there was no stopping, and it was the most shameless, wanting a chi once a cun was won; as long as you gave it a crack in the door to seep through, it would come live along with its family, as if it were the master. At the start, A Yin had even put on an act and chased it away; now it had been a long while, she no longer resisted, so as a result, A Luo often appeared in her dreams. She rose from the bed, ope...

A Yin carried her high heels, and returned to the alley, hobbling on bare feet. Wu Qian was startled when she called out for him; this lady who had been bright and neat on leaving now had hair in complete chaos, her sleeves wrinkled and creased in circles, the makeup on her face smudged frightfully, a small amount of her brilliant red rouge smeared by the side of her mouth, and she panted as she gazed at him. It was only the loss of love, yet she'd been tormented into this devastating state. Wu Qian put the book aside without batting an eyelid, and didn't say anything. A Yin smoothed her hair out, yet her first sentence was in a violently critical tone. "I say, your Taishan prefecture, is it poorly equipped or what?" Where had these words come from? Wu Qian didn't understand. A Yin fell onto the stool, her tone still uncharitable. "In the past, you said that the registry in the archive regulates the date of birth and the cause of death; so, if this many ghost...

This matter of A Luo leaving, A Yin discovered on opening her eyes. Some people, when leaving one's life, had a sense of ceremony; the rustling sound of sand would sweep across the bottom of the heart, like a rough cleaning rag erasing the traces. What was irritating was that, when she'd appeared, there wasn't necessarily an equal reminder, such that even her existence was quiet and noiseless, like some sort of indifferent person. As usual, A Yin shuffled about in her shoes as she got up, the knotted buttons from bottom to top gathering up her figure; seeing that the hour was still early, she washed her hair, and then, towelling her dripping hair, she sat before the mirror and applied her makeup. Ah, these brows, and ah, these eyes, they were truly, truly exquisite; the brows were like the curve of laugh lines when one smiled, and the lips were like the cinnabar between one's fingers as they read, and the fluid glance was like the ripples that spread when one made tea, ...

The fragrance drifted; A Yin sat at the scroll-end chair by the desk, her body still askew, the strands of hair in her bun meticulous and without a single strand loose, not even her brows ruffled, only her cheeks flushed a rosy pink, the amorous atmosphere brought out by the winter's day. She was twisting her handkerchief in her fingers, and she gazed at A Luo's profile tiredly. If one were to have the spirit of a character attached to them, A Luo ought to be the clerical script character "placid"; the flowing river of time had bestowed her with unhurried, even-tempered features, and gentle, affectionate eyes; the flutter of her nose and the inhalation and exhalation of her lips, they were all soft and dry, especially her love of wearing a black cheongsam, her slender figure becoming an upright, regular cross, her wan, pale face and wrists the empty stretches of fine xuanzhi paper. It was just a pity that A Yin's temperament was hectic and impatient, and from chil...

Of the cruelest phrases in the world, things have remained the same but people have changed was one, and the blue sea turned into mulberry fields counted as another. The Great Ming had long since been buried, such that even the skeletons of its mortal enemies no longer remained, and all the obsessions had been overturned by the vicissitudes of time; there wasn't anyone who remembered the nation's animosity or the family's hatred; it was only she herself who remembered. Qin Liangyu sank into the calm of the emptiness, as if a young child who had been abandoned, her crane-white hair and chicken-skin wrinkles contrasting absurdly with her confused expression; she grasped the pole of her qiang once more, her left hand extending, falling above the dead leaves, her fingers curling slightly into claws; the leaves, as if having been raised up, formed halfway into a person's shape; she released them, and they fell onto the ground like scattered sand. Oh, all in vain…the veins at...

The distance was too large; the old woman's scattered strands of hair could barely be seen swaying in the air. She was too old; so old that even her hair wasn't willing to stay near her, escaping her bun, which wasn't held tight by a hairpin, and striving to be the first and fearing to be the last to taste the youthful evening wind. Li Shiyi's pace was both slow and conscientious; she and Ling Heng's spirit were folded in a single place, and from her bones and blood flowed an authority that gods feared and ghosts dreaded; the inky night was her best subject, taking her place to raise the tassels of flags of those retreating. "You…" Qin-jiangjun said, her voice as hoarse as a scratched glass, yet the essence of sound strove to rise, preserving the heritage of the prestige of a high-ranking military officer. "You recognise this venerable one?" The strength of her astonishment wasn't great, and when she spoke, she habitually raised the white qi...