The mule cart rushed along the bumpy dirt road, with inked words on the paper swaying in front of Xia Chan's sleepy eyes, and she drifted into a hazy slumber.
She sank into a dream, as if seeing everything that happened on the day of the Nie God sacrifice fifty years ago.
...
"Huilan!"
At dusk, the setting sun was like blood, and flocks of crows were startled into flight by this call.
In the woods behind the mountain, amidst piles of rocks, clusters of white bell flowers swayed in the wind, and the scent of alcohol was overwhelming.
Nine flower sedans surrounded the ancient well, from which bursts of crying could be heard, and beside each flower sedan stood a family servant holding a long knife.
Two servants pressed the bound Huilan against the well's edge, with a veil covering her face. Her mouth was tied with cloth, she shook her head, tears filling her eyes.
She had been obedient initially, but upon hearing Ming Wanxi's voice, she began to struggle.
