The setting sun is like blood, and the Four Territories are shrouded in murk.
Rarely does mist gather at Wangyue Lake in the evening, but tonight it is especially thick, a gray haze in which you cannot see your own hand. The crows and sparrows are mute, all sounds have vanished, even the insects listlessly drop to the ground, lying motionless.
The streets of Lijing Town are barren of people, covered everywhere with the blood-red glow of the dying sun, crawling one brick crevice at a time. Even the hawkers have grown slack, going home early to rest; this metropolis of tens of thousands is as silent as if not a soul remains.
Li Yuanping hurried up the mountain. His father and elder brother were already waiting there. All the clan soldiers before the courtyard had been driven away. His eldest sister, Li Qinghong, stood in the middle of the yard, spear on her back, her expression complicated.
