Previously on: On the fifteenth day of the last winter month, the setting sun bled like crimson, splashing the Spirit Rice paddy market in a wash of golden light.
The shadows of withered branches were shredded by the dusk onto the cold, frosted bluestone slabs, and a cross-breeze swept lightly through the alley, carrying fallen leaves.
The copper bell at the corner of the house chimed out a few lonely notes in the thickening twilight, dyeing the dusk of the entire imperial capital into a silent scroll of paintings.
Chapter 587