Chang'an, shrouded in misty rain.
All things in the world seemed veiled by this misty rain, casting an air of such bewitching, ethereal beauty.
The courtesan propped open her window with a bamboo pole, gazing out at the rain. She bit her crimson lips lightly, holding her lover from her dreams—the Demon Lord drenched in bloodied rain.
Peddler and palanquin-bearer alike bustled through the streets of Chang'an; under this oppressive life, rare smiles finally broke across their faces.
The misty rain was like a painting, and today's Chang'an seemed so tranquil.
However, outside the imperial palace, a deadly threat was slowly spreading.
The autumn wind was desolate, and the rain fell bleakly.
Droplets of rain struck the body, instilling a hair-raising, bone-chilling coldness.
Fang Yang continued to walk in the drizzle, his demeanor light as a cloud, unperturbed by honor or disgrace, serene amidst it all.
His shoes made a patting sound against the wet ground.
