Chapter 1: The Initial Display

  Cicadas chirp in the scorching summer, sweltering heat on one's head, annoying people to the point of pulling their hair out.

  Nothing came of it, I hate her.

  A girl about fifteen or sixteen years old, with a lovely double braid, her face as delicate as jade, her eyes flashing like a beautiful peony, gritting her teeth and suddenly twirling her fingers, she actually produced a fine needle, shining with a cold black light under the scorching sun.

  The needle is highly toxic.

  There are flowers, cicadas are not easy to come by, hiding in the dark for many years without seeing the light, singing on the tree for a summer and then dying. Let it live for a few more days, as if accumulating blessings for oneself.

  A young man about the same age as Ya Tou, with a dark complexion contrasting with Ya Tou's fair skin, an expressionless face, a naturally downturned mouth, and a bitter look. He wears a semicircular curved knife at his waist, giving off a fierce aura.

  Are you kidding me? Who would mess with a know-it-all? I hate her. The flower-crowned girl raised her hand, and the black needle-like hairpin pricked towards the bitter-looking young man.

  A young boy wearing a summer mandarin-collared shirt with large sleeves, hid his hands in the sleeves. All that could be seen was the bulging and shrinking of the sleeves, followed by a small cry of "aiya" as his hand came out, but the needle was nowhere to be found.

  You stink without results, be careful I'll go back and beat the little rascal, break your elbow that's bent outward. There are flowers humming, dare not complain about numbness in hands and feet. This kid's kung fu is evil, she can't compare to him.

  She stares blankly with a foolish expression, tilting her head to look sideways, she's better than before.

  What's good about that! It was better before, although she would get sick with just a gust of wind, and had a gloomy face every day, looking more unlucky than you. But at least she wouldn't leave the house, we could lock her door and have fun. Whether those carefree days are gone forever, I'd rather not think about it, but flowers still bloom and beauty is still worth appreciating.

  In the teahouse, a woman sat by the railing. She was dressed in extremely ordinary clothes, just a plain pink cheongsam with many folds. However, amidst the cloudy and misty pink embroidery were green leaves and flower buds, wide silk sash around her waist dyed with peony yellow, requiring careful appreciation to know the exquisite craftsmanship. Her waist was indeed slender and praiseworthy, but her sitting posture was really not worthy of admiration. Her left hand propped up half of her cheek, her upper body almost slanting down to the bottom of the table, while her right hand tapped heavily on the table.

  There were flowers but no fruit, and all they could see was the woman's profile.

  Her skin is not delicate and smooth, not meeting the beauty standard. Her nose is not high or upturned but straight. Her ears are small and neat, without earrings. Her phoenix-like eyes are narrow and flying, not squinting as if provoking disdain, absolutely not tame.

  The woman is not ugly, but she's not a heavenly beauty either. If you don't count her sharp and pointed phoenix eyes, the other four features are well-proportioned; if you include the phoenix eyes in the evaluation, her appearance becomes somewhat harsh, it can't be judged as good-looking or not, but it's definitely hard to get close to people.

  Look, he can't even sit up straight like a normal person. And what's with the stuff hanging from his mouth? If he hangs out with those uncouth rascals from the streets, people will think they grew up together. It's fine if you don't look at him, but once you do, you can't help but raise an eyebrow - did he get sick and damage his brain or something?

  Isn't it just a charcoal pen stuck between the nose and mouth? Men and women have been at odds since ancient times, blinking empty bowls back to the table, fruitlessly squatting by the door.

  Old maid bones are brittle. Dissatisfied with being described as eating a lot, Hua Zheng mocked her for not having the self-awareness of not speaking ill of others behind their backs.

  Miss Flower said, by the way, I'd also like to ask you, is this your clever craftsmanship? The woman bowed modestly and moved her hand away. On the table were several wooden puppets, with a pair of vermilion phoenix eyes painted on each puppet's face, and a yellow paper label pinned to their shoulders, bearing four characters:

  Rhodophiala bifida

  Orchid is born, suitable for both men and women, belongs to wood, meets water to branch out, enters the earth and overcomes, at this time the initial unfolding of curled leaves does not stir the face.

  She, after crossing the boundary of life and death, from then on became Nan Yue Lan Sheng.

  Welcome.