The black tent was deep, and the candlelight shone brightly. A faint scent of herbs permeated the tent, vaguely resembling the fragrance of musk. Cotton blankets laid spread on the ground, with the faint marks of a human figure and damp dew. Under the candlelight, two newly placed redwood wine cups and a black ceramic wine jug stood.
To the left of the jug was a shallow bowl partially filled with fish paste. On the right was a torn piece of black gauze, almost shredded into rags and rolled into bundles—a mystery unfolded what had occurred.
Xiulote wore a short garment, his expression cold and hard, sitting cross-legged before the jug, and picked up the redwood cup. On his neck were two scratches made by a cat and several snake-bite marks on his shoulders. He paid no heed, drinking tequila, and occasionally glancing at the warm, soft woman in his embrace.
