ghost story

The cold moonlight shines through the window lattice into the prison cell. Silver-white Qinghui, dark gray stone walls, black-green iron grids, stasis-white pillows, and a watermelon knife.

Watermelon knife?

Watermelon Knife. Ordinary, like me, like you, like him, like her.

When the prison guards patrolled through the barn door, they always smelled a bloody rust smell. They covered their noses and hurried away, terrified and frightened in their hearts—could it be that the dead are still grieved?

They guessed wrong. No ghosts at all.

It is purely because the blade has not been thoroughly cleaned, and the blood stains left in the tiny gaps of the blade have fermented over the years, becoming a stench of ghost stories.

In ghost stories, there are killing knives and bloody dead.

What about the knife swinger?

No one mentioned the knife wielder.

No one mentioned the innocent knife-wielder.

No one dared to mention the knife-wielder who paid a fortune to buy his innocence.

Rather acquiesce to the judge to convict the murder of the watermelon knife and sentence him to life in prison.