That night.
In the Lanxi Lin family estate, the lights were bright everywhere, but a quiet courtyard in the northeast corner was enveloped in darkness, with no lights at all.
The courtyard was elegant, with the gatehouse tightly closed, but looking inside through the open window, one person sat alone at the desk, propping his head with one hand and casually twirling a pen with the other. Utilizing the faint moonlight, he tilted his head to examine an ancient furnace on the desk.
The furnace was nine inches tall and thirteen inches wide.
Its appearance was simple and primitive, with no decoration, shaped like a tripod with two handles and three legs, and it was purplish-black in color.
Zhao Rong was waiting for the moon to rise higher, brewing a richer hue of blue and white moonlight.
His gaze rested on the upper part of a tripod leg, one inch from it.
At that moment, it appeared pitch black, but Zhao Rong knew there was a handprint there.