The Buddha Bone Temple was filled with wails and lamentations. Monks and pilgrims alike were tending to those wounded by the temple's collapse.
More people spontaneously joined in to clear the rubble of the fallen Buddhist Temple, frantically dragging out the Flesh Bodhisattvas who had been trapped underneath.
In the anxious, panicked crowd, no one paid any attention to the black spindle that had rolled into a corner by the wall.
Two blood-stained awls stretched down and, like chopsticks, picked up the neglected spindle.
Li Huowang frowned slightly as he closely examined the item Zhuge Yuan had given him.
This spindle was made from an old, wax-yellow bone—thick at both ends and narrow in the middle. Judging by the marks scored into its surface, it had clearly seen years of use.
Pitch-black thread was wound tightly around it, forming a dense ball and making the spindle worthy of its name; it looked like a hammerhead without a handle.
