Nan Banruo woke up alone on the wedding bed.
She stared blankly at the crimson auspicious knot hanging by the canopy, blinking slowly after a long while.
Lin Qingyang hadn’t killed her.
At the end of her memories, she had completely lost control—exhaustion and pain forgotten, lunging at him like a madwoman, unable to distinguish between blood and the flickering candlelight flooding the bridal chamber.
The harder she stabbed, the fiercer his retaliation.
Both were intent on killing the other.
She didn’t remember when she had blacked out, but before that, his blood-soaked eyes had burned with unmistakable murderous intent.
That she had woken up alive left Nan Banruo faintly surprised.
Had Lin Qingyang shown mercy?
Gritting her teeth, she pushed herself up, her palms meeting patches of dried blood staining the satin sheets and quilts.
The wedding bed was a chaotic mess, like a grisly crime scene.
She, the victim who should have died, now rose covered in blood, like a naked vengeful spirit escaped from hell.
Every inch of her body ached.
Her gaze drifted until she spotted the undergarments discarded on the floor.
Moving with difficulty, she slid her feet out from the disheveled crimson curtains, carefully setting them down.
Clutching the edge of the bed to stand, a sharp, tearing pain made her inhale sharply.
Biting her lip, she tremblingly dressed herself and stumbled toward the door.
Creak—
The bright courtyard sunlight blinded her.
After a moment, she lifted her head to survey her surroundings.
Lin Qingyang was nowhere in sight.
But she felt no relief. Suppressing the pain, she trudged past the courtyard, side corridors, and main hall, then through the outer courtyard’s banquet tables before staggering to the main gate.
The heavy wooden doors were shut tight.
She pushed—locked from the outside, as expected.
Pressing her ear to the gap, she heard nothing, not even birds or cicadas.
“Is anyone there?”
She pounded on the door, but the thick wood barely echoed.
The sound wouldn’t carry beyond a few feet.
Stepping back, she stared at the towering gate and high walls, unsurprised.
She was too frail—Lin Qingyang could cage her with the slightest effort. Unlike him, so strong, unstoppable, surviving even after taking countless wounds.
Leaning against the door, her eyes swept over the banquet tables filling the courtyard.
Lin Qingyang had even thoughtfully placed a red wooden plaque on the main table: Family of the Bride. His handwriting—bold, sweeping strokes.
Nan Banruo had no way of knowing what had become of her parents or brother.
Lost in thought, a searing pain suddenly twisted in her stomach.
She realized she hadn’t eaten in over a day—too worried about the battle in the Forbidden Zone yesterday to accept the Seven Maidens’ offerings, and after Lin Qingyang abducted her, she’d only drunk half a gourd of wine.
The night’s exertion had left her ravenous.
Clutching her belly, she stiffened at the slight swell.
This sensation wasn’t unfamiliar. When Lin Qingyang indulged fully, her poor stomach ended up like this.
She wanted to bathe.
But first, she needed food.
Taking a deep breath, she approached the banquet tables.
Lin Qingyang’s bloody scent clung to her, drowning her senses. Even up close, she couldn’t smell the food.
Though early spring was cool, the dishes should have spoiled overnight. Her gaze skipped over the greasy meats, landing on the wedding buns dotted with red dye.
She picked one up and bit down.
Crunch.
A strange texture flooded her mouth. Gagging, she spat it out—a wax bun, now missing a corner.
She touched the other dishes.
Fish, meat, delicacies, wine—all cold, lifelike wax.
This feast wasn’t meant for the living.
Nan Banruo recoiled, a chill down her spine.
Hurrying away, she steadied herself and headed for the kitchen in the courtyard’s southeast corner.
Nan Banruo had been frail and pampered since childhood—she’d never cooked.
But she’d watched Lin Qingyang do it.
In their past life, when he brought her here, there were no servants. He did everything himself.
He was capable, effortlessly skilled.
Making the bed, folding quilts, washing clothes, chopping wood, boiling water, lighting fires, cooking.
She’d watch, wide-eyed, as he occasionally turned to smile at her, his dark eyes reflecting her face.
No one who saw him like that would guess he was the legendary Lin Qingyang, the East Lord who commanded storms and wielded immense power.
In this house, it was just the two of them.
He took care of her meticulously.
Years later, she realized how gravely injured he’d been—far worse than ever before. Her parents, though defeated, had left him a lesson carved into his bones.
He was cold-blooded, cunning, and paranoid.
He couldn’t risk anyone discovering how badly he was hurt. Disappearing from the world’s sight was his only option.
Hiding a treasured beauty made the perfect excuse.
His wounds dulled his edge, his distrust forced self-reliance, and so, to her, he became the picture of a devoted husband.
Young and naive, she’d never met a man like him—handsome, capable, unshakable.
She’d perch on a stool just to watch him work.
Back then, she’d truly adored it.
Now, mimicking his motions, Nan Banruo drew icy water from the well.
Creak, creak.
The rope burned her palms as the half-filled bucket swayed up.
Gritting her teeth, she stepped on the slack rope, freeing a hand to grab the wet wooden handle.
Success—a half-bucket of water.
Panting, she lugged it to the kitchen and heaved it into the pot.
Next, she scooped rice from the jar, rinsing it hastily—no time for finesse.
After covering the pot, she struggled with the flint.
What Lin Qingyang ignited effortlessly took her forever, and she singed her fingers in the process.
Finally managing to light the kindling, she stuffed it into the stove—only to realize she’d forgotten to stack the firewood.
Wiping sweat from her brow, she clumsily arranged the logs, just as she’d seen him do.
She wasn’t as skilled as him. Her mind knew what to do, but her hands couldn’t quite keep up. Smoke kept billowing from the stove, making her cough repeatedly.
After much struggle, she finally managed to light the fire.
The flickering flames grew stronger, and she let out a long sigh of relief, pulling over a small wooden stool to sit by the stove, resting her chin on her hand as she waited for the water to boil.
The scene inevitably stirred old memories.
Lin Qingyang was an excellent cook.
He could lift a heavy wok with one hand, effortlessly tossing ingredients with a flourish. No matter what he cooked, it always came out piping hot, brimming with that unmistakable "wok hei" aroma.
Such "wild" cooking methods were something Nan Banruo had never even heard of before.
Despite his frail, scholarly appearance, he constantly surprised her in unexpected ways.
Soon, she grew accustomed to waiting by the kitchen door… for his dishes.
He would always smirk, stride out with a plate in hand, tilt his head slightly, and bring it to her in the main room—letting her eat first. Her constitution was so delicate that he didn’t dare let her carry the plate, fearing she might drop it.
Back then, she often thought that once she rescued her parents and elder brother, the first thing she’d do was bring him to meet them.
Like presenting a treasure.
Suddenly, Nan Banruo caught a whiff of something terribly wrong.
She snapped back to reality with a start—only to see the fire in the stove roaring out of control, flames lashing violently at the bottom of the pot. The lid rattled and jumped, nearly flung off by the force.
An unmistakable burnt smell assaulted her nose.
Nan Banruo: "…"
Put out the fire!
But how?
She froze. Lin Qingyang never needed to put out fires—he always handled the flames with effortless precision, whether stir-frying, pan-searing, deep-frying, boiling, or stewing.
Any remaining embers he’d use to keep water warm or bury a few sweet potatoes in the ashes for a late-night snack.
He was a master at playing with fire. He never needed to extinguish it.
In her panic, Nan Banruo grabbed a wooden bucket and flung the last of the well water into the stove.
"Hiss—BOOM!"
Thick, billowing smoke erupted instantly, engulfing her face and filling the entire kitchen in seconds.
"Ugh—cough!"
Covering her nose with her sleeve, she stumbled back in retreat.
This was the first time she’d learned that dousing flames with water could produce such an overwhelming cloud of smoke. Even after retreating to the inner courtyard, the acrid fumes still choked her.
"Cough… cough…"
She staggered to the corridor, desperately waving away the smoke.
But no matter how much she waved, it wouldn’t clear.
The crackling of the fire grew louder, the heat intensifying, as if the flames were creeping closer. Her skin prickled with the scorching sensation.
…Something wasn’t right.
Leaning against a pillar to steady herself, Nan Banruo gasped for breath—then suddenly turned toward the bedroom.
Her breath hitched.
Flames roared toward the sky, the entire wing of the house consumed by fire.
The red lanterns and silk ribbons decorating the bridal chamber blazed even brighter in the inferno. The delicate double-happiness window frames warped grotesquely, the characters twisting in the flames like faces caught between laughter and tears.
A fire?
Then, a figure forcefully entered her line of sight.
Lin Qingyang strolled leisurely down the corridor, a torch in his right hand and a bucket of oil in his left—this man, who was so skilled at handling fire, was now setting their bridal chamber ablaze.
Windows collapsed. Beams crashed down.
He walked through the sea of flames, the corners of his lips curled in a lazy, indifferent smirk.
With a muffled boom, a wooden screen toppled in the fire, revealing an ornate canopy bed being devoured by the flames.
Lin Qingyang raised his hand and tossed the incriminating evidence into the heart of the inferno.
Then he turned, chuckling darkly to himself as he walked away.
Suddenly—their eyes met.
Nan Banruo’s gaze trembled, her heartbeat nearly stopping.
Lin Qingyang, too, was thoroughly startled. His pupils constricted sharply, his dark eyes reflecting her soot-covered face.
"…What the hell?"
