The hall was aglow with swaying red candles.
Paper effigies lifted their ghastly pale faces, their eerie painted eyes grinning as they watched Nan Banruo struggle helplessly on the ground.
Lin Qingyang’s footsteps drew nearer, unhurried and deliberate.
His shadow loomed over her—damp, dark, and suffocating—as if countless skeletal hands from the depths of hell were dragging her down, leaving her no escape.
Before she knew it, she had been backed into a corner.
Her spine pressed against the cold wooden wall, leaving her nowhere left to retreat.
He paused abruptly, glancing idly around before his gaze settled on the gilded candlestick adorned with dragon-and-phoenix candles.
Nan Banruo’s heart clenched.
Once, on a whim, he had pinned her before the Western Shrine’s altar, casually grabbing the golden lotus vajra offered by the Kingdom of Kapala and forcing her to swallow it bit by bit.
The sacred lotus petals, glistening with dew, trembled precariously—just like her.
That night of madness had far exceeded her worst imaginings.
She couldn’t remember how she had begged him through tears, pleading with him not to let the golden lotus reach depths even he had never ventured.
He ignored her pleas, not only refusing to relent but escalating his cruelty.
Afterward, having savored the thrill, he ordered her to carry that golden lotus with her at all times, never letting it leave her side.
The memory tightened Nan Banruo’s breath.
Now, the instigator himself, Lin Qingyang, stood coldly appraising the dragon-and-phoenix candles on the table, a wicked smirk curling his lips.
Her face grew paler, her teeth chattering faintly.
Suddenly, he leaned in close. “Didn’t you hear? It’s time for the wedding night.”
When his gaze finally left the candlestick, she unconsciously relaxed, her shoulders sagging slightly.
She could no longer dwell on whether the candlestick or the wedding night was more terrifying. Instead, she clung to the fleeting relief before her, like grasping at straws in an ocean of despair.
He bent down, sweeping her up into his arms.
After a few steps, he glanced sideways, nodding toward the dragon-and-phoenix candles. “Do you like them?”
Nan Banruo stiffened.
Her sudden tension made him burst into laughter, so hard he nearly lost his breath.
“Those won’t do,” he said between gasps, his tone almost earnest. “You’re too hot—the wax would melt. And the golden spikes underneath would stab right through you.”
He spoke as casually as if warning her about pricking her finger while sewing.
She bit her lip and shut her eyes.
Carrying her, he strode past the grand red drapes and into the bedchamber. Beyond the threshold, a blaze of light flooded her vision.
The room had been arranged as a bridal suite.
Tiered golden lamps studded with red candles cast a warm glow over the space. The windows, bed, tables, screens, and chests were all crafted from freshly sandalwood, the bedding pristine, the bed curtains hung with auspicious red knots.
The entire chamber bathed in a rosy radiance.
Nan Banruo was set down before the wedding table.
Four pairs of thick dragon-and-phoenix candles crackled as they burned. Silver trays held symbolic offerings: longans, peanuts, lotus seeds, alongside a wine jug, gourd ladle, golden knife, steelyard, and a pouch for shared locks of hair.
Lin Qingyang tilted his head slightly, a flicker of hesitation crossing his features.
“Which comes first,” he asked, “the hair-binding or the shared cup?”
Nan Banruo pressed her lips together, silent.
The candlelight was too bright, refracting off the gold and silver until her vision swam in a dizzying haze.
Within that halo, Lin Qingyang appeared edged in gold, his figure blurred at the edges.
After a brief pause, he abandoned contemplation and reached for the wine jug.
His fingers stilled abruptly, his dark eyes igniting with a predatory gleam.
“Ah, no—the first thing should be lifting the veil.”
Yet there was no red veil atop her head, nor could one be found in the bridal chamber—it was something her family should have prepared.
Seizing her wrist, he dragged her to the bed.
With a sharp tug, he ripped down half of the crimson bed curtain and roughly wrapped it around her head.
Nan Banruo’s vision plunged into darkness, then drowned in a blood-like crimson.
Lin Qingyang’s grip was unrelenting; the heavy fabric pressed tightly against her face, stifling her breath.
Holding the trailing end of the cloth against her neck, he crushed her shrouded head against his chest in a mockery of an embrace.
Her features strained against the fabric, blind and immobile. In this state, she had no way to anticipate his next move.
She could barely draw air, the suffocating weight amplifying her dread.
The unknown stretched time into an agonizing crawl.
He had no intention of smothering her. Just as her breathing grew ragged, he yanked off the makeshift “veil,” his eyes half-lidded as he admired his handiwork.
Her expression was dazed.
Taking her hand, he led her back to the table, steadying her when she stumbled.
Releasing her, he lifted the wine jug and poured a clear stream into the gourd ladle, handing one half to her.
“Come,” he said. “Let us drink the nuptial wine.”
Swish—
As if reading her mind, he caught her wrist the instant she tried to fling the wine.
His fingers clamped down like iron, draining the strength from her hand until she couldn’t even release the ladle.
His smile never wavered.
Slowly, he raised his cup to his lips, his burning gaze locked onto hers as they drank in unison.
Nan Banruo’s clenched teeth were pried apart by the ladle’s rim, the fiery liquor searing her throat.
“Cough… cough…”
He plucked the ladle from her limp fingers and tossed it aside.
His hand hovered over the table before selecting a small golden knife.
The blade was intricately engraved with dragons, phoenixes, and twin lotus flowers, only its tip betraying a sliver of cold sharpness.
Tilting his head, he murmured, “Bound by hair, united as husband and wife—never to part, not even in old age.”
Before she could retreat, he hauled her onto the wide chair, trapping her against him.
The knife’s edge rested lightly beneath her chin.
He forced her to meet his eyes.
The blade glided upward, his hand steady. Though her skin was delicate enough to tear at a touch, the metal only caused the faintest indentation, never breaking the surface.
With his gaze and the knife, he traced the lines of her face.
As the blade neared her eyelid, she held her breath, refusing to blink.
Shhh—shhh—shhh.
The cold, sharp tip flicked through her lashes one by one.
The warm red light in the room rippled in her vision with each pass.
Her pulse pounded as the knife ascended, catching the fine beads of sweat on her forehead.
His focus was absolute, almost reverent.
Their breaths mingled, like a devoted husband tenderly adorning his bride.
Nan Banruo knew his scent well.
It resembled expensive incense, but it wasn’t—Lin Qingyang disdained perfumes. This was simply him.
His presence was overpowering, the aura of an apex predator whose domain demanded submission or death.
Now, however, his scent had shifted.
Eerie, cold, and elusive, as if tainted by the hues of the underworld.
When she was lost in thought, the tip of the blade still traced over her snow-satin skin, faintly producing the sound of tearing fabric, yet never breaking the surface.
Nan Banruo had no way of knowing how long he intended to play this game. His eyes were lowered, his expression unreadable—seemingly amused, yet also seemingly indifferent.
One stroke, another, and another.
Intertwining, meandering like a wandering dragon or phoenix, utterly careless.
Sssk, sssk, sssk...
After who knows how long, she suddenly realized that the cold path of the blade seemed to follow a certain pattern.
Before her thoughts could fully form, her instincts screamed danger.
But she could no longer stop her mind from following the movement of his blade...
Horizontal stroke, slanting stroke, dot, curve, right hook, dot.
Again.
And again.
Over and over.
Endlessly repeating—before she even realized it, he had traced the same pattern countless times across her skin.
Her face, forehead, neck, collarbone.
Eyebrows, eyes, nose, lips.
Die.
Die, die, die, die, die, die!
DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE!
The moment the realization struck, Nan Banruo’s breath froze. A chill surged from the deepest crevices of her bones, spreading through her entire body in an instant.
Her eyes widened involuntarily, pupils dilating until they consumed the entirety of her dark irises.
Trembling, she looked at him.
He was smiling—a smile that seeped from the depths of his soul, utterly, genuinely delighted.
His thin lips moved slightly.
A silent whisper: "Finally noticed."
Nan Banruo gasped, waves of dizziness crashing over her.
This man—no matter how cold-blooded, how cruel he had been in the past, there had always been traces of humanity in him. But now, she could no longer sense anything human in him.
She had summoned a demon from the deepest pits of hell.
The blade paused at the corner of her lips.
With his other hand, he lifted a strand of her long hair.
The black locks flowed slowly between his hardened fingers, like water, like silk—lustrous, cool to the touch.
Aside from health, Heaven had never been stingy with her. It had granted her peerless beauty, an innate seductiveness, a body so exquisite, so flawless, so irresistibly enchanting in every way.
What a laughable gift.
"Snip."
A soft sound of tearing fabric, and a lifeless lock of hair fell into Lin Qingyang’s palm.
He plucked a strand of his own hair from his crown, casually severed it, and twisted it tightly with hers before sealing them together in a love pouch.
"Clink."
He tossed the golden knife onto the table.
It tumbled twice before coming to rest diagonally across the edge of a silver tray filled with longan fruits.
"The rites are complete."
Lin Qingyang bent down and, like any impatient groom, swept his bride into his arms, striding purposefully toward the bed.
Caught off guard, Nan Banruo let out a startled cry as her left sleeve brushed against the table, sending a cascade of peanuts and lotus seeds clattering to the floor.
Suspended in the air, her delicate frame trembled, her fingers bone-white with tension.
As they neared the bed, Lin Qingyang’s eyes darkened into an eerie black, his lips curling into a cold smile.
Just as he pressed her into the bedding, Nan Banruo suddenly swung her left hand.
"Thud."
The air froze. Lin Qingyang slowly looked down.
The small golden knife, the one that had severed their hair, was now buried in his abdomen—hilt-deep—clutched tightly in her hand.
Nan Banruo herself froze for a moment.
He wasn’t wearing the Donghuang Divine Robe—no, he had no defenses up at all in front of her.
Though shocked, her movements didn’t hesitate.
She pulled the knife free and, ignoring the blood spraying toward her, stabbed again without hesitation.
"Thud!"
She pulled it out, stabbed again. Pulled, stabbed.
Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud!
Crimson flowers bloomed one after another across his body.
Her entire frame shook violently, the metallic scent of blood flooding her senses, nearly driving her mad.
She repeated the motion with frenzied desperation—
Until exhaustion finally claimed her.
"Hah... hah..."
Gasping for breath, her feverish mind gradually cooled. Then, she suddenly realized—Lin Qingyang hadn’t moved in a long time.
Trembling, she raised her eyes to meet his icy gaze.
The golden knife slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor.
"Seventy-nine stabs... Had enough? Sure you don’t want to keep going?"
His laughter held no emotion. "Then... my turn."
