Nan Banruo stumbled backward, the edge of the bed catching behind her knees.
She fell onto the wedding bed, hands braced against the cool satin of the crimson quilt, tilting her head up just as Lin Qingyang’s tall, lean frame loomed over her.
The room flickered with the glow of red candles behind him.
Backlit, his face was deathly pale.
He paused mid-motion, one hand gripping the carved bedpost as he leaned down to retrieve the golden dagger from beside the footrest.
Reversing his grip on the blade, he knelt onto the bed, closing the distance between them.
"Drip. Drip."
His wound was bleeding, and Nan Banruo couldn’t escape.
A sudden sting on her hand—like hot wax searing her skin.
She looked down. Blood.
A droplet bloomed on her knuckle like a tiny crimson plum. Her trembling gaze lifted to him. This cold, shadowed man—his blood burned so fiercely.
Then his hand closed over hers.
His fingers were iron-hard, slotting between hers with unyielding force as he pressed the dagger back into her palm.
Robes tangled, fingers interlaced.
The bloodied blade gleamed coldly beneath their joined hands. Guiding her grip, he shifted it aside, then raised his other hand to smear a streak of blood across her delicate cheek.
His touch was heavy.
He wanted her to run—to make this more entertaining.
She had already reached her limit. Her mind had teetered on the edge of collapse the moment she’d raised the blade against him. Yet now, under his merciless stare, his dark, icy eyes reflected only a face gradually settling into calm.
Nan Banruo didn’t flee.
Her lips and lashes trembled uncontrollably, but her voice held steady. "Lin Qingyang, if you won’t kill me, why put on this act?"
Their eyes locked.
He chuckled low. "Using reverse psychology on me? Do you truly have no regard for your life?"
He bowed his head.
After a beat, two words drifted out, feather-light:
"Fine—then."
The hand gripping the dagger twisted back, the blade resting against her throat.
The edge tilted slightly, sinking just enough into her snow-white skin to threaten without breaking it.
Though their fingers were entwined, she couldn’t muster an ounce of strength to shift the blade even an inch.
He leaned in, breath hot at her ear: "Now it’s my turn... to repay you in kind."
Nan Banruo’s eyes lifted. His face, once celestial, now loomed like a demon’s, devouring her sight and senses.
In her periphery, the bridal chamber’s crimson glow taunted her—there would be no escape tonight.
Memories of her past life surfaced.
Back then, she’d fallen from the sky ship, shattering her leg.
Lin Qingyang had pulled her from prison, taking her to a secluded courtyard to heal.
Immobile during her recovery, he’d often helped her stand or carried her.
His facade of a refined gentleman was flawless. His own injuries occasionally betrayed a vulnerability that disarmed her, leaving her more worried for him than herself.
Each time he lifted her, she’d looped her arms carefully around his shoulders, as if willing herself lighter.
He’d gaze down, all gentle concern.
"Does your leg really not hurt?" he’d ask, over and over.
She’d always shake her head fiercely. "Not at all!"
She knew his wounds were worse. His pallor, the way he still tended to her every scrape—even when she insisted she was fine, he’d handle her fractured leg with unbearable care.
He’d once mused, smiling, that she was the second-most pain-tolerant person he’d met. Too shy then to ask who the first was, she’d simply marveled at how he’d grown warmer toward her—as if they shared a silent pact against burdening others.
He’d claimed sunlight sped bone healing, so he carried her outside daily.
When clouds parted even briefly, he’d dart inside, sweep her up, and chase the fleeting rays.
Once, running too fast, his wounds flared. Coughing through laughter, he’d staggered—yet his grin had been so bright it pierced the gloom around them.
He’d been her only lifeline.
Not just for his kindness, but because he alone believed her parents were innocent.
He’d sworn Nan Jihe and his wife still lived, imprisoned in the celestial dungeons. Even Nan Nianyi, whom she’d thought dead in the alley, had merely been gravely wounded.
At first, she’d doubted—assumed it was pity driving his pretty lies.
But as they grew closer, she saw his sincerity. He was actively fighting for her family.
"The people of Yanzhou revere the Flame Lord," he’d argued. "If harm comes to him, chaos follows! And given our emperor’s... capabilities—ha."
Nan Banruo had nodded fervently. "Exactly! My parents cherished their people. Yanzhou thrived under them."
"I will save them," he’d vowed, gripping her hands. "Nan Banruo, trust me!"
Even years later, she could find no flaw in his performance.
The conviction in his voice, the fiery determination—he’d even mastered the art of appearing recklessly, youthfully earnest.
Sheltered all her life, how could she not believe him?
Like a frog slowly boiled, she’d warmed to him, growing fond of his scent, his presence.
They were never matched.
Young as he was, his cunning ran deep. Lies dripped from him like truth.
She’d thought he’d pay dearly to rescue her family, guilt gnawing at her until—
The day he asked her to stay, she’d seized the chance to repay him.
He’d been tender, patient.
Moonlight kissing her cheeks as he did, sparking her heartbeat.
He’d seemed experienced, yet fumbled in ways that made him curse, then laugh at himself.
That low, frustrated chuckle—
She’d thought she’d unraveled him: a man who’d studied romance in theory but bungled it in practice.
Now, the scarlet wedding curtains yanked her back to the present.
Her dazed eyes found Lin Qingyang.
Today, he was truly her groom.
Once, she’d mourned their lack of rites—no matchmaker’s words, no parental blessings, no grand ceremony or bridal chamber.
Now, they had it all.
Yet this marriage was nothing short of farcical.
Lin Qingyang did not remove his crimson wedding robes, merely tossing aside the sash before closing in on her.
"You truly know no fear," he sneered, his cold smile resembling that of a vengeful demon.
As he approached, fragments of the past flickered through Nan Banruo’s mind.
The first time she saw the scars on his body, she had been horrified—deep, savage marks that spoke of a life-threatening ordeal. Had they been any deeper, not even divine intervention could have saved him.
Back then, she never imagined those wounds had been inflicted by her own father.
Lost in thought, she barely noticed as Lin Qingyang began fulfilling his duties as a groom.
Past and present blurred as the young man’s face overlapped with another.
It was him. Always him. Always scarred.
Nan Banruo gasped, biting her lip to keep from showing weakness before him.
He counted numbers coldly, his voice detached.
She stared back.
Here, he was a demon unrestrained—unlike the false tenderness of their past life, where he had played the doting bridegroom so convincingly.
How ironic. How laughable.
Back then, she had believed their love mutual.
Now, the icy blade pressed against her throat invoked primal terror, yet at least his cruelty was undisguised.
She lifted her gaze to meet his pitch-black eyes.
His expression was unreadable, his gaze clear and indifferent—like a weapon forged solely for vengeance.
He would no longer lose himself for her, not even in pretense.
With chilling precision, he recited numbers as if mustering troops on a training field.
Her mind wavered.
She didn’t want to remember, yet his face from their past life surfaced unbidden—those clumsy, earnest moments when they had been wrapped in mutual affection.
He had held her, laughing like a true, besotted groom.
Fooling her into believing he was her destined love.
Finally, Lin Qingyang uttered the last syllable, his voice frigid.
Her hair spilled loose as she looked up at him, dazed.
He glanced down, lips curling in mockery. "Well?"
For a long moment, she remained silent, then her gaze sharpened with resolve. "Do you dare... take a few more cuts?"
Lin Qingyang’s eyes narrowed, his brow arching as he studied her.
Though she looked half-dead, defiance burned unextinguished in her eyes.
He chuckled low, then louder—a full, unrestrained laugh.
"Fine. Try me!" Releasing her hand, he spread his arms wide. "Go on."
Her fingers trembled, barely gripping the dagger.
He smirked. "Do it."
She shut her eyes, drew a sharp breath—
"Shing!"
The blade sliced the air with a metallic hum.
"Thud!"
She struck, again and again. He didn’t flinch.
