Ling Xiao returned to his hometown, decorated with military honors, only to hear that his unruly sister-in-law had conspired with another man to murder his long-ailing elder brother.
Dressed in mourning white, frail as a willow, with delicate brows and sorrowful eyes, she knelt before the coffin, weeping pitifully. Ling Xiao raised his sword, lifting her slender chin with its tip, his voice filled with killing intent:
“A femme fatale like you deserves to die.”
Later, she proved her innocence, but his hatred for her did not wane—his brother had died because of her.
He warned her coldly: “Stop seducing men. If you don’t behave and properly mourn for my brother, I will kill you all the same.”
After that, she avoided him like the plague, trembling whenever he spoke, treating him as if he were a venomous snake.
Yet one night, he cornered her against the wall, his calloused fingers greedily caressing her face.
“Why won’t you try seducing me?”
Love is a gamble of surrender, a prison of one’s own making, a willing submission.
(Both leads are pure. The ex-husband was a true gentleman.)
