In the blink of an eye, three days passed, like the solidified candle tears in the hall, quietly slipping away.
The grand hall was a scene of chaos, pieces of shattered crimson wedding garments scattered about, resembling dried, solidified blood scabs.
The air was still filled with a complicated and indistinct aroma—the lingering sweet warm fragrance, the faint scent of fresh blood, and a strong smell that lingered after an intense entanglement.
Xue Qing sat up from the wide, soft cloud couch, her long black hair scattered messily over her bare white shoulders and the red brocade blanket, with some strands clinging to her sweat-dampened neck.
Her face bore no expression, as calm as a jade sculpture freshly pulled from the cold pond, yet in the depths of her eyes lingered a hint of bewilderment after the storm.
