I am the heroine of a Republican-era power fantasy written for male readers.
And my husband is someone who transmigrated into a book.
He didn’t believe in the feudal notion that women should be virtuous rather than talented. He taught me to read and write, and taught me to be independent and equal.
For my sake, he even abandoned the novel’s setup in which the male lead married five concubines, promising that we would remain monogamous and grow old together.
I treated everything he taught me as the truth, but he lost his way.
In our third year of marriage, because I refused to let him take Du Wantang as a concubine, he accused me of being jealous and said I was unworthy of him.
I stayed silent for a long time. In the end, I gave in.
“If you like her so much, then bring her into the household on the sixth of next month!”
His face lit up with delight.
But he didn’t know that on the sixth of next month, the passage between this novel and the real world would open again.
He didn’t want to return to his world. I, on the other hand, wanted to see it for myself.
