The cold wind is like a knife, cutting my face painfully.
Outside the Zhuque Gate, more than a hundred beautiful women stood in line, huddled in a dusty pile, like lambs waiting to be slaughtered.
It was still dark, and the palace walls towered into the clouds. The dark tile eaves pressed against the leaden sky, as if a huge mouth was ready to swallow them up at any time.
Ye Ningshuang stood at the end of the team, wrapped in a faded coarse cloth cloak, with a thin layer of snow covering her shoulders.
Her eyes were lowered, her lips were green and white, and she seemed to be faltering with every step she took.
A cough rolled out of his throat, heart-breaking, and the palace maids on the left and right retreated in shock, covering their mouths and noses in disgust.
"It's you coughing again... What a sick man." Someone spat in a low voice.
She didn't defend herself, she just slowly raised her hand and pinched it gently with her fingertips in her sleeve - a dry and black blade of grass was crushed, and the faint medicinal fragrance dispersed instantly, and was swept away by the cold wind.
