I transmigrated into a classic angsty novel as the beloved’s stand-in, destined to have my flesh and blood drained by the male lead before he cast me aside like trash. The System told me that if I completed the plot of “having my eyes gouged out, being drained of my blood, and abandoned in a mass grave,” I could go home. I performed my role dutifully and faked my death successfully. Three years later, I return to the capital in grand style with a young prince from the Western Regions as my fiancé. My mad ex-husband, now firmly seated on the throne, stops my carriage at the palace gates, eyes bloodshot, and asks in a trembling voice, “…Why aren’t you blind anymore?”
