I dressed up as the cannon fodder beauty in ancient sadistic novels who couldn't survive more than three chapters.
The system said that I can only survive if I let the cold-faced God of War move my heart.
I threw out the annulment letter with my backhand: "Sickness will not delay the general's future."
He turned around to save the Queen Mother, made inventions, opened a restaurant, and his business was booming in the capital.
Later, I became famous all over the world for my medical skills, and royal families from all over the world rushed to seek treatment.
One night, the God of War, covered in blood, blocked my door: "Is the ten thousand taels of gold you want enough to buy your heart?"
I counted the golden tickets and raised my eyebrows: "Register first and queue up. There are seven emperors ahead of us."
