She is the most perfect weapon. She has no face, only countless faces.
Tonight she is "Bai Lu", the singer from the south of the Yangtze River dedicated to the third prince Dugu Ao. As the candlelight flickered, she was forced to sit astride his waist, looking up into those bottomless eyes - where the waves of scrutiny were surging.
"Your Highness," her warm lips seemed to brush against his ear, and her voice was seductively hoarse, "You hurt me."
She chuckled, and instead of retreating, she touched his hot body with her free hand, feeling the violent tremors there. Dugu Ao's breathing suddenly became heavier, and his last trace of reason was on the verge of collapse.
But he didn't know that three days ago this body was the border widow "Qin Yueniang", and three months ago it was the scholarly orphan "Lin Ronger".
At this moment, her fingertips traced his tense jawline, and what she clearly calculated in her mind was: the spice could last for three more moments, half a stick of incense was needed to extract the clue of the soldier talisman, and there were three ways to escape.
Outside the window, the guard commander Mo Li held down the hilt of his knife. The "Phantom of a Thousand Faces" he was tracking finally appeared again - this time, he would never let her dissipate into smoke.
On the dragon bed, the old emperor was dreaming of a Taoist nun; thousands of miles away, the general saw the face of his future wife in his dream.
And she is just an unnamed chess piece on the chessboard, jumping lightly between countless identities, burning herself into the most beautiful and deadly fire, lighting up the master's path to the dragon throne.
Until one day, she noticed that all the masks started to overlap. Those eyes staring at her - vigilant, obsessed, suspicious - suddenly looked at the same person on the same night.
