The night in Leng Palace was as cold as a deep frozen pool.
The bitterness of the dove wine was still lingering on the back of her tongue, burning her internal organs. Shen Wu huddled in the corner covered with rotten grass, her throat seemed to be filled with hot molten iron, and every breath carried a burning and fishy smell.
This smell was all too familiar to her. It was blood, it was betrayal, it was the man she had been infatuated with for ten years but who finally pushed her into hell with his own hands - the dragon robe on Xiao Jue was stained with the blood of one hundred and three members of her Shen family.
The fragments of memory were sharper than knives, scratching at her remaining consciousness over and over again.
