The sound of banging in the middle of the night passed through the window lattice and penetrated into the house faintly, like a reminder.
Chu Qingshuang leaned against the medicine cabinet and dug her fingertips into the carved gaps of the rosewood, barely holding on without slipping to the ground.
The bones seemed to be crawling with ice ants, which were cold and numb, gnawing at her internal organs.
Damn the "Kurong Sutra", every half month, this backlash would come as expected, turning her domineering inner strength into a bone-scraping steel knife, licking it from the inside out.
