The north wind swept past the glow of a city in flames. Song Jintang laid down her gun and knelt before her enemy.
She had to stay alive. She would watch her enemy fall, step by step, and send him to hell with her own hands.
Zhao Ling thought he had won. He taught her the art of political maneuvering, drew her into his schemes, and made her his sharpest weapon.
He never realized that from the very beginning, this blade had been hiding an edge meant to strike back.
Five years of icy restraint could not cool her burning heart. When begonias bloomed across the palace walls, she drew her blade and pointed its tip at his throat.
This time, she was no longer a pawn for others to control. She was the general who had returned to claim his life.
