Shen Zhiwei knelt on the bluestone floor, his knees already numb.
In the bronze mirror in front of him, a bloodless face was reflected, with delicate eyebrows but like a fragile porcelain doll. The withered hands of the teacher were pressing her shoulders hard, and her voice was like sandpaper rubbing across the table: "Remember, Miss Shen. Once you enter this palace, your life is not yours. You are a master and a slave. When you smile, you must show eight teeth, and when you cry, you must not make a sound."
She lowered her eyes and rubbed a cold silver needle in her sleeve with her fingertips. It was the only relic left to her by her mother, an embroidery needle used to separate silk threads.
"That's what mama said." Her voice was weak, as if it could be blown away by a gust of wind.
Outside the window, a shrill bird song pierced the sky.
Shen Zhiwei raised his head and looked at the majestic palace wall through the gap in the window lattice. Outside the wall is the world, and inside the wall is purgatory. She came here not to be a favorite concubine, nor to be favored by the Nine-Fifth Supreme Being.
She wanted to drag those who killed her mother into the abyss one by one and bury them together.
Even if she herself becomes a demon.
