Only After I Died Did I Learn He Loved Me to the Bone

I died on the day Bo Wangchuan hated me most. He smashed my urn with his own hands and scattered the ashes into the cold downpour. Then he turned and gently pulled the woman he loved into his arms. “Shen Tingli was a poisonous shrew. Even dead, she's disgusting. She deserved to be ground to dust.” He didn't know that my soul was floating half a meter above his head, calmly watching the muddy water swallow what remained of my bones. I was finally free, even if the price was the complete annihilation of my soul. On the seventh day after my death, he wanted to please his beloved and ordered his men to force open the basement where I'd been imprisoned, intending to destroy every trace of me. But when they smashed through the fake load-bearing wall, an iron box stained with dried, dark-red blood tumbled out. Inside were none of the cursed dolls he'd expected, only a diagnosis of severe depression, a report confirming that my twin pregnancy had miscarried, and a tape recording of his beloved pushing me down the stairs with her own hands. In that moment, the all-powerful tyrant of Beijing's elite circles clutched the bloodstained papers so tightly that his fingers dug into them, letting out a beastlike, heartrending wail amid the wreckage. Later, everyone in Beijing's elite circles knew that Lord Bo had gone mad. He tortured everyone who had ever mistreated me to death. In the bitter cold of winter, he climbed Mount Fanyin one step and one kowtow at a time, kneeling until his knees shattered as he begged the Taoist priests to gather my soul. But he didn't know that I was smiling as I watched my soul dissolve into points of starlight amid his desperate screams, vanishing from the world forever, with no life to follow and no chance of meeting again.