He was once the lowliest mute slave in Yu Zhao’s household. For ten years, he kept a bloodstained broken blade hidden away, waiting for her to remove the soul-controlling iron tag from the back of his neck with her own hands. The night the cold blade left its sheath, blood stained his robes. He was no longer a slave, and she was both his enemy and an old wound in his heart that had never healed. Word across the martial world had it that Xie Lin had single-handedly stormed seven great sects with nothing but a sword, all to find one woman: Yu Zhao, who had once warmed his winters with hot tea, yet bound the rest of his life in chains. Now he stood with his sword atop a snowy peak and asked just one question: “Do you still dare call me yours?”
