On the day my sister-in-law escaped from her wedding, I married the God of War in a wheelchair.
On our wedding night, I diagnosed him with the same drug my mother had been poisoned seven years ago.
Seven years ago, my mother was kicked out of the Imperial Hospital for checking tribute medicine and died in the backyard woodshed.
Seven years later, the same tribute medicine channel crippled the leg of the God of War.
The day I dug out the first apricot kernel engraved with a hidden message from the medicine dregs, people began to die in the hospital.
Everyone who checked this tribute medicine line died.
Before they died, they all left the same mark on the evidence.
Now, it's my turn.
