When Song Lingshu transmigrated, the white silk she had used to hang herself was still around her neck.
Her stepmother watched with cold indifference, while her stepsister gloated, forcing her to take the place of the bride promised to the legendary warlord prince of Mobei, who supposedly wouldn’t live to see spring. She neither argued nor fussed, simply climbing into the bridal sedan in silence. Perfect. She wanted to meet this reclusive lord of Mobei, who, according to the historical records, had feigned illness for three years and deceived the entire imperial court.
At their first meeting, Murong Chen sat in a wheelchair, his face as pale as paper as he coughed up blood without end. Everyone thought he was close to death. Only she noticed, as she lowered her head in greeting, his long, distinct fingers: clean, strong, and without the slightest tremor one would expect from someone long afflicted by illness. She pretended not to see and said softly, “This humble woman, Song Ying Shu, has come by imperial decree.”
Later, she helped him prepare medicine, administer acupuncture, reform the military camp, and predict the enemy’s moves. He went from watching her with cold suspicion to protecting her in silence. One late night, he took hold of her wrist and asked in a low voice, “Aren’t you afraid I’m only pretending to be ill?” She looked back at him, her gaze calm and unreadable. “Your Highness must have your reasons. This humble woman will not interfere.”
He had pretended to be ill for three years. She had hidden her sharpness for two lifetimes.
On the coldest night in Mobei, two people cloaked in layers of deception finally revealed their cards to each other.
