My Sick Husband Was Exiled, So I Looted the Capital for Free

On my wedding night, an imperial edict declared our family exiled three thousand miles away. My scumbag father drugged me and forced me to take the place of a rich girl marrying a crippled God of War who was supposedly poisoned and dying. Was I supposed to throw my life away?

Fine. I’ll empty the capital first.

The imperial throne, the prime minister’s treasury, the imperial kitchen stove, even the dirt in the royal garden: I’ll pack it all up and take it with me. Tomorrow morning, the shameless emperor won’t have a seat for court, and my scumbag father will have to go hungry.

I thought my husband would be a half-dead invalid who lived on medicine…

The moment I lifted the veil, I froze. Eight feet of battle-hardened physique, firm muscles, an old scar slanting from his collarbone beneath his collar, and thin lips pressed together. He was as cold as a drawn blade.

“Had enough of looking?” he asked hoarsely.

I calmly wiped the corner of my mouth. “Don’t move, dear. Let me see what kind of poison you took… Should I help you take off your clothes?”

His ears turned bright red.

On the road to exile, I built things with one hand and fed everyone with the other, raising my family of old, weak, sick, and disabled relatives into max-level powerhouses. And my “dying” sickly husband not only survived, but went from having six-pack abs to an eight-pack.

But there was one problem: the tiger tally hidden beneath his pillow seemed even more dangerous to handle than his abs…