At the counter of an antique shop, Qin Mi’s fingertips had gone white. Yin Nanfeng turned away, her trench coat flaring as she tossed out, “One hundred thousand a month, deposited on time. Keep the marriage strictly confidential.” Her heels struck the floor with a crisp, cold rhythm. He stood there, watching her silhouette stretch across the play of light and shadow. Three months after transmigrating into the world of Daomu Biji, he had become the nominal husband of Yin Nanfeng, the woman in charge of the New Moon Hotel. The old agreement between the Qin and Yin families had dwindled to a mere transaction. He looked down at the bare ring finger on his left hand. There should have been a wedding ring there, but not even a mark remained. Someone stopped at the street corner and watched him through the shop window for three seconds, then lowered his head and ground out his cigarette in a crack between the blue bricks. The string of copper coins at his waist swayed in the afternoon light. Qin Mi recognized the way the Five Emperors’ coins were strung: the craft of the Old Nine Gates.
No, are you writing a book or lyrics? I wrote it paragraph by paragraph, and I was really convinced.