Under the Yugu Terrace, the clear river water was clear, and many passers-by were in tears.
She is the princess of the cold palace, and her poems are stunning. Seven years of hatred is pressed deep in my heart, and my smile cannot reach my eyes.
He is a fallen prince with a smiling face like a Buddha. The sharp blade to seize the inheritance is hidden in the sleeve, and the warmth is just a disguise.
First meeting on a rainy night. She saved him as a matter of course.
He smiled and thanked her without smiling. She understood—they were the same kind.
Three years of cooperation. He handed him the sword, and she sharpened it. It was agreed that whoever is tempted first would lose.
He lost. So does she.
On the day he ascended the throne, she showed her blade: "I'm just using you."
He wiped away the blood without wiping his smile: "I know. So are you still leaving?"
She didn't leave. Didn't stay either.
At the beginning of spring, the Qingjiang River became warm, and she closed her eyes.
He sat alone by the river from dusk to the end of the stars. Partridges crow at night: I can't do it, brother.
He smiled: "Okay. She's waiting for me."
The next spring came, and the lonely terrace was empty.
Jiang Wan was worried. What worries me is not that there is only one person left.
Concept: The boundary between love and use has always been blurred. The deepest affection is knowing that it is poisonous but still willing to drink it all.
