The most heart-rending tragedy in this world has never been a wedding dress soaked through with blood.

It is the white jade hairpin lying inside a dressing box, waiting forever for a mistress who will never return.

Lu Shoudao was a madman who took pleasure in writing tragedies.

He liked watching moonlight corrode the delicate grain of candy wrappers. He liked listening to the ink stains spreading across a clan genealogy, as though they were whispering regrets that never found an ending. Most of all, he liked waiting until a story reached its most perfect, most complete moment, then quietly pulling away the one piece that held everything together.

“Do you know?” he said. “True tragedy is never death itself.”

“It’s the people left alive, discovering day after day that every corner of their lives is filled with his shadow.”

The female leads were so furious they drew their swords.

“So what you’re saying is, you got what you wanted and ran?”

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