Prologue (Revised)

In November, the capital was veiled in its first swirling snow, the world washed clean and white.

A man dressed in a blazing red wedding robe dashed forward like an arrow, swift as a shooting star, his feet skimming over snow and ice, finally stopping before a half-buried kiln workshop, its entrance obscured by drifts.

That flaming red, vivid as fire and brilliant as cinnabar, cut a striking, jarring figure against the vast expanse of white.

“Mo Fei!” he suddenly shouted, his voice ringing out, shattering the falling snow. The echoes rolled on and on, resounding through the air.

At his cry, the kiln erupted with a tremendous explosion. Blackened mud and flecks of soot burst through the whirling snow, debris raining down in a scene of utter devastation.

He stood frozen, body stiff with shock, unable to speak. His sword-like brows and star-bright eyes were clouded with a storm of anger, disappointment, and grief—a darkness as deep as ink sinking into an endless abyss.

“You’re looking for me?” A low, gentle voice—smooth, yet edged like crushed ice—sounded behind him.

At her words, the man’s tall figure gave a barely perceptible tremor in the falling snow. He spun around, the vivid red of his robe arcing decisively across the white ground. Pointing at her, his voice thundered, “Mo Fei, how could you become so ruthless? How dare you… How dare you destroy the Mo family’s ink-making kilns?”

“Ruthless?” The woman, Mo Fei, repeated softly. She sat in a wooden wheelchair, her body so slim and frail that the chair seemed far too large for her. “Why wouldn’t I dare? Le Qingbo, watch carefully—my heart will only be at ease when every member of the Mo family in the capital is dead.”

Such bitter, venomous words brought a look of sorrow to the man’s face. He was handsome, his features refined like jade, but the depth of emotion in his eyes could move anyone to sadness. “Ah Fei… must I beg you?”

Mo Fei tilted her head slightly. Her face was not strikingly beautiful—at best, she was fresh and delicate as a lotus—but her eyes, larger than most, black and white distinct as polished ink and snow, were remarkable for their constant, chilling clarity, like floating ice and shattered frost.

Her gaze swept up and down the man’s wedding robe. The corner of her lips curled into a scornful smile. “I nearly forgot—you’re marrying today, aren’t you? Taking the capital’s most celebrated beauty, the noble eldest daughter of the Mo family, Mo Qingge, as your bride. No wonder you’d grieve for her over the kilns I’ve destroyed.”

Grieve?

Le Qingbo let out a hollow laugh, his voice rising with the swirling snow, not a flake daring to touch him, his sword-sharp brows cold and resolute. “After all this time, Ah Fei, why haven’t you asked why I’m marrying Mo Qingge—your elder sister?”

Mo Fei’s lips quirked, her tone mocking as her eyes rested on the unmistakable wedding robe. “Does it matter if I ask? Fate is sealed, Qingbo. My feud with the Mo family is to the death—even you must become…”

She paused, the wind and snow whipping her dark hair, fracturing the gaze between them. Her frail back pressed against the cold wood of the wheelchair, her features sharpening with icy resolve. “My enemy?”

The word fell like hail, striking Le Qingbo from head to toe, chilling him to the core, as if he’d been cast into a sunless pit of ice, never to feel warmth again.

Mo Fei turned her eyes away. Where once stood the Mo family’s ink kilns, now lay nothing but shattered ruins, the snow falling to cover the wreckage.

Snow clung to her lashes, each blink icy cold. Even her breath hung in the air as white mist. Pulling her fox-fur cloak tighter, she lifted her small, pointed chin, her eyes narrowing to unreadable darkness. “Young Master Le, you’d best return, lest you miss the auspicious hour and delay your wedding vows.”

Her words struck Le Qingbo. He straightened, gazing down at Mo Fei. Though only wind and snow separated them, it felt like a thousand mountains and rivers. His lips, nearly frozen, pressed into a thin line. “If you still recognize Qingge as your sister, if I refuse this marriage, Ah Fei, will you relent?”

Mo Fei seemed to hear the world’s greatest joke. Her half-hidden hand slid down the armrest to her lap, her fingers tracing over her legs, lips curving with a cold smile. “Mo Qingge—eldest daughter of the century-old Mo family, noble and precious, famed as the capital’s first beauty, skilled in all the arts. But most admired is her talent for ink-making—a genius unseen in generations…”

Her voice, though level, dripped with cutting irony.

“Ah Fei, you bear the Mo name as well.” A faint, fleeting hope flickered in Le Qingbo’s eyes, as rare as a night-blooming flower.

Mo Fei laughed, tilting her head back to meet the falling snow. Her eyes, black as obsidian, showed no light, even as moisture glistened at their corners—gone before it could be blinked away, replaced by a chilling cold.

Her hand on her lap trembled faintly, caressing her near-senseless legs. Her words were laced with unyielding hatred, as if she’d rather perish together than surrender. “Le Qingbo, I swore two years ago: either I die, or the Mo family falls!”

“And the last word on their dying lips will be my name—Mo Fei!”

Her final syllable rose, more merciless than snow and ice. Yet beneath it, a surging, desperate grief found no escape. Her face remained calm, lifeless as still water, but her eyes were so dark they threatened to devour even herself, her hatred so fierce it seemed to cry out to destroy everything in her sight.

This Mo Fei was no longer the one she once was.

Realizing this, a wave of inescapable fear and grief swept through Le Qingbo. “It was my fault… my fault… I never should have helped you back then…”

Mo Fei gave a cold laugh. Even her sharpest mockery, blooming on her lips, seemed fragile, but the words she spoke were pure poison. “Qingbo, once, you and I were childhood sweethearts, playing together on bamboo horses…”

Childhood sweethearts, riding bamboo horses.

Le Qingbo bowed his head, gazing at the woman before him. Her too-pale face, seldom touched by sunlight, seemed as transparent as white jade, but her eyes were black as obsidian. Madness, dark and growing, flickered in his star-bright eyes. “Ah Fei, I can’t let you make another mistake. I can’t…”

He stepped forward, so close his toes nearly touched hers. Then he crouched, bringing their eyes level. In Mo Fei’s gaze, he saw his own reflection in the vivid red wedding robe, a blaze of fire, never more blinding.

His lips moved, his gaze tender and lingering. But from his sleeve, he drew a gleaming dagger. “Ah Fei, let me end your mistake…”

His words were soft as a lover’s whisper, gentle as wine grown mellow over years, enough to intoxicate.

Mo Fei only laughed coldly, a storm gathering in her eyes. “You want to kill me? Le Qingbo, you want to kill me?”

His answer was a lingering caress, his fingers tracing her cheek as intimately as in years past. Then, suddenly, the hand holding the dagger plunged into her body.

That frail, slender form did not even tremble, let alone try to evade.

In an instant, brilliant red blossomed like plum flowers on the snowy white of her dress, spreading with searing warmth, staining the hand that held the blade—a crimson impossible to forget.

“Le Qingbo, you will regret this…” She could barely feel the pain; she even managed a faint smile, her expression softening for once. “Le Qingbo, do you know… two years ago…”