The world of blood and betrayal dissolved like ink in water.

The scent of plum blossoms on a snowy wedding night, the chilling whisper of a lover turned killer, the sharp, final agony of a dagger piercing his heart—it all faded into a distant, echoing memory.

Yuwen Cuojin’s eyes snapped open.

He was no longer in a lavish bridal chamber, dying in the arms of the woman he loved. He was standing in the Autumn Water Pavilion. The air was cool and carried the faint, sweet fragrance of the lake outside, not the metallic tang of his own blood.