Riiip—

The blade’s edge tore through flesh.

The man’s elegant hand reached into Ye Qingge’s abdomen and pulled out a splinter of bone—two fingers long, slick with blood and tissue. Crimson splattered across her pale stomach, the contrast of white and red creating a terrible, haunting beauty.

Qingge’s eyes were shut tight, her body trembling uncontrollably. Her wrists, bound by chains, twisted against the restraints; her nails dug deep into her palms until blood welled between her fingers.

The pain was beyond words—piercing, bone-deep agony that clawed at her mind. She wanted, for one desperate moment, to bite off her tongue and end it all.

But not yet.

In this life, she had not yet known glory, nor tasted triumph. How could she die so quietly?

In her former life, she had been a shadow in the night—a mercenary who lived and died by her missions. Her life had never belonged to her.

Now, reborn in another world, she finally had a chance to live by her own will. Was she to lose it before it even began?

No. She would not accept that.

Ji Yue held the dagger in one hand, the bloody bone in the other. He gazed down at the girl on the black throne, her face pale and drawn, barely sixteen. Pity flickered in his demonic eyes.

Such a young life—forced to endure this kind of torment.

He stabbed the dagger into the bedframe and spread his left hand. From his palm, a violet flame erupted, twisting and crackling like a living serpent.

Slowly, he lowered the fire into Qingge’s abdomen.

“Ah—!”

Qingge’s body convulsed violently, a scream tearing from her throat. Her eyes flew open—bloodshot, wild—veins bursting crimson across the whites.

Even “agony” was too pale a word for what she felt. Her flesh burned, her soul seemed to splinter apart.

She thrashed, struggling to break free from the chains, but the iron held fast.

Bang!

A sound like shattering glass rang through the void. A sudden gale swept the chamber, tearing her robes to ribbons. On her bare skin, fissures appeared—thin cracks glowing red. Blood welled from them in rivers, soaking the throne beneath her in a dark sheen.

The air was heavy with the metallic scent of blood.

Cold sweat dripped down Ji Yue’s temples. He summoned another flame—this one scarlet—and pressed it gently into her abdomen.

Red met violet.

The twin fires collided, writhing together in a frenzy. The heat burned her flesh, bone, and marrow, consuming her entirely.

Qingge’s reason shattered. Her eyes glowed crimson, feral and inhuman. She roared—a guttural sound like an ancient beast’s awakening.

Cracks spread across her body, blood pooling beneath her.

Ji Yue’s gaze went blank. He whispered, almost to himself, “It’s over… I failed.”

After all, how could a fragile girl survive such suffering?

He slumped beside the bed, exhaustion and despair shadowing his beautiful features. Perhaps both he and Ye Qingge had only been deceiving themselves all along.

Then—

Behind him, the darkness split apart.

A surge of light exploded—violet and crimson, brilliant and blinding. It rolled over him like a storm tide.

Ji Yue’s head snapped up. His expression froze, then stiffly, almost mechanically, he turned.

As he turned, the storm ripped through the air, scattering fragments of broken chains past his ears.

Before him stood a radiant figure, half-shrouded in flame. The red and purple light interlaced around her—wild, dazzling, divine.

From within the blaze, a girl emerged—her skin luminous as carved jade, her beauty breathtaking. Her body seemed split in two: one side violet, noble and aloof; the other crimson, fierce and bloodthirsty.

Half demon. Half goddess.

Ye Qingge smiled faintly. “Didn’t you say you had no interest in women without beauty or curves?”

A row of dark lines appeared on Ji Yue’s forehead. He spun around abruptly, snatching up a crimson robe and tossing it backward at her.

“Put it on,” he growled. “You’re an eyesore.”

Qingge blinked. “…”