She had poisoned a butterfly hairpin and hid it among her flowing hair, then came in the middle of the night to seek Zhao Rong's help with poetry, asking him to arrange her hair.
Indeed, this was certainly not for entertainment.
Zhao Rong nodded slightly, cleverly analyzing the situation.
After he smiled and asked that question, the room fell into a deathly silence again.
Luo Xiu, her expression unseen, let her waterfall-like black hair be lifted by the night breeze coming through the window, fluttering with the wind.
Zhao Rong stood up, rolled up his sleeves, gently pushed Qian'er aside, and walked forward.
His slender, fair fingers cradled the delicately beautiful young girl in a red bellyband, lifting her small, oval face to look directly into her eyes.
Her pale forehead lifted closer to the sword tip above, seemingly about to be pierced by the sharp edge any second.
