Master of Mythology

The knife in his hand had grown dull, so Bai Zongnan fetched a whetstone from inside the house, scooped up a basin of clear water, and, pressing three fingers against the blade, began to sharpen its edge with brisk strokes.

“Sister-in-law,” he murmured, “though you are as beautiful as a flower, with a figure to match, it cannot be denied you were born in a brothel. Your lowly status is written in black and white on the official household registry. To have married my brother, a humble clerk, was already more than you could hope for.”

He rinsed the blade, once dark and tarnished, now gleaming and cold, and nodded in satisfaction at the edge he had achieved. His gaze shifted toward the adjoining room, where a young woman, her hands and feet bound behind her with hemp rope, lay on the heated brick bed. Her hair was disheveled, and she wore only a thin camisole and undergarment, exposing a pale, fragrant shoulder and the length of a slender thigh curled beneath the bedding. His eyes betrayed no emotion.

For this was his own sister-in-law.

She wept bitterly, her youthful, enchanting face streaked with tears, dark hair falling over her features. Her eyes shone with grievance, but though she shook her head desperately atop the kang, the cloth gag in her mouth—stuffed with two walnuts to numb her tongue—rendered her unable to speak or protest.

In truth, Bai Zongnan required no explanation.

He picked up a rag and wiped the sharpened blade, murmuring softly, “Sister-in-law, my brother went to great lengths for you, spending sixty taels of silver