Bai Zhen was the tall and broad-shouldered heir to a fearsome lineage — a clan of imperial assassins whose blades served none but the Emperor himself. Their name echoed through the empire like a whispered curse, a warning passed from lips to ears in shadowed halls. Merciless, brutal, and shrouded in blood, the Bai clan was more legend than flesh. The air carried the faint scent of sandalwood from the nearby temple, mixing with the metallic tang of fresh blood on his wrist.

Yet beneath the steel and silence, there lived a strange tradition. The men of this grim bloodline, though ruthless in war, were hopelessly devoted in love. They adored their spouses with a fierce, lifelong loyalty. It was said — only half in jest — that the louder a wife scolded, the deeper her love burned. And should she strike her husband with a broom? Ah, that was love in its purest form. The afternoon sun cast long shadows through the healer's window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air.

Bai Zhen had long since chosen the one who would hold his heart. A young man of the imperial healer’s house. Refined, radiant, impossibly lovely, he had carved himself a place in the assassin’s heart like a blade between ribs. Yet Bai Zhen’s affections were met with cold indifference. He ignored his advances, dismissed his intentions — but Bai Zhen, stubborn as stone and just as enduring, refused to yield. The soft sound of mortar and pestle came from the back room, a rhythmic grinding that always soothed his急躁 spirit.

On one particular day, returning from a mission with a shallow cut upon his wrist, Bai Zhen seized the excuse to see his beloved. He arrived at the healer’s door with the drama of a dying hero, collapsing onto the healer’s couch with a sigh.