"Silence!"
A chilling woman's voice rang out in front of the altar.
Zhao Yi looked towards the sound, the woman in her thirties bore a resemblance of seventy to eighty percent to Yao Qing.
Unlike Yao Qing, this woman's face was pale, her eyes cold and indifferent, her expression sinister, resembling more a ghost long dead than a living person.
The woman wore a very revealing black gauze dress, with her arms and thighs exposed, covered in numerous wounds, some still bleeding new injuries, and some old dark red scars healed long ago.
She stood before the altar, looking at Zhao Yi approaching step by step, her face full of resentment and hatred.
"Why? Why won't you let me go?"
The woman's voice starkly contrasted with her expression.
Her face was sinister and fierce, yet her voice was clear and crisp, like a morning kingfisher.
If she hadn't suffered so much hardship, she would have been a bright and sunny woman.
But none of that mattered anymore.
Prince Zhi was dead.
