My Wife Aman: Beautiful and Coldhearted - Chapter 1

I rescued Song Wenyan three years ago.

A gang had cornered him in an alley. Several thugs had him by the hair.

The young man lay curled on the ground, his clothes in disarray, yet he did not make a sound.

One of the thugs shouted, “This peach blossom spirit has tender skin and a pretty enough face. Why don’t we sell him to a male brothel?”

I stopped and cast an indifferent glance into the alley.

Using less than thirty percent of my strength, I beat them bloody. They stumbled away in panicked flight.

Silence returned to the alley.

Song Wenyan looked up at me. His hair was a tangled mess, making him look thoroughly pitiful.

Yet his almond-shaped eyes were exceptionally beautiful. His dark pupils were limpid, like a handful of clear spring water. When he gazed at me, there was no fear in his eyes—only a quiet, bewildered blankness.

“Get up.”

I held out a hand.

He was far too thin. With great care, he reached out two fingers and lightly caught my sleeve, using it to pull himself upright.

I took a silver ingot from my sleeve and pressed it into his palm.

“Take it. Make a decent life for yourself.”

“Th-thank you…”

He looked overwhelmed by the favor.

Perhaps he had been bullied all his life and this was the first time anyone had shown him kindness. He stood there awkwardly, at a loss for words, thanking me over and over.

As the chief senior sister of the Xiaoyao Sect, I saw such things all the time. I had long since grown accustomed to them.

I left without saying much else to him.

Song Wenyan remained rooted to the spot, the silver clutched in his hand. He watched me from afar and did not come back to himself until my figure had vanished from sight.

At the time, I thought it was nothing more than one ordinary act among many.

But Song Wenyan latched on to me.

Setbacks were inevitable when one wandered the martial world.

Once, I fought a demonic cultivator whose cultivation was by no means weak. I killed him, but not before he struck me in the chest with his palm and gravely wounded me.

Clutching my chest, I collapsed to the ground. It felt as though my organs had been knocked out of place, and the pain sent sparks bursting across my vision.

Song Wenyan emerged from behind a tree and peered timidly at me.

He had changed into a clean blue homespun robe. Most of the injuries on his face had healed, revealing pale, delicate features. He crouched beside me and examined my condition with care.

“Why… are you here?”

My voice was terribly hoarse.

He said nothing. First, he carefully wiped the blood from the corner of my mouth. Then he turned his back to me and squatted down.

I was badly hurt, so I climbed onto his back without hesitation.

“Have you been following me this entire time?” I asked.

“Mm.”

“Was that ingot not enough for you to live on? Why follow me?”

“I…”

He opened his mouth, but did not know how to answer.

Neither of us spoke for the rest of the way.

Song Wenyan carried me to a ramshackle wooden hut beside a stream. He laid me on its wooden bed, then fetched water and built a fire, bustling back and forth.

I lay there, my mind drifting in and out of consciousness.

Through the haze, I felt a warm cloth pass over my face, my neck, and my hands. Every touch was exceedingly gentle, as though he feared causing me the slightest pain.

I forced my eyes open.

Song Wenyan was kneeling beside the bed, his gaze lowered as he carefully cleaned the blood from my palm. Firelight played across his lovely face, as radiant as peach blossoms. His expression was soft, and his long lashes cast small shadows beneath his eyes.

“What is your name?” I asked.

“Song Wenyan.”

“I’m Aman.”

“Aman. It’s a beautiful name.”

He pressed his lips together in the faintest smile.

I said no more. Closing my eyes, I sank into a heavy sleep.

At times during those days, the fever burned fiercely. One moment I would be blazing hot, the next racked with chills.

After feeding me medicine, Song Wenyan would gather me—blankets and all—into his arms and pat my back as I drifted in delirium.

Three days later, most of my injuries had healed.

When I left, he hurried after me and followed close behind.

“Why are you still following me?”

He lowered his eyes, his dark lashes trembling.

“I can take care of you.”

I found that amusing.

I was the great chief senior sister of the Xiaoyao Sect. Did I need some little peach blossom spirit to look after me?

But he refused to leave.

Wherever I went, he went too, like a tail I could not shake.

If I turned cold and ordered him away, he would retreat a few paces and follow from a distance.

If I ignored him, he would quietly edge closer again.

I found him both funny and oddly entertaining, so in the end, I truly let him travel with me.

The young man stared at me in a daze. His face was as gentle as ever, but his eyes brimmed with delight.