The County Magistrate Isn’t a Scumbag—She’s Very A - Chapter 3

The original host was truly a blockhead, having managed to blow her cover back when she was still wearing split-bottom pants.

Still, perhaps it wasn’t all bad. If she could pivot and become “sisters” with the female lead, it might actually be a viable path forward.

“Lord Song,” Jiang Fanyin said, her tone flat and her eyes like chips of ice.

She had only been at the Song manor for a few days. Aside from a single meeting in their childhood, the two were practically strangers. Had it not been for the betrothal agreement and her father’s dying instructions, she never would have traveled a thousand miles to seek refuge with Song Boxue.

The servants quickly finished laying out the wine and dishes.

Once they were alone in the room, Jiang Fanyin tightened her grip on the dagger hidden in her sleeve, her gaze flickering with deep-seated wariness.

Seeing her cold demeanor, Song Boxue thought to herself: This is going to be tough.

Jiang Fanyin was a classic beauty—the kind that grew on you. She had soft, distant-mountain brows, fox-like eyes, and lips the color of rouge. It was a non-aggressive kind of beauty; in modern terms, she was the perfect blend of “innocent yet alluring.”

The original novel described the female lead as a gentle and soft beauty. But looking at this face full of frost, where was the “gentle”? Where was the “soft”?

Song Boxue rubbed her temples and put on a look of utmost sincerity. “Sister Jiang, the truth is, I have long suffered from a hidden affliction. I had an episode last night. Please, do not hold it against me.”

This was the excuse she had agonized over all day. After all, it was impossible to explain why she had tied the woman up and started undressing her. Therefore, the original host had to be sick—mentally unstable, even.

Jiang Fanyin lowered her gaze. “Lord Song, you overstate the matter.”

An episode? How utterly ridiculous.

She gripped the dagger tighter, not daring to let her guard down for a second.

Song Boxue didn’t expect a simple “I’m sick” to wash away the original host’s sins entirely. She sighed deeply. “I’ve given Sister Jiang a fright. I shall penalize myself with three cups.”

She had tested the wine before coming over. Ancient wine was weak, watery, and low in alcohol—perfect for her current performance.

After watching Song Boxue toss back three cups in a row, Jiang Fanyin glanced at the cup on the table. They were poured from the same jar; perhaps the wine was safe.

But she still couldn’t be careless.

Seeing her silence, Song Boxue tried playing the pity card. “I didn’t always have this ailment. Perhaps it’s because I’ve lived as a man since childhood. Over time, the lines became blurred. As I grew up, I couldn’t associate with men, yet I had to keep my distance from women. Slowly but surely, something went wrong. When the ‘sickness’ takes over, I do foolish things. It is all my fault. I’ll take another three cups; please, Sister Jiang, help yourself to whatever you like.”

She wanted to just come out and say she wasn’t the original host, but that was too bizarre. If the female lead didn’t believe her and took her for a ghost or a demon instead, she’d just be shooting herself in the foot.

Admittedly, the “mental illness” excuse lacked credibility. Song Boxue sighed inwardly, refilling her cup. This is hard work.

Seeing her drinking to drown her sorrows, Jiang Fanyin felt her resolve soften slightly. She knit her brows and said softly, “There is no need for this.”

Perhaps last night really was a misunderstanding. This person hadn’t had it easy either—living as a man for so many years, she must have spent every day in fear of discovery.

Seeing the frost on Jiang Fanyin’s face begin to thaw, Song Boxue thought: She really is easy to coax. No wonder the original male lead could abuse her repeatedly and still be forgiven; this woman’s heart was far too soft.

But this worked in her favor. As long as they talked it out, she wouldn’t have to worry about future revenge. It seemed “selling misery” was the way to go.

Song Boxue let out another long sigh. “Sister Jiang, my heart is full of bitterness. Sigh, but let’s not speak of it. Please, stay here in peace. From now on, we are sisters. Rest assured, I will never have any improper thoughts about you again.”

Jiang Fanyin’s hand trembled. Improper thoughts?

Was last night because this person actually felt that way about her?

But they were both women. Her hand inside her sleeve gripped the dagger once more. She gave a faint “Mm” in response.

Relieved by the response, Song Boxue smiled. “Sister Jiang, a toast to you. Let the past be the past. From now on, I will treat you well.”

As long as I treat the female lead well, I should be able to keep my legs intact and stay alive.

Hearing this, Jiang Fanyin looked up, her eyes searching. Treat her well? Why did that sound a bit strange?

“You. I am the one imposing on your hospitality. There is no need for such gestures.” Even as she spoke, Jiang Fanyin did not release the dagger, nor did she touch the wine on the table.

Once bitten, twice shy. Even if the person before her was a woman, she wouldn’t touch the drink.

Song Boxue filled her cup yet again, continuing her act. “Sister Jiang, you don’t understand. My heart is just so bitter.”

As for why it was bitter, she didn’t say. Since acting miserable was working, she would keep it up.

Her “speechless with sorrow” act actually gained another two points of trust from Jiang Fanyin. The dagger finally loosened in her grip. Perhaps this person really was “sick.”

Jiang Fanyin didn’t offer a reply; her own heart was bitter too. She was supposed to be the daughter of a Prefect, but her father had suddenly been framed for treason. She had traveled to Pingchuan County in a state of constant anxiety, hoping for a reprieve, only to be tied up on her first night.

The thin paper of trust they shared had been poked full of holes instantly. Had it not been for her father’s deep trust in Song Boxue’s late father, she never would have come here for a mere verbal betrothal.

She had let her guard down because she knew Song Boxue was a woman, and yet this person turned out to be “sick”?

The open door creaked in the night wind. Jiang Fanyin looked at the person across from her, who was busy drowning her sorrows in silence. Finally, her gaze drifted to the wine cup sitting before her.

Song Boxue continued to drink, nursing her feigned misery. Seeing that Jiang Fanyin still hadn’t touched her glass, she thought to herself: She’s still not at ease.

After finishing the two jars of wine on the table, she waved a hand for the servants to bring two more. Since tomorrow was her day off and she could sleep in, she decided she might as well drink her fill.

“Drinking too much harms the body,” Jiang Fanyin sighed softly, her eyes clouding with complex emotions. The person across from her already seemed a bit tipsy; if she had another “episode” now.

Song Boxue shook her head, the clarity in her eyes beginning to fade. “Sister Jiang, just this once. Bear with me today, and from now on, I’ll listen to whatever you say. If you tell me to go east, I won’t go west. Just have one drink with me, okay?”

If only she could wake up back in the modern world. She wanted no part of this “scum secondary character” script.

Jiang Fanyin’s lips parted, but she swallowed her words of persuasion. She slowly reached out and picked up her wine cup. She, too, wanted to forget these past days of flight and fear; she yearned for the days before her father’s downfall.

In a moment of shared melancholy, the wine passed her lips.

As night fully descended, a thoughtful servant quietly pulled the doors shut. Several more jars on the table were now empty, while the food remained largely untouched. Both women were buried in their own thoughts, unwittingly sinking into a shared attempt to drown their sorrows.

“Sister Jiang, I’m a bit thirsty.” Song Boxue tugged at her collar, her gaze fixed intently on Jiang Fanyin.

It seemed she had underestimated this ancient wine. Her chest felt tight, her body was burning as if being roasted by fire, and the glands behind her ears were scalding, restless, and agitated. All she felt was a parching, desperate thirst.

Jiang Fanyin set down her empty glass and closed her eyes wearily, her response tangential: “It’s time to wash up and rest.”

She felt so sleepy, so drained. As she tried to stand, her footing gave way, and she nearly collapsed. The dagger hidden in her sleeve slipped out and clattered to the floor.

The crisp metallic ring echoed through the room, startling them both.

Song Boxue was the first to snap back to reality. She leaned down and retrieved the weapon. “Sister Jiang, why are you carrying a blade on you? Be careful not to hurt yourself.”

Interesting, she thought, she actually had a dagger hidden on her. With a casual flick of her wrist, she tossed the blade toward the window.

“The dagger?” Jiang Fanyin knit her brows, thinking for a moment before answering, “To protect myself from you. You are sick.”

Her speech was slow and her eyes were hazy, like a morning mist—damp and surreal.

Song Boxue couldn’t help but lean closer. In a daze, she pulled the unsteady woman into her arms. “Sister Jiang, I’m so thirsty.”

Waves of lemon fragrance began to emanate from her—the scent of an Alpha’s pheromones, slowly filling the room, lingering and intense.

Song Boxue inhaled the scent distractedly. It was so familiar, just like the smell of her very first “heat cycle.”

Heat cycle?

So, her rut had arrived. But she had no Omega, and no inhibitors. What was she supposed to do?

The woman in her arms seemed to catch the heavy scent of lemon as well. She struggled restlessly. “Song Boxue, let go.”

Song Boxue tightened her grip, her consciousness blurring under the dual assault of alcohol and pheromones. “Sister Jiang, do you smell tea? I’m so thirsty. I want some tea.”

She was parched, and the woman in her arms was like a cup of freshly cooled tea, radiating a crisp, cold fragrance that tempted her to lean down and take a sip.

Distressed, Song Boxue shook her head and pressed closer to the side of Jiang Fanyin’s neck. Her lips parted slightly, and she gave a gentle, tentative bite.

The woman in her arms shivered.