Qin Wan was frozen by the fierceness in his eyes, unable to speak.
"Don't bring it up again," Lin Ziqi said, his tone indifferent, yet it brought a cold sweat to Qin Wan's back. "You know what I'm talking about."
Qin Wan nodded woodenly.
What Lin Ziqi forbade her to mention wasn't the poetry collection, but the poem she had mentioned in her dream.
After all, she had grown up in Qin Jijiu's family. Though she wasn't worldly, she had heard many stories; there were indeed cases where people, envying others' poetic talent, ended up harboring grudges and committing murder.
When she was young in her hometown, there was a young man who had stumbled upon some good verses, only to be killed by his envious maternal uncle, who then took the verses as his own.
At this moment, Qin Wan understood in her heart that Lin Ziqi couldn't have crafted that poem.
Then… the poems passed down by Chief Minister Lin in a previous life...
Qin Wan didn't dare to think further.
