“ He looks like a saint, but harbors the heart of a devil—the one person I could never please, no matter how hard I tried.” Jiang Xuening sat still, lost in memory, her voice barely a murmur in the cold, empty palace. 

She paused, her gaze unfocused. “When I was a child, Wanniang told me the most honorable woman in the world was the Empress, and that the palace where she lived was called ‘Kunning Palace.’ I remember asking Wanniang, ‘What does Kunning Palace look like?’”

“Wanniang said she didn’t know,” Jiang continued softly, the memory a faint echo in the vast, silent chamber.

At that time, she was just a girl, sitting under a roof that leaked with every rain in the distant countryside. She had thought to herself, If only I could become a wild goose and fly through the skies, all the way to the capital. I would soar to the Forbidden City and see what Kunning Palace looked like. How wonderful that would be.

Now, Kunning Palace lay before her—a place of untold majesty, yet veiled in silence. The grand palace gates were tightly shut, though one small window on the left stood slightly ajar. The overcast sky dimmed the light, casting a muted shadow over the grounds. Kunning Palace, once bustling with servants, was as still as a painting.

Jiang Xuening knelt alone before a low table. Her slender fingers—pale, smooth, as delicate as carved ivory—held a stick of incense, gently stirring the golden Boshan censer. Wisps of smoke rose through its ornate openings, weaving intricate curls into the cold air. Her robes, silk embroidered with golden phoenixes, flowed like water, trailing behind her in soft waves. The dim light caught on the delicate patterns of clouds on her gown, making them flicker faintly, ethereally.

Jiang Xuening exhaled, her mind drifting. “I did come to the capital in the end. Heaven played its tricks on me, giving me an ambition I never asked for. Growing up in the countryside, I had no chance to learn the manners and airs of a true noblewoman. And here I am, thrown into this glittering world, nothing more than a pretty face…”

The soft glow of the incense smoke outlined her delicate features—her brows arched in an elegant curve, her eyes slightly tilted upward at the corners, and her lips touched with a subtle red, like the faint blush of a summer rose. Jiang Xuening’s beauty was striking, radiating a purity, like a lotus unfurling in the morning light. Yet behind that beauty was a quiet strength, honed by years of wielding the Phoenix Seal—a regal poise that commanded attention.

A simple, lowered glance from Jiang Xuening could capture a heart, leaving it aflutter. But at this moment, she stared ahead, her gaze distant, as if lost in the chapters of her own life—a life defined by whispers of manipulation, a tireless pursuit of fame and fortune. The world had long cast her as a woman who would do anything to climb, to hold power. And yet, standing here in the vast, hollow quiet, the image that the world held of her felt profoundly distant. A wave of sadness settled over her. In this place, away from prying eyes, the reality was unavoidable. There was no escape for her now.

“Fangyin,” she said, a slight smile breaking her somber reflection. “I’ve been wondering lately… was I truly wrong?”

The quiet chamber seemed to absorb her words, holding them in a silent, captive audience. Her thoughts drifted back to her childhood. She had been raised by Wanniang, unaware of her heritage, running wild outside the village, like a little bird no one could cage. Only Wanniang’s careful rouge and powders had ever managed to coax her back inside.

Wanniang—remarkable, bold, and experienced in the ways of men and power—had always believed that only men could truly conquer the world. And yet, she would tell Jiang Xuening with a sly grin, women could conquer men, thereby ruling the world in their own way. To Jiang Xuening, Wanniang had been a mentor, a master of survival, a woman of the world.

Upon her return to the Capital, Jiang Xuening had met Yan Lin, the young master from Yongyi Marquis’s mansion. They had known each other from childhood, and he would dress her as a boy and take her through the streets of the city, letting her feel the thrilling freedom of a life unbound. Not even her parents dared to restrict her too much; their relationship was a familiar, playful one—a true "bamboo horse and green plum." 

But soon enough, the danger that came with palace intrigue would close in. Yongyi Marquis’s Mansion was implicated in the rebellion of Prince Pingnan. The night the order came, Yan Lin, barely a young man, scaled the high wall of the Jiang Mansion to find her. Breathless, with the intensity of a cornered animal, he seized her hand, his voice hoarse. “Ning Ning, wait for me,” he pleaded. “I’ll return and marry you. I swear it.”

Yet Jiang Xuening’s heart was set on a different fate. “I want to marry Shen Jie,” she had replied, her voice resolute. “I want to be the empress.”

She could still recall the moment Yan Lin looked at her, fierce and wounded. His eyes blazed with raw emotion as he stared, his jaw tense and lips pressed tightly. In that instant, all innocence left his face. His hand loosened, and then, wordlessly, he disappeared into the darkness.

Years passed, and Jiang Xuening achieved her dream. Five years later, she married Shen Jie and became empress. Her journey to the throne had been treacherous, and she’d crossed paths with others just as ambitious as herself—each alliance temporary, every hand she held eventually slipping away.

There had been Xiao Dingfei, the calculating Minister of Appointments. Then Zhou Yinzhi, the formidable Commander of the Imperial Guards. Even Shen Zhiyi, the Leyang Princess, who would later meet a tragic end in distant, barbarian lands.

The memories lingered, each one a shadow in the dim candlelight, a reminder of the ambition that had driven her to this point. But those days, and those people, felt as if they were from another life entirely.

No one could have foreseen that the boy of yesterday, youthful and full of promise, would one day return as a warrior. Yan Lin, who had once stood in the shadow of his family’s fall, was now a formidable figure with victories at the border under his belt. But his return was not merely as the young noble she had once known; he was now allied with the powerful Xie Wei. With armor gleaming under the banner of new power, Yan Lin led his forces to encircle the Capital, claiming the Forbidden City as his own. His arrival marked the beginning of her captivity, a stark testament to his authority.

Inside the palace, Shen Jie lay poisoned and defeated, sinking deeper into illness with each passing day, leaving the state untended. Yan Lin would come and go from Jiang Xuening’s palace at will, his presence all-powerful and commanding. Palace attendants vanished at his mere nod; his visits carried an unspoken authority that none dared to question.

Beyond the palace walls, his reputation was feared and respected in equal measure. It was known to all that he was now the right hand of Xie Wei, the former imperial tutor, whose cruelty had left its mark across the Imperial Palace. Xie Wei had slaughtered half of its population, an act so brutal that Yan Lin himself led troops to lock down the palace gates, allowing no one to flee. When Xie Wei ordered the elimination of the Xiao family, it was Yan Lin who led the assault, breaking down the mansion’s heavy doors, capturing every man, woman, and child within.

Now, Yan Lin stood outside her palace gate, Xie Wei beside him. Shen Jie had succumbed to the poison, leaving only a decree naming her as the regent. But the Crown Prince, who was adopted from a branch of the royal family, had never ascended. On his journey to the Capital, he had been ambushed by the rebellious *Tianjiao* sect, his head displayed on the city gates in a grim display of their defiance.

Now, all eyes turned to Jiang Xuening.

A deep melancholy settled in her gaze as she blinked slowly, her dark lashes casting delicate shadows over her eyelids. She looked world-weary, the flicker of her resolve dimmed by the weight of fate’s turn. Across from her, You Fangyin’s eyes mirrored that wistful sadness, both women silent in the bleak space of Kunning Palace.

With steady hands, Jiang Xuening set down her incense sticks, carefully covering the bronze burner before reaching for the square brocade box beside her. In it lay the Imperial Jade Seal and a decree she had written and sealed only an hour earlier. In the final edict, she requested to be interred beside the late emperor, her final resting place chosen. The decree also entrusted Xie Wei to uphold the state, guide the governance, and to select a wise successor to ascend the throne.

As she closed the box, Jiang Xuening looked toward the window, feeling a shift. At some point, the night’s endless snowfall had ceased. Sunlight pierced through the remaining clouds, illuminating the room with an almost sacred light that filtered in from the sky above.

"If I had known today would be the end," she murmured, her words soft, "would I have bothered to work so hard to get here? I should have left, traveled far. Seen mountains and rivers, wandered freely like a bird in the open sky. But here I am—a prisoner of these walls, shackled by prosperity."

You Fangyin said nothing, her expression one of quiet empathy.

"Fangyin," Jiang Xuening asked, her voice taking on an unexpected gentleness, "if given the chance to start over, would you still come?"

You Fangyin’s origins were humble—born of a concubine in her uncle’s household, and in her youth, she was clumsy, pitiable, and unremarkable. Until one day, everything changed. She fell into a river, and upon being pulled out, seemed to possess a newfound fierceness and clarity of mind. From that moment, she was transformed. Driven and ambitious, she soon climbed through the ranks of Jiangning’s merchant circles, establishing her own invoice bureau and chamber of commerce. Within a few short years, her success soared to the point where it was no exaggeration to call her *You Bangcheng,* a name that echoed with power and influence.

But You Fangyin’s rise came with a cost. In the web of palace intrigue, she made the fateful error of aligning with the wrong faction, a mistake that turned deadly in a court as ruthless as this. Though she later switched her loyalty to Xie Wei, she remained under guard, confined to the palace where she crossed paths with Jiang Xuening.

Strangers by circumstance, bound by fate, they became close friends, finding in each other a rare companionship in their shared misfortune.

As the two women grew close, Jiang Xuening listened intently to Fangyin’s tales of her business ventures and her encounters with foreign merchants from distant lands. These “barbarians,” as they were called, possessed customs and technologies wholly foreign to the empire. Fangyin spoke of these encounters with a mix of curiosity and frustration, mentioning a curious device they called a “steam engine”—a concept Jiang Xuening struggled to understand but found intriguing nonetheless.

But the tales went deeper. Fangyin, with a wistful look, would often hint that she was not from this world, not truly. She claimed to be from a place far removed, a place to which she could never return. And she spoke of a hidden truth, a dark secret buried in the annals of the previous dynasty. Knowledge of this secret, she insisted, would have kept any sane person from making the same fatal missteps in their grasp for power. A deep regret filled her eyes as she spoke, lamenting that she had discovered it far too late.

Fangyin released a sigh, her smile tinged with irony. “In this godforsaken place, where everyone’s constantly getting screwed over, whoever wants the crown can have it!”

The language was raw and vulgar, words Jiang Xuening hadn’t heard in years. They were so stark in their contrast to the delicate tones of palace rhetoric that for a moment, Jiang Xuening was stunned into silence. Then, as the echo of Fangyin’s words faded, Jiang Xuening suddenly called out,  “Lord Xie!”

The courtyard lay before her, cloaked in white snow that only heightened the blood-red vermilion of the palace walls. Outside the gates, a crowd had gathered, their whispers filling the icy air with tension. Yan Lin, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, stood watchful, his form casting a dark silhouette against the snow. And standing tall beside him was his leader, the man Jiang Xuening had summoned—Xie Wei.

He did not turn toward her voice. He didn’t need to; she knew he could hear her.

In the entire Qian Dynasty, Xie Wei was the most feared, the most cunning. He wore the guise of a saint—a serene visage that concealed the devil’s heart within. Beneath the calm exterior, Jiang Xuening saw him for what he truly was: a man who wielded power like a weapon and ruled not with words but with blood. And yet, beneath all that cruelty, he remained enigmatic, a figure cloaked in reverence and fear alike.

This was the man who, with the wave of a hand, could bring empires to their knees. And here she stood, in the center of it all, knowing her next words would be her last.

How many had revered him, held him in the highest regard, as the Emperor’s tutor, as the Crown Prince’s guiding hand? To the world, he was the epitome of serene wisdom, a figure as calm as a gentle breeze, as untainted as moonlight. And yet, beneath that immaculate facade, a heart lay twisted in violence, a core steeped in blood. The imperial sword gifted to him by the Emperor had long lost its pristine edge, now stained red from the royal blood it had spilled. The hands that plucked at the qin and penned words of enlightenment were the same that had ordered the ruin of the entire Xiao family—those innocents whose bodies now lay, uncountable, like stones in a mountain.

He was the one person Jiang Xuening had strived to appease, the one who had eluded every ounce of her calculated charm and effort.

“You have slain the royal bloodline, annihilated the Xiao family, and decimated the Tianjiao sect,” she spoke, each word as precise and cold as the blade in her sleeve. Her voice caught, and a single tear, hot as fire, traced her cheek and burned against her hand. “You wield power over my life, and by all accounts, I have no right to negotiate.” Her tone wavered, revealing the weight of a lifetime of manipulation and betrayal. “In my life, I’ve used countless people to secure my path, exploiting each of them for my ambitions. I betrayed Yan Lin, and his vengeance found me. I used Xiao Dingfei and Zhou Yinzhi, yet they turned their influence against me. And I manipulated Shen Jie, whose death I now share, side by side. There is no debt left between us…”

This twist of fate had delivered her to this single, unbreakable moment. She slipped a hand into her sleeve, feeling the cool weight of the dagger concealed within. Drawing it out, the blade caught the light, casting a reflection that danced across her determined gaze and the jeweled hairpin that adorned her hair.

Her body shook as she looked upon the blade, her voice trembling under the weight of her final plea. She had no right to cry, and yet the tears came, her words a dripping wound. “But there is one soul who has kept himself pure. A man of uncompromising loyalty and principle. It was I who led him astray, who dragged him into my schemes and tarnished his name. He was—and is—a man of integrity. For the kindness I once showed you, Lord Xie, when we were journeying to the Capital, I now ask you for this single mercy. Let him go. I offer my life for his.”

Who would have believed that the Empress herself, so feared for her cold detachment, would now offer up her life for a single, honorable Minister of Justice? Was her heart truly hollow, or had no one ever managed to reach its frozen depths?

Outside the palace gate, the man remained motionless, his expression unreadable.

At last, a word escaped him, quiet and detached. “Permitted.”

The voice was pleasant, hauntingly familiar, echoing back to her from another life, a softer time. Jiang Xuening’s eyes glistened as a bittersweet smile crept across her lips. She lifted her hand in one final, determined motion.

"Schlick."

In a swift, unyielding motion, she cut across her neck, a soft sound piercing the silence. The delicate golden hairpin fell from her hand, shattering as it struck the stone floor. Its deep red ruby, inlaid at the center, fractured and scattered in tiny crimson sparks, mirroring the flow of blood now seeping down the steps.

She felt her life ebbing away, the warmth of her blood traced a path across the cold stone, pooling slowly, like the shallow stream she had once splashed in as a child, as if she were once again wading in the small, shallow streams of her youth, with water lapping at her bare feet.

Kunning Palace—the symbol of her ultimate ambition—had become her tomb. It devoured her bones, silenced her cries, and encased her life in its gilded walls. 

The sun’s rays outside the window began to pierce through the heavy clouds, illuminating the fresh snowfall. Slowly, the blanket of white began to melt… 

…………………………………………….

It had been a long, turbulent dream—a lifetime of choices blurring into one another, but the memory of the dagger’s bite at her throat remained vividly clear. The pain was searing.

Had she known it would hurt this much, Jiang Xuening thought, she might have chosen another way to end her life.

Her chest felt crushed, a weight pressing down, making it difficult to breathe. After a fierce struggle, she finally opened her eyes, her surroundings coming into focus.

And what she saw shocked her.

She was lying in a bed disheveled and messy. Or rather, she lay wedged between two men. Just inches from her face was a scholarly-looking young man, his breath warm on her skin, his hand casually resting over her shoulder.

A surge of rage overtook her, a white-hot fury that brought color to her cheeks.

The scene brought back memories of when Yan Lin had returned to the Capital and confined her to the palace. He would slip in silently, night after night, leaving her unable to find any rest. Without hesitation, she flung the young man’s arm away, leaping out of bed.

Drowsy and half-asleep, the young man opened his eyes to find her glaring down at him. Pushing himself up on his elbows, he reached for her, his voice still thick with sleep. “Brother Jiang, let’s sleep a bit longer…”

“Presumptuous!” she spat, her voice deadly calm. 

She was an empress, a woman who had once commanded the respect of all. The young man’s insolence, his brash approach, tore away her last restraint. Without a second thought, Jiang Xuening slapped him across the face, the resounding crack of it echoing through the room.

The sound finally roused the man sleeping on the other end of the bed—a young figure cloaked in black, his head resting against the hilt of his sword. He opened his eyes, revealing the hard, sharp features of a warrior—long, straight brows, a chiseled nose, thin lips. For a moment, he seemed puzzled. But then his gaze sharpened, taking in the disheveled state of the other man’s robe, the five red fingerprints now imprinted on his cheek, and Jiang Xuening’s palpable fury.

In an instant, the young man leaped to his feet, positioning himself between her and the other. His sword glinted as he pointed it toward the man’s throat, his once-youthful features now hardened into a deadly resolve.

“What did you do to her?!” he demanded, his voice like a blade, cold and unyielding.

The man recoiled, taken aback by the speed and fury of the attack. He covered his slapped cheek, more indignant than fearful. “What did I do? This king has done nothing wrong!”

The young man narrowed his eyes, his expression clouded with suspicion.

His use of the phrase “This king” caught her off guard, setting her mind spinning.

Jiang Xuening stilled, as realization dawned. She caught the lingering scent of wine on her clothes, the unfamiliar feel of a blue robe embroidered with silver bamboo pattern, dressed as a young man. Her hand throbbed from the slap she’d just delivered, the searing pain grounding her to the present.

It wasn’t a dream.

Recognition washed over her as she looked at the man she had slapped, the young figure holding the sword in his hand. They were not strangers; they were imprints in her memory. Shen Jie, the young prince of Linzi who would ascend to become Emperor, and Yan Lin, the young marquis, who would one day rebel against him.

The concept hit her like a blow. Was this was the “rebirth” You Fangyin had often spoken of?

In her previous life, she had carefully maneuvered her way through the complex court politics, playing one man against the other with unflinching precision. Yet here she was, at the very beginning of it all, already delivering a stinging slap to the face of the future emperor himself.

A rising sense of dread filled her. Perhaps there was still time to drop to her knees and beg for forgiveness.

End of Chapter 1.