YUN RONG XIAN (雲榮羡)

  Day 8, 4th Month of the Lunar Calendar, 6000th Year of the Yun Dynasty, Taishan Province, Tian’an Sect

  Everything hurt.

  My back was taut, as if the spine had been twisted and bound with wire. My legs refused to budge despite my will. Unreliable. My vision swarmed with shadows, and light came in patches. Useless. My mouth was dry, coated in something bitter. Ginseng and horseradish. Unsavoury.

  But the worst was the pain in my skull, that pulsing in waves. A rhythmic pounding that made it difficult to think.

  This was to be expected after being poisoned.

  Cool pressure met my forehead.

  As sensation returned to my face, I recognised it as a towel, damp but clean. I blinked. The silhouette sitting beside me sharpened. My shaking hand reached up and curled around a slender wrist. The hand recoiled immediately and pushed my head back into the pillow.

  “You are awake, Your Highness,” spoke a voice sweet like nectar. Even half-conscious, I registered its clarity. An Lingqi. The healer. The Blossom Deity. The celestial maiden.

  I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. Her voice never asked for a response. It just existed, and people listened, allured.

  The room returned to form. I could start making out the hazy shapes of the ceiling beams, the curtains, a bronze basin on the floor.

  I watched her from the corner of my eyes. Her towel moved with precision. She wiped the sweat from my face in slow, practiced strokes. Her steady fingers hovered above the inside of my wrist, searching for rhythm. The Blossom Deity dipped the cloth again. Water rippled against the metal, and the silence filled with sound.

  She was never in a rush. Never dramatic. It was no wonder people trusted and loved her—hypnotised by her celestial grace.

  I turned over, pressing my cheek into the pillow.

  “Your Majesty, how long are you planning to stand there?”

  The Blossom Deity did not look up and her tone was flat.

  She wrung the towel with the strength of someone used to tending wounds but not indulging emotion. Water streamed into the bronze bowl in a steady line. I listened to the soft slap of droplets hitting metal. For a moment, that sound lingered, along with her words.

  She wasn’t asking for permission. She was simply announcing the presence of the uninvited guest.

  Yet somehow, her voice made it sound polite.

  I turned my eyes toward the guest—the Empress. She moved toward me. Robes of fabric dragged across the smooth ground.

  The Empress reached out. Her hand paused above my face. I flinched deliberately. This person was the woman who had birthed me. And there were times I called her mother. That was just for show. When I needed to soften her for my own purposes. Or when I needed to wield her power.

  But in private, I did not want her to touch me.

  She settled for my hand. She picked it up, careful not to scratch me with her nail guards. Her hair, though pinned hastily, was adorned with rubies and pearls. Her face could have come from a painted porcelain doll. No fatigue. No softness.

  Yet, her thumb moved across my palm, lightly. Repeating a gesture that I remembered from childhood.

  She was doing it again. Acting like a loving parent.

  I closed my eyes and regulated my breath. She would leave if I pretended to sleep. She always did.

  Her hand relaxed.

  Footsteps receded.

  I kept still beneath the blanket and watched her go. She stepped toward the door, into the sunlit threshold. Her silhouette stretched across the floor, yet it didn’t seem menacing at all. Just the shape of a young girl. One who had not planned to be a mother.

  The healer raised a cloth over my brow to wipe it clean. I stopped her with a hand to her wrist; not to prevent her care, but to keep my line of sight clear. The towel hung mid-air, and a single drop of water slipped from its corner, landing soundlessly on the bedding.

  She withdrew her hand as I let go.

  I exhaled, then regretted it. Pain responded like a coiled spring released. It expanded across my chest, stomach, and limbs. The desire to collapse in on myself was immediate. I resisted it, breathing until the sharpness dulled to a manageable ache.

  She pushed her sleeves up past her elbows. Her movements were always exact. She flicked excess water from her fingers onto the polished floorboards. “You almost died.”

  I sat up slowly, testing the boundaries of my own pain. Each movement exposed a new source of tension, but I managed to brace myself against the bedpost. “What was the cause?”

  The Blossom Deity dried her hands and set them in her lap, composed but rigid. Her mouth was pressed into a line. After all this time, she still approached me with caution. Not fear. Not reverence. Just caution. She exhaled. “I apologise.”

  I fully faced her. It was rare for her to apologise. Her celestial beauty did not match the ugliness of guilt, nor a moment of weakness. Apologies never came from perfection.

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  She was seated beside the bed. The breeze disturbed the strands of her hair, lifting them like silk in water. Her eyes were fixed on her palms. “The Empress came to me days earlier. I dismissed it. I didn’t think I would see it again: bīnghuǒdú.”

  The name sat in the room like a dropped stone. bīnghuǒdú. Lethal, precise, and almost impossible to acquire. Given my bloodline, few things could harm me. The man who had birthed me had given me a magical lineage that could resist most spirit-based weapons. Except the magic from Liantai Sect.

  I shifted beneath the sheets, noting the tightness in my calves. “How long until I recover?”

  She looked up. “Varies between people.” She began to close her medical kit. The click of lacquered wood meeting wood echoed too cleanly. “With proper rest, a month at most. But for you, a few days.”

  For you.

  It was quite telling that she chose to emphasise those particular words. Had she noticed? Had she sensed that the spiritual presence I revealed to the public was only a fraction of my actual strength?

  Most didn’t. That was the point.

  A cultivated spiritual presence invited attention. And any attention was bad attention. Reverence followed attention, and suspicion came close after. I had long learned that in the court, being underestimated was safer than being respected. Let them think I was merely competent. It was easier to observe that way. Easier to plan.

  I placed a hand on her shoulder. The motion was measured, without urgency. She stilled beneath my touch, but she did not flinch.

  That too said something.

  She was neither alarmed nor defensive. Just aware. She allowed the contact because she was already several steps ahead, calculating what I meant by it.

  I let the silence gather in the space between us like condensation on glass. It was a useful thing, silence. Most people rush to fill it. The honest ones. The guilty ones. The stupid ones.

  Of course, An Lingqi was none of those. Still, it would be foolish not to observe the edges of her composure. Brilliant minds carry fault lines too, and the most reliable way to find them was through pressure.

  Her mouth twitched, almost into a smile. Not amusement, but recognition.

  So, she knew the game I was playing.

  It’s likely she said ‘for you’ as a test.

  Fair enough.

  Had I been in her position, I’d be wondering the same: Why would any respectable cultivator—a royal member at that—consistently suppress their spiritual presence?

  Unless they intended to be sneaky.

  Unless they intended to stir trouble.

  Just as the assassination attempt on my life had done to the court. For all she knew of me, I could have orchestrated my own assassination attempt. There was plenty one could gain by pretending to be a victim or weakling.

  She adjusted her sleeves, slowly and with precision.

  Never mind. There was no need for me to probe further, else I’d be the one giving her the evidence to confirm her suspicions.

  It was time to move the conversation on.

  To something that we were both comfortable to discuss. Or at least, pretend we were comfortable with.

  “You know who the assassin is.”

  “Why would I know that?” she asked, her voice neutral.

  “Because.” You’re smarter than I am.

  It wasn’t flattery. It was fact. The Blossom Deity never responded to praise, and she wouldn’t now. Even with hair as fine as silk and a smile as sweet as ambrosia, she did not care for flattery. Her eyes met mine, golden like honey. A heavenly nymph on a silk portrait could not compare.

  I wasn’t a stranger to beautiful people. And it wasn’t that I hated beautiful things either. Gan Yuanxiao was such an example.

  But it seemed wrong that heaven could give someone this kind of unearthly beauty. When something was too beautiful, it reeked of secrecy; a hidden persona; facades and lies.

  And that was the way I felt about An Lingqi.

  Even with all my rationality, it was impossible to completely extract desire from the picture. That was the natural inclination. That is why they said beauty is a sin. But beauty was only sin-inducing to its onlookers. The beauty themselves had much to gain.

  Gan Yuanxiao had a sweet voice and a glittering countenance that he no doubt used to win trust and extract information.

  But An Lingqi did not. She spoke flatly. She did not flirt.

  For what she supposedly lacked in personality, her hypnotic beauty made up for indefinitely.

  Practically, she was more beautiful than any moving creature under the sky. Even as she dressed in plain white robes and fixed her hair with a single cloth ribbon, her mere presence threatened to outshine the sun. Too gorgeous. Too sweet. Too perfect.

  With Gan Yuanxiao, I could ignore his sweetened charm.

  But with An Lingqi…the moment I stopped watching myself, would be the moment she would win.

  I was only a step away from her honey trap.

  The Blossom Deity released her gaze.

  Whether or not she would admit it, I had already narrowed the possibilities. It pointed to the Ze family. Ze Zhiwei, in particular. His composure two days ago had been off. I remember he kept clenching his fist inside his sleeve, though he likely thought it went unnoticed. But his unease was not the only detail. He disappeared the moment we entered the banquet hall, claiming a need for the restroom. And there were those petals attached the hem of Ze Yijin robes. Too coincidental to dismiss.

  I didn’t blame them. My mother had made too many enemies to count. Retribution was inevitable. I’d always expected it would come from someone with a justifiable grudge.

  An Lingqi stood up. Her hands latched around the lacquered handles of her medical box.

  Then the Blossom Deity turned slightly, light catching the curve of her lips. Her smile was soft, deliberate. Beauty that exact intended to disarm. Her hair caught the light, shimmering auburn, and her eyes glinted gold beneath the shadow of her lashes.

  She said, “I expect nothing less than your best, Your Highness.”

  I inclined my head once and said nothing further.

  The ethereal beauty left in silence, sleeves dancing in the wind, and arms flexed against the weight of her medical case. Grace trailed her steps. I watched her until she disappeared out the entrance.

  It was then that I saw my bodyguard. Jiang Feng waited at the edge of the room, leaning against the door frame, enchanted. His eyes hadn’t been focussed on me at all; he’d been watching the celestial maiden the entire time.

  “Jiang Feng.”

  He flinched. Then turned, startled. A delay that betrayed how far gone he was.

  He seemed to realise that he had stepped out of line, and he bowed low. “Your Highness, your servant begs forgiveness. What does Your Highness ask of me?”

  It wasn’t his fault he was so enamoured. And punishing him would waste my time more than anything. Better to put him to work.

  “Summon the jailer. I want to review the death row files. Names, crimes, execution dates.”

  He dropped into a formal bow, his fist meeting his palm. The metal of his sword tapped the floor. “Yes, Your Highness.”

  Ze Zhiwei had likely tried to kill me. And if he was exposed, execution was the only outcome for him, and for anyone else carrying the Ze family name.

  I leaned back against the pillow.

  There’s a few ways to find out.

  EPILOGUE

  SU TANG (素醣)

  Day 8, 4th Month of the Lunar Calendar, 6000th Year of the Yun Dynasty, Shuishang Province, Huadu Sect

  “Cross your legs. Close your eyes and open your mind,” Ju Ying said, like she was instructing a toddler how to nap, not guiding me through quite possibly the most important experience known to cultivators: levelling up.

  It was obvious that she had never tried crossing her legs on a sunken bed before. Every time I adjusted myself, she gave me the kind of look usually reserved for cockroaches and people who interrupt tea ceremonies. Ju Ying cleared her throat, extending her palms toward me with the solemnity of a temple statue. I reached out, mostly because there was no turning back now, and also because she looked like she might smite me with a glare if I hesitated.

  I’m surprised that she’s helping me. She seems a little less annoyed…maybe it’s because I was actually being obedient.

  I could hear the hum of her magic, and my nerves buzzed in response. Will it hurt? Someone had once told me that transferring energy in cultivation was as gentle as walking on eggshells.

  And that was just for a few measly centuries of cultivation.

  I was about to receive eight, thousand, years.

  The kind of pain that didn’t come with spiritual enlightenment, just chronic trauma and a monthlong sentence to bedrest with an ice pack strapped to my spine.

  I clenched my jaw and braced for impact.

  And it's a wrap for Part I: Awakening!

  Part II translations will be on its way at the start of October.

  In the meantime, please keep up the comments and feedback. I'd love to do some shoutouts or story swaps!

  Thank you for the support. See you all soon.