As she lay there, eyes fluttering open, she began assessing. The room, the people, the emotions on their faces. Her mind, honed through years of ruling, dissected every detail as though preparing for war.
Her father—grief-stricken, but not weak. His hands trembled as he held hers, yet his grip was firm. A man who had seen too much loss.
Her mother—tears streaming, relief and exhaustion written in every line of her face. But there was nothing deceitful in her expression—only pure, overwhelming love.
Layla's breath hitched.
This is different. Unconditional.
In her past life, affection had always been transactional. But now? Her mother's sobs were not for a lost heir or a failed alliance. They were for her, Meilin, the daughter they had thought lost.
Love, real love, was foreign to her.
Had they known something? Had they hidden something from her? No, not yet. Not enough information.
Her voice, measured and steady, broke through the air.
''My head feels fuzzy, I don't remember much at the moment'' she told
''How did I… survive?'' she asked, tilting her head as if still disoriented.
''And the sect… how is the Silver Lotus Sect faring?''
The room fell silent for a moment before her father spoke, voice thick with worry.
''You've been in an unwakeable slumber for weeks, Meilin. We feared…'' He swallowed hard.
''We feared we had lost you.''
A calculated pause. Then Layla—Meilin—nodded slowly, as if letting the realization sink in.
Processing. Analyzing. Every word, every hesitation.
''But I am here now'' she murmured, offering a small, reassuring smile.
''And I will not let this sect fall into ruin.''
Even as she comforted them, her mind was already working.
This will take years to piece together. But I will learn everything.
When she next spoke, her voice was careful, calculated.
''The great empires beyond these lands… the ones far to the west. Who rules them now?''
Her father hesitated, exchanging glances with the others.
''The western lands are foreign to us, daughter'' he admitted.
''But we have heard of a great empire beyond the deserts, one that fell to turmoil some generations ago. Its name, however, is lost to time.''
Layla's breath hitched.
My empire? Lost to time? The weight of it settled over her like a heavy cloak, suffocating and final.
But she had one more question. A final test.
She inhaled deeply, voice even.
''Who rules the Celestial Dynasty now?''
The moment the words left her lips, the air in the room changed. The warmth fled. Her parents tensed, their hands trembling. Even the attending disciples went pale, their gazes darting to the door as if fearing eavesdroppers.
Her mother gasped, covering her mouth. Her father, usually composed, visibly shook.
''Never…'' he whispered, gripping her hand so tightly it almost hurt.
''Never speak that name carelessly, Meilin.''
The silence stretched, suffocating.
And Layla knew. The name she had uttered was not just known—it was feared.
Years had passed since Layla has died.
Far away, beyond the reach of the western empire and the sects of the east, a ruler sat upon a throne of cold jade, his face hidden in the flickering candlelight. The air was thick with the scent of incense, though it did little to mask the underlying stench of blood.
A ruler had survived.
Not by his own strength, nor by the will of fate, but by her.
In those final moments, he had felt himself slipping into the abyss, the poison working its way through his veins, his limbs numbing. He had braced for the sharp, inevitable impact against the marble floor—but it had never come. The softness beneath his head, the way his breath still lingered in his lungs long enough for his physicians to arrive, all of it was her doing.
''Layla...'' he had thought in that moment, the weight of realization pressing down on him heavier than death itself.
She saved me. But why?
The thought haunted him still, years later. Every night he traced the fine silk of the pillow she had moved beneath him, the same one that had softened his fall in those final moments before the poison could steal his life entirely. It had been her last act, her final mercy, and he hated how much it haunted him. The air was thick with the scent of incense, though it did little to mask the underlying stench of blood.
Emperor Shen Jinhai had survived.
Or at least, that was what the world believed. But was this truly the same man who had once spoken of unity in the candlelight, who had admired Layla's defiance even as he refused to follow in her footsteps? Or had time, paranoia, and grief twisted him into something else? A shadow of the ruler he had once been?
His fingers traced the fine silk of the pillow he had once rested upon, the same one that had softened his fall in those final moments before the poison could steal his life entirely. It had been her last act, her final mercy, and he hated how much it haunted him.
''Layla...'' he murmured, his voice almost reverent.
The courtiers around him dared not meet his gaze. The great hall was lined with kneeling figures—nobles, servants, officials—all who had been present that night. One by one, their heads bowed lower, waiting for their fates to be decided.
''Who among you,'' he said softly, dangerously, 'knew of the poison before it touched my lips?'
No one spoke. The silence stretched, taut as a bowstring.
Then, with a flick of his wrist, justice—or paranoia—took its course.
He had become ruthless. Every shadow was a threat. Every whisper was treason. And yet, in the privacy of his chambers, he traced the embroidered pattern of that silk pillow, his fingers lingering as though it held a warmth long since lost.
He had loved her. Or perhaps, he had merely admired what he could never have. It no longer mattered. What mattered now was finding the truth.
And so, the bloodshed continued.
Yet, in the darkest hours of the night, as he sat alone, staring at the silk pillow she had placed beneath him, a flicker of doubt gnawed at his mind. Would she have looked at him now with disgust? Pity? Would she have called him a fool for chasing ghosts through rivers of blood?