The air in the room grew heavy. Her father looked away. Her mother, who had remained silent for most of the conversation, exhaled shakily. The few elders lingering in the background averted their gazes.
"Meilin..." her mother finally spoke, her voice tinged with sorrow.
"There is nothing left to rebuild. The world has moved on. We are a dying sect."
Layla met her father's eyes. "But not dead."
He hesitated.
"Not yet. But we are hanging by a thread. Resources are scarce, our numbers dwindle, and the other sects do not see us as a threat."
"Then that is an advantage" Layla said immediately.
"If they do not see us as a threat, they will not see us coming."
Her father sighed, rubbing his temples.
"This is not just about strength, Meilin. It is about time, about resources, about whether those who remain have the will to fight. Tell me, do you think a starving man who has lost everything will have the strength to wield a sword again?"
Layla remained silent, but inwardly, her mind raced.
I will find a way.
Her mind worked rapidly, calculating possibilities, drawing from her past life as a ruler.
What does a fallen nation need to rise again?
First—stability. The people needed food, security, and a reason to believe in the sect again. A dying sect did not attract disciples, and without new blood, the Silver Lotus Sect would wither into obscurity.
Second—resources. If cultivation is the foundation of power, then herbs, weapons, and training grounds were the pillars supporting it. They had neither the land nor the backing of any major factions. Would trade be an option? Or would they have to seize what they needed?
Third—strength. A sect's power was judged by its strongest warriors. She had none. If they were to survive, they needed cultivators who could stand against the tides of destruction.
Fourth—alliances. No kingdom, no empire, no sect survived alone. If the Silver Lotus Sect had no allies, then Layla would create them. By force or by persuasion.
Her fingers twitched slightly, the echoes of a past life guiding her instinctively.
A dying kingdom and a dying sect… are they truly so different?
She turned to her father, ready to speak, when the doors to the hall burst open.
A figure staggered in, covered in blood, his robes torn, his face barely recognizable beneath the bruises and cuts. Gasps filled the room as disciples rushed forward, but the man—barely standing—forced himself to speak.
"Sect Leader…" he rasped.
"They're coming. The Crimson Serpent Sect… they intend to annihilate us."
Silence fell, thick and suffocating. Layla swore internally, a sharp pulse of frustration running through her.
Damn it. This changes everything.
All her careful planning, her measured steps—it meant nothing if they didn't survive the night. She had been strategizing a future, but now the present was threatening to erase them entirely.
She clenched her fists beneath the table, nails digging into her palms. Obsolescence was not an option. If she couldn't act, if she couldn't turn this around, then all her grand ideas were worthless. She would not be worthless.
Around her, the room was sinking into despair.
The elders exchanged grim glances, their shoulders heavy with resignation. One of them, an old man with hollowed-out cheeks, shook his head.
"So it has come to this at last."
Her mother covered her mouth, her eyes glassy.
"We cannot fight them. We barely have twenty capable disciples left. Even if we resist, it will only delay the inevitable."
Layla glanced at her father, searching for defiance, for something other than helplessness. But his face was unreadable, his silence more damning than words.
The battered disciple coughed violently, blood staining his lips.
"They gave us an ultimatum" he wheezed.
"Surrender and dissolve the sect... or be slaughtered."
A sharp, rattling inhale filled the room. Someone stifled a sob. Another disciple sank to his knees, shaking his head as if he could will away the reality of their situation.
Fear spread like a disease.
Layla could see it—fraying the last threads of resolve, wrapping around throats like an unseen noose.
Hopelessness.
She had seen this before, in another life. In the eyes of generals who realized the battle was lost. In the voices of rulers who knew their cities would burn.
But she had never let it stop her before.
And she wouldn't now.
Layla inhaled sharply, locking her emotions away. Panic is the enemy. Fear is the first defeat.
Her gaze snapped to the wounded disciple.
"How much time do we have?" Her voice was steady, sharp.
The man swayed but forced himself to answer.
"A day... two at most. Their vanguard was already moving when I escaped."
A day.
Layla's mind burned with calculations.
Not enough time to mount a full defense. Not enough resources to hold a siege. Not enough warriors to fight head-on.
Layla hesitated for the briefest moment, considering the weight of what she was about to do.
Should I take command? I'm not the sect leader. My father was. The elders have more experience. Yet, in this room filled with despairing faces, no one had stepped forward. No voice had risen in defiance.
She understood human nature—fear paralyzed, uncertainty killed before the enemy even arrived.
They were waiting. For someone, for anyone to tell them they were not doomed.
If no one else would take that role, then I must.
But by doing so, I would reveal something else entirely.
That unsettled her.
They would see her not as Meilin, the daughter they had known, but as something else. Someone else.
But between dying and identity crisis? I rather deal explaining my reincarnation later.
She turned sharply, barking orders without hesitation.
"Get him to the infirmary—now. Clean his wounds, apply a pain suppressant, and make sure he lives. We will not lose another soul today."
The room jolted, startled by the authority in her voice. Even her parents looked momentarily stunned.
This was not their Meilin. The quiet, obedient daughter who had once hesitated behind their protection was gone. In her place stood something else entirely—a ruler, forged in fire.
And yet, as her voice rang through the hall, something darker stirred within the room.
The way she spoke, the raw command, the sharpness of her words—it was too reminiscent of him.
Her father's fingers tensed at his sides. The elders exchanged wary glances, unease creeping into their gazes. They had heard this kind of authority before, this kind of unyielding will. And it had come from the very man they feared.
The tyrant. Jinhai.
For a fleeting second, doubt flickered in her mother's eyes. Not recognition—no, not yet—but something that made her look at Layla as if she were seeing a stranger wearing their daughter's skin.
Layla felt her chest tighten, her body still weak from her slumber, but she pushed through it, stepping forward.
"Those who are uninjured, gather what supplies we have! Rations, medicine, weapons—anything usable. We do not have the luxury of waste!"
No one moved. The weight of despair still clung to the room, suffocating, paralyzing. They had already accepted death.
Layla gritted her teeth.
Fine. If they would not move, then I will force them to.
She took a deep breath, and then she shouted.
"DO YOU WISH TO DIE AS CATTLE, OR AS WARRIORS?"
Her voice was raw, powerful, tearing through the air like a war drum. Pain lanced through her throat, her weakened body screaming in protest, but she did not stop.
"THE CRIMSON SERPENT SECT THINKS WE ARE NOTHING! THEY THINK WE WILL KNEEL, THAT WE WILL WAIT FOR THE EXECUTIONER'S BLADE! BUT I TELL YOU NOW—THEY ARE WRONG!"
Disciples who had slumped in despair now sat straighter. The elders, once filled with silent resignation, looked uncertain. Even her parents—who had seen her as nothing more than their daughter—stared at her with something unreadable in their eyes.
Layla pressed on, forcing her voice to hold firm.
A ruler does not waver. I will not break.
"We have one day before the Crimson Serpent Sect arrives. One day to decide whether we kneel and wait for slaughter or rise and carve our own path!"
Her body trembled from the exertion.
Damn this weak fucking body.
Damn this body for failing her. But she planted her feet, straightened her back, and lifted her chin.
She had been a tyrant ruler once.
She turned to her father, her voice quieter now but no less powerful.
"Give me one day. One day to prepare, to rally, to turn this battlefield into our advantage. If by nightfall tomorrow we are still standing, then you will see what the Silver Lotus Sect is truly capable of."
A heavy silence. Then her father exhaled slowly. "One day."
The decision had been made. Layla clenched her fist at her side.
Now, let's see if I can make them believe it.
Unnoticed by her, her mother turned slightly, whispering to her father
"Meilin… she's never spoken like this before."
Her father did not respond. He only watched his daughter, a shadow of unreadable thoughts behind his gaze.