The Crimson Palace did not feel like a home.
It felt like a cage.
She learned that quickly. Servants walked on silent feet, eyes lowered, vanishing before she could speak. Disciples lingered in the shadows of the corridors, crimson robes whispering against the floor as though the palace itself bled. No one addressed her directly, but all of them watched her.
Watched and waited.
"Like wolves," she muttered under her breath.
"Hyenas," the sword corrected in her mind. "Too cowardly to strike unless he commands it."
She hid her scowl behind the veil of bridal silk they'd forced over her head. Outwardly, she bowed her head, walked slowly, kept her steps delicate and submissive. Inwardly, every nerve screamed.
Obedience was survival. For now.
The Dinner Table
Her first test came that very night.
The villain summoned her to a hall where a long lacquered table glittered with dishes—roasted fowl glazed with honey, jade bowls of fragrant broth, spiced wine the color of rubies.
He sat at the head, crimson robes spilling like blood across the seat. His gaze tracked her as she entered, as sharp and heavy as a blade at her throat.
"Sit," he said.
She lowered herself gracefully to the cushion across from him, hands folded demurely. Inside, her pulse thundered.
He poured wine into two cups. One slid across the table toward her.
A test. Of course.
In the novel, this man poisoned as often as he smiled.
The sword hissed in her skull. "Do not drink. It is laced."
Her lashes lowered. "But if I refuse…"
"Then you insult him. And insult, here, is death."
Her mind raced. She lifted the cup, hands steady, lips curved in a soft smile.
"To my husband," she said, voice clear. Then she tipped the wine—over her shoulder, a subtle spill that vanished into the dark silk pooling at her side. The gesture was small, hidden. But she let the cup brush her lips, just enough to fool the watching eyes.
When she set it down, her pulse still raced, but she smiled faintly.
The villain's lips curved.
"Obedient," he murmured. But the fire in his eyes said he had seen everything.
Whispers in the Dark
That night, alone in her gilded chamber, she collapsed against the cold bedframe, shaking.
"I almost died," she whispered.
"You would have, had you been slower," the sword replied smugly.
She scowled. "Then teach me faster. I need strength. I need cultivation."
The sword purred, amused. "You have no foundation. No roots. Teaching you is like pouring fire into cracked stone."
"Then seal the cracks," she shot back. "You want me alive? You want me to wield you? Then stop laughing at me and help."
Silence stretched. Then, softly, "…Very well."
And just like that, heat spilled from the blade into her chest. Her breath caught. Qi—foreign, searing, alive—flowed into her veins, coiling through her meridians like smoke seeking air.
She gasped, clutching her chest.
"Breathe," the sword commanded. "Guide it. Do not fight it."
She closed her eyes, following its instructions. Slowly, the energy settled, sharp edges softening, until her limbs tingled with something new. Something powerful.
When she opened her eyes, the shadows in the room seemed sharper, colors richer, sounds clearer.
Her first step into cultivation.
A Small Victory
The next morning, attendants brought her to the palace gardens. Disciples whispered behind their sleeves as she passed.
"She survived the ritual?""They say the master favors her already.""She won't last long."
She ignored them.
Instead, she bent over the koi pond at the garden's heart, pretending to admire the blossoms while her reflection stared back.
Not the naive junior sister anymore. Not the office worker she once was. Something else. Someone else.
The sword hummed in her chest, content. "Better. You may yet crawl from worm to serpent."
She smirked faintly at her reflection. "One day, snake. The next, dragon."
The koi scattered at her laugh, rippling the water until her face blurred.
But behind the ripples, she thought she saw another reflection—the villain's, watching from the shadowed balcony above, a faint smile on his lips.
Her victory had been small. A single sip of strength, a single night of survival.
But here, in the Crimson Palace, small victories meant everything.