From the perspective of Zhuge Yui Lan
An entire day had passed since I awoke.
A whole day… and still, I could barely believe it.
The light had changed many times since then — from the pale gold of dawn to the silver-blue of dusk — yet inside me, time felt motionless.
Even now, with my feet resting firmly on the silk carpet and my body once again dressed in the robes that once belonged to Princess Zhuge, a quiet fear lingered in every breath I took.
The fear of falling asleep.
Of opening my eyes only to find myself back on the damp rocks of a cave, surrounded by cold and darkness.
Of waking alone — orphaned once again from everything I had ever loved.
Of remembering that my family was gone… and that the world I saw now was nothing but a cruel illusion, sustained by a fragment of longing.
But no.
No matter how hard that fear pressed against my chest, something inside me knew — with the same certainty the heart recognizes its own blood — that this was real.
And as absurd as it sounded, it was the only explanation possible for what was happening to me.
I had gone back in time.
I was once again Princess Zhuge Yui Lan.
The empire, the clan, the island — everything was intact.
The wind still carried the faint scent of salt from the frozen sea, the palace still breathed pure Qi through its walls, and the distant sound of jade bells marked the hours with the same serene rhythm as before.
And for the first time in so long, I felt something I thought was lost.
Happiness.
A warm, pulsing happiness — the same kind I'd seen in the eyes of patients when an old wound finally healed.
But now that happiness had a name.
And a breathtaking form.
Wushuang Tianmei.
My mother.
In my most sincere opinion, a woman entirely worthy of her name.
She stood by the balcony of the inner hall, and for a moment, it seemed as if the sun itself had chosen to stay only to touch her.
Her hair — long, golden, and radiant like strands of celestial light — was arranged in an intricate style, held by white jade pins and tiny spiritual pearls that shimmered in soft shades of blue and gold. A few loose strands framed her shoulders, swaying gently each time the wind passed.
Her eyes, blue like light reflecting off ice, were calm and deep — yet carried a strength impossible to ignore. The kind of gaze that could both comfort and command an entire empire.
Her skin, fair and translucent, seemed woven from the same essence as the spiritual flowers that bloomed beneath moonlight. No imperfection, no trace of age.
Only purity.
Only grace.
She wore a spiritual silk dress in shades of white and deep green, adorned with silver threads forming celestial lotus patterns along the sleeves. Her waist was cinched by a jade sash interlaced with delicate golden chains that chimed softly with every movement.
Around her neck hung a crystal necklace with a bright blue gem at its center — a rare spiritual stone I remembered seeing only in the jewelry bestowed upon the matriarchs of our clan.
From her ears dangled matching teardrops of the same crystal, wrapped in fine threads of gold, reflecting the light in a way that was almost hypnotic.
She didn't walk — she glided.
Every step measured, every gesture a choreography of destiny.
Wushuang Tianmei wasn't merely beautiful.
She was the embodiment of elegance and silent power.
And now… she was here.
Breathing.
Alive.
Real.
As I watched her, a soft memory surfaced — the touch of her hand through my hair, the sound of her voice calling me "my little Lan."
For a moment, I forgot fear, forgot time, forgot fate.
I simply allowed myself to feel.
Because, for the first time in millennia of silence, the world felt whole again.
And yet, my mind couldn't just accept it — couldn't simply rest.
Even with the familiar scent of incense burning softly in the jade holder, even with the sounds of the palace returning to life — the distant creak of doors, the measured footsteps of guards, the gentle voices of maids conversing in the corridors — there was a constant weight deep in my chest.
And though I was the only one who knew it, the truth was undeniable: that peaceful, lovely, calm life I had enjoyed throughout the day… was numbered.
And I knew it.
I knew it as clearly as I felt the warmth of sunlight pouring through the balcony and striking the spiritual fabrics hanging on the walls.
I knew it as one who had walked this path before, who had already felt the shards of an unforgiving destiny pierce the heart.
If I chose to live as I once did — carefree, believing the world would remain stable and kind, believing nothing could reach my home so distant from the rest of the world — then the future would repeat itself once more.
I could see that repetition as if carved in water:
The empire collapsing.
The island — home to all those I loved — reduced to ruins in the frozen northern sea.
My family torn apart.
And my mother — so beautiful, so serene — becoming once again a lifeless body in my arms while I wept in despair over the cruel fate that had fallen upon us.
Each memory was a blade.
Each memory brought back the cold of snow clinging to the torn fabric of my dress, the weight of her body in my arms, the metallic taste of despair on my tongue.
It was something I simply could not allow to happen again.
It was something I would have to prevent — no matter the cost.
And so, as the light of dusk filtered through the curtains, casting uneven shapes across the floor of my room — patterns that looked like prison bars and escape paths at once — a single question echoed in my mind, over and over, without finding an answer.
How could I change the future,
and save everyone I love
this time?
The echo of that question was louder than any sound.
It rose like a tide, returning again and again — higher, stronger, more urgent — until the very air felt heavy with silence.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.
My hands rested on my lap, cold despite the room's warmth.
The question returned once more — soft, relentless, like a drop falling on the same spot:
How?
And there was no answer.
Not yet.