The Bai Shuang Hua Pavilion no longer felt tranquil. Crimson paper lanterns swung softly, silk curtains fluttered in the evening breeze, and plum blossoms blanketed the courtyard in pale petals—yet the pavilion remained steeped in a quiet, oppressive gloom. No matter how lavish the decorations were, the beauty felt empty, or more clearly...lifeless.
Yan Ling lay reclined on a low couch beside the window, his spine stretched out while his fingers loosely held a book on the history of Wei Bing. The pages were open before him, yet his gaze was distant — his mind trapped in the swirling, unsettling thoughts that had recently begun to terrify him.
When he had first awakened in this body, he had assumed that the General's soul was either dead, displaced, or had transmigrated elsewhere just like his own. Back then, he had believed this body now belonged to him, even if its memories were not truly his.
