The bell rang sharply, slicing through the low murmur of the classroom.
Xin Ying lifted her head from her lesson plan, her expression calm but alert. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, illuminating drifting dust and the neat rows of desks below. The students settled slowly, chairs scraping against the floor as notebooks were opened and pens were readied.
"Good afternoon," she said, her voice clear and steady.
A chorus of greetings followed.
Xin Ying turned toward the blackboard and began writing. The chalk tapped rhythmically, the familiar sound grounding her. Teaching had always been like this—predictable, controlled, safe. Every question had an answer. Every problem had a solution.
Or so she believed.
As she spoke, her eyes swept across the room, a habit formed from years of standing before restless minds. Most students were attentive. Some were whispering quietly. A few were barely holding back yawns.
Then she saw it.
Third row. By the window.
A girl sat with her head lowered, shoulders tense, her hands hidden beneath the desk. She wasn't writing. She wasn't listening.
She was reading.
Xin Ying paused mid-sentence.
The silence spread subtly, like ripples across water.
"Continue reading page forty-two," she instructed calmly, though her gaze never left the student.
Her steps were measured as she walked down the aisle. Each click of her heels echoed softly. The student stiffened, eyes darting up in alarm.
"May I see what you're holding?" Xin Ying asked.
The girl hesitated, fingers tightening around the book as if it were a lifeline. After a moment, she surrendered it.
Xin Ying glanced down.
The cover was dark, textured, as though it had been handled for years. The title was written in bold, archaic lettering:
The Ruler of the Past
Something about it made her pause.
"This will be returned after class," Xin Ying said, placing the book against her side. Her tone allowed no argument.
The student nodded quickly, relief and fear mixing in her eyes.
Xin Ying returned to the front of the room, though the book felt strangely heavy in her hand.
For the remainder of the lesson, she could not stop thinking about it.
That night, rain fell in a gentle, relentless rhythm.
Xin Ying unlocked her apartment door and stepped inside, kicking off her shoes. The day clung to her like a weight she could not quite shake. She placed her bag on the bed and reached inside, searching for her phone.
Her fingers brushed paper.
She frowned.
Pulling it out, she froze.
The book.
"…How did this get in here?" she murmured.
She should have laughed it off. She should have put it back and returned it the next day.
Instead, curiosity stirred—quiet, persistent.
She sat on the edge of the bed and opened the first page.
The story began with a girl born to the soil.
A farm girl with rough hands and sharp eyes. She worked from dawn to dusk, yet noticed what others missed—disputes that didn't add up, crimes hidden beneath everyday life. People came to her for answers, even when they were ashamed to admit it.
Xin Ying read slowly, drawn in despite herself.
Then came the day of the delivery.
Vegetables stacked high. The road quiet.
Two men emerged from the trees.
Chains. A blow to the head. Darkness.
Xin Ying's brow furrowed as the girl was sold, passed from hand to hand, until towering palace walls swallowed her whole.
A slave.
Scrubbing floors. Carrying water. Bowing her head.
Yet she endured.
One day, she was assigned to serve the Empress.
Xin Ying's breath caught.
The Empress of the Southern Lands—cold, distant, untouchable. The first woman to rule a kingdom that did not wish to be ruled by her.
The girl noticed it first.
A man standing too close.
A hand shifting beneath a sleeve.
Instinct took over.
She lunged.
Steel clashed. Guards rushed in.
The assassin was caught.
The girl knelt in blood-stained marble, her heart pounding.
The Empress looked down at her.
And smiled.
From that moment on, everything changed.
Promotion.
Trust.
Training.
The girl rose from slave to commander, standing at the Empress's side—beautiful in strength, handsome in bearing.
Whispers spread.
Admiration.
Fear.
Hatred.
The Ling Clan moved in the shadows.
Xin Ying's fingers tightened on the page as the plot darkened.
Political schemes. Poisoned smiles. Secret meetings.
Then came the night.
A blade, driven deep into the girl's chest.
Blood soaking the palace floor.
The Empress screaming her name.
Death.
Xin Ying closed the book slowly, her heart heavy.
"…That's it?" she whispered. "That's how it ends?"
Exhaustion washed over her like a tide. She lay back, the book slipping from her grasp, rain still whispering against the glass.
Sleep took her.
Cold pierced her bones.
Xin Ying gasped, her eyes flying open.
Darkness pressed in from all sides.
The air smelled of damp stone and rust.
Her wrists burned.
Chains.
She tried to sit up—and cried out.
"This isn't a dream," she realized.
A low chuckle echoed nearby. "New one?"
Xin Ying's breath hitched.
She looked down.
Her hands were slender, scarred, unfamiliar. Her body felt different—stronger, leaner.
A puddle reflected her face.
The face of the farm girl.
The slave.
The woman fated to die.
Memory slammed into her chest.
The novel.
The ending.
Xin Ying clenched her fists, chains rattling.
"…So," she murmured hoarsely, "this is the past I've been dragged into."
Her gaze hardened.
"If this story already has a ruler," she said quietly, "then I will rewrite it."
And in the darkness of the cell, fate shifted.
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Thank you for reading my novel