Three nights.
Three nights of falling asleep with a rock in one hand and the knife in the other.
Three nights of waking at every scratch, every creak, every whisper of wind that sounded too much like footsteps.
Three nights of counting down the hours.
[Time remaining: 58 hours. 57. 56.]
Xiyue had developed a routine.
Wake at dawn. Check the water jar. Boil what was left. Drink mugwort tea while the sun rose.
Search the wall for new offerings—sometimes there were vegetables, sometimes just scraps, but she took it all.
Check on Old Liu's shelter, leave meat when the old woman wasn't looking.
Gather wood. Tend the fire. Eat. Sleep. Repeat.
It was almost peaceful.
Almost.
The fourth night, everything changed.
Xiyue was half-asleep by the dying fire.
The flames had burned down to embers—just enough light to see the door, not enough to attract attention from outside.
Her hand rested on the knife. The rock was tucked beside her thigh.
Normal night. Normal sounds.
Then:
Crunch.
Footsteps.
Not rats—too heavy, too deliberate. Human footsteps, trying to be quiet but failing on the dry leaves and broken stones outside.
Xiyue's eyes snapped open.
She didn't move. Didn't breathe. Just listened.
Crunch. Crunch. Pause.
Two sets. Maybe three.
Moving through the courtyard, slow and careful.
Her hand found the knife. Her heart did that thing—the flutter-skip—and she clenched her teeth.
Not now. Please not now.
The footsteps stopped near her door.
Through the gap in the rotten wood, she saw shadows. Two of them. Dark robes. Moving like they knew this place—like they'd been here before.
A whisper, low but clear in the night silence:
"—sure this is the place?"
"Eunuch said so. The woman was dumped here months ago. She's probably dead by now."
"Then why are we here?"
"To make sure she's dead. Orders from—"
The whisper dropped too low to hear.
But Xiyue didn't need to hear the name.
She knew.
Consort Yao.
The embers crackled. Loud in the silence.
Xiyue pressed herself deeper into the corner, making herself as small as possible.
The knife felt useless against two armed men. The rock felt like a joke.
If they come in, she thought, I go for the eyes. Then the throat. Then I run.
The shadows moved closer to her door.
"—check inside. Quick. Then we report back."
A hand on the door. The rotten wood creaked.
Xiyue's grip tightened on the knife.
I am not dying here, she told herself. I did not survive an earthquake and rats and starvation to get stabbed by some random thugs in a haunted palace.
The door began to open.
And then—
A scream.
Not close. Far away. From the direction of the main palace—a wailing cry that cut through the night like a blade.
Alarm bells followed. Distant shouts. Chaos.
The shadows froze.
"What the—"
"That's the Emperor's alarm. His crisis—it's happening."
"We have to go. Now. If we're caught here—"
"The woman—"
"She's dead. Has to be. No one survives this place this long."
The door creaked shut.
Footsteps running, faster now, retreating toward the main complex.
Silence.
Xiyue stayed frozen for a long time. Minutes. Maybe longer.
The knife stayed in her hand. Her heart eventually stopped trying to escape her chest.
When she finally moved—when she finally believed they were really gone—she crawled to the door and peered through the gap.
Empty courtyard. Moonlight on weeds. No shadows.
They were gone.
She sat with her back against the wall and shook.
Not crying. Just shaking. Adrenaline crash.
The kind that came after surgeries when patients coded and you brought them back and then you had to go stitch up someone else like nothing happened.
They were going to kill me, she thought.
They came here to confirm I was dead. And if I wasn't, they would have made sure.
The system flickered on.
[Threat detected: Assassins (2). Affiliated with Consort Yao.]
[Current enmity: 15% → 25%.]
[Note: Host is now confirmed as alive by proxy. Consort Yao will be informed of failed confirmation.]
Xiyue stared at the words.
Confirmed as alive by proxy.
They hadn't seen her, but they hadn't found a body either. When they reported back—when they said "the shelter was occupied but we couldn't check because of the Emperor's crisis"—Consort Yao would know.
Or suspect.
Either way, the clock had just sped up.
"The Emperor's crisis."
She said it aloud, testing the words.
The alarm. The screams. The chaos that had called the assassins away.
His episodes, the system had said. Toxins. His body rejects them. He's left alone. Vulnerable.
This was her chance.
Her only chance.
[Time remaining: 56 hours.]
Xiyue stood up. Her legs were shaky. Her heart was doing that flutter-thing again.
But she stood.
If I go now—if I go during the crisis—the guards will be dismissed. He'll be alone. I can get close. I can help. I can—
[Warning: Extreme risk. Mortality probability: 99.8%.]
"I know."
[Warning: Host is not medically equipped for this intervention.]
"I'm a surgeon. I've handled worse."
[Warning: Host's own physical condition is critical.]
"I know!"
The silence after her shout was deafening.
Xiyue took a breath. Then another.
I know, she thought, quieter. I know it's dangerous. I know I might die.
But I'm going to die anyway. In fifty-six hours. Unless I do something.
The system didn't respond.
She packed quickly.
Mugwort leaves—dried, crushed, ready to brew. A strip of boar meat for energy. The knife. The rock. The red handkerchief, because leaving it felt wrong.
At the door, she paused.
Old Liu. She should tell Old Liu.
But there was no time. And if she died—when she died—maybe it was better that the old woman didn't know.
I'll come back, she told herself. I'll come back with the emperor's energy or I won't come back at all.
She stepped into the night.
The path to the main palace was longer than she remembered. Darker.
The minimap guided her—blue lines showing the way through abandoned courtyards, past collapsed buildings, toward the wall that separated the Cold Palace from everything else.
There had to be a gate. A door. Something.
She found it.
Small, half-hidden behind overgrown vines, but unlocked. Because why lock the entrance to a place where people went to die?
Xiyue pushed through.
And stopped.
The other side was noise.
Torches. Running servants. Guards everywhere, but not organized—chaotic, panicked, shouting over each other.
In the distance, the main palace blazed with light, every window glowing.
And from somewhere inside, a sound that made her blood run cold.
A scream.
Not pain—not exactly. Something worse. Primal. Animal.
The sound of a man fighting something inside himself and losing.
The Emperor, she thought. That's him.
Her heart seized. Skipped. Kept going.
She moved forward.
No one noticed her.
Why would they? She was a ghost—dirty robes, hollow cheeks, moving through shadows like she belonged there.
Servants ran past without looking. Guards focused on the main building, on the source of the screams, on anything but the thin woman slipping through their perimeter.
The minimap pulsed.
[Target location: Main Hall. 200 meters.]
[Warning: High concentration of guards near entrance.]
[Alternative route detected: Servant's passage. East side.]
She found the passage.
Narrow, dark, clearly not meant for anyone important. It led her through kitchens and storage rooms, past terrified servants huddled in corners, up a stairwell that opened onto—
The main hall.
Or rather, a side door to the main hall. Cracked open. Just enough to see inside.
The room was huge.
Throne at the far end. Tapestries on the walls. Scattered furniture—tables overturned, chairs broken, a vase shattered on the marble floor.
And in the center, a man.
On his knees. Back to her. Shoulders heaving.
He wasn't screaming anymore. Just shaking. Violent tremors that racked his whole body.
His hands—she could see them now—were bloody. Clawing at the floor. At himself.
Toxins, she thought. Seizure activity. Autonomic instability. If he doesn't get help soon—
The door on the far side burst open.
A woman entered—beautiful, red robes, fury on her face.
"Out!" the woman screamed at the guards. "All of you! He doesn't want you here!"
The guards hesitated. Then fled.
The woman approached the shaking man. Reached for him—
He snarled. Swung blindly. Missed.
The woman stumbled back, fear flickering across her perfect face.
Then she straightened, composed herself, and walked out.
Leaving him alone.
That's her, Xiyue realized. That's Consort Yao.
The door slammed shut.
Silence. Just the man's ragged breathing.
Xiyue's hand touched the knife at her waist.
Now or never.
She pushed the side door open and stepped inside.