The bell tower was perfect.
Xiyue found it on her third day of exploring—a crumbling structure at the eastern edge of the Cold Palace, half-hidden behind overgrown trees.
The stairs were mostly intact.
The view from the top was everything.
She could see the main palace. Not close—still a distance—but clear enough.
The corridor leading to the Emperor's private chambers.
The courtyard where servants gathered.
The side entrance where physicians came and went.
Perfect.
She started climbing it every day.
The first day, she just watched.
Servants running. Guards changing shifts. Eunuchs walking with purpose, heads down, never meeting anyone's eyes.
The rhythm of the palace was like a heartbeat—steady, predictable.
She noted the patterns.
Morning: servants bring breakfast.
Mid-morning: officials arrive for audiences.
Afternoon: quieter, fewer people.
Evening: more servants, more activity, preparations for night.
And always, always, the physicians.
They came once a day. Just after the midday meal. Three of them, old men in dark robes, walking with gravity.
They entered the Emperor's chambers.
Stayed anywhere from fifteen minutes to an hour.
Emerged looking grim. Worried. Never relieved.
The system pulsed.
[Observation: Correct. Traditional physicians unable to diagnose chronic poisoning.]
[Recommend continued monitoring.]
The second day, she brought food.
Boar meat wrapped in leaves. Water in a clay jar.
She sat in the bell tower from dawn to dusk, watching, recording patterns in her head.
The physicians came at the same time. Left looking the same.
One of them was limping today.
She noted it.
The servants moved with blank expressions. But one—a young woman, maybe sixteen—kept glancing toward the Cold Palace. Quick looks, nervous.
The food drops. That's her.
She filed that away.
The third day, she saw the blood.
Almost dusk. The physicians had come and gone.
Xiyue was about to climb down when movement caught her eye.
A servant. Carrying a tray. Covered.
Not food—too small.
The servant entered the Emperor's chambers. Emerged ten minutes later.
The tray was empty. But he carried something else—a cloth, white, bundled carefully.
Even from this distance, she could see the stains.
Dark. Spreading.
Blood.
Dark blood meant older blood. Venous, not arterial. Mixed with something—stomach acid, maybe.
Vomitus.
Internal bleeding. Gastric ulcers. Eroded esophagus.
Heavy metal poisoning caused both—the toxins ate away at mucous membranes, created lesions that bled and bled.
[Mission partially complete: Information gathered.]
[Advanced Diagnosis available for activation.]
[Yes — Cost: 50% of current energy.]
Xiyue stared at the screen.
Fifty percent. Half her energy. Half her already-limited strength.
If she did this, she'd be useless for days. Maybe longer. Maybe permanently.
But without it, she couldn't confirm the diagnosis. Couldn't know for sure. Couldn't plan treatment.
The assassins were still out there. Consort Yao was still waiting.
[Time remaining: 51 hours.]
Fifty-one hours to live. Less, if she drained half her energy now.
But if she didn't—if she didn't get the diagnosis—she'd never get close enough to him anyway.
She looked toward the palace. Golden roofs catching the last light.
Somewhere in there, a man was bleeding internally. Alone. Surrounded by people who either wanted him dead or were too afraid to help.
"Activate."
[Advanced Diagnosis activating...]
The world went white.
Pain. Not sharp—diffuse, everywhere.
Her vision blurred.
Her knees buckled.
She grabbed the edge of the bell tower, but her fingers wouldn't hold—
She was falling.
Not far—just onto the wooden platform. But the impact knocked the breath from her lungs.
The world spun. Colors swam.
Somewhere far away, she heard herself making sounds.
[Diagnosis active.]
[Energy level: 49%. 48%. 47%...]
The numbers kept dropping. Her body kept shutting down.
Then nothing.
She woke to darkness.
Cold. Hard wood under her cheek. Stars above—the roof of the bell tower was mostly gone, letting in the night sky.
How long had she been out?
She tried to move. Failed.
Tried again. Managed to roll onto her back.
Every part of her hurt. The dull, deep ache of exhaustion.
[Energy level: 32%.]
[Stabilized. Recommend rest.]
Thirty-two percent. She'd lost almost twenty points. Felt like she'd lost a hundred.
The system answered.
[Advanced Diagnosis active.]
[Target: Ye Rong (Emperor)]
[Diagnosis confirmed: Chronic heavy metal poisoning. Primary toxins: Mercury, Arsenic, Lead. Accumulated over approximately 20 years.]
[Secondary conditions: Gastric ulcers (bleeding). Hepatic stress. Neurological damage (early stage).]
[Estimated time remaining without intervention: 6-8 months.]
Xiyue read the words. Let them sink in.
Six to eight months.
The most powerful man in the empire had less than a year to live.
She lay on the bell tower platform for a long time.
Stars moved overhead. The cold seeped into her bones. But she couldn't move—literally couldn't.
I have to tell him.
Find a way to tell him. To prove I know.
But how?
Walk into his chambers and say "you're being poisoned and I can prove it"? He'd kill her before she finished the sentence.
Unless she waited for the next crisis. When he was vulnerable. When the guards were gone. When she could approach without being stopped.
[Estimated time to next crisis: 3-5 days.]
Three to five days. She could last that long. Barely.
If she rested. If she ate. If the assassins didn't find her first.
If.
Morning came eventually.
Xiyue crawled down from the bell tower. Literally crawled—her legs wouldn't hold her.
She made it to the ground, rested, crawled some more.
The journey back to her kitchen took hours.
She collapsed inside, too weak to even build a fire.
Old Liu found her like that. Late afternoon.
"Girl!" Hands on her face. Worried eyes. "What happened? What did you do?"
Xiyue tried to explain. The words came out slurred, broken.
"Diagnosis... emperor... poison..."
Old Liu's face went pale.
"You went to the palace? You—" She stopped. Looked at Xiyue's face. Whatever she saw there made her stop asking questions.
"Rest," she said finally. "I'll bring food. I'll bring water. You rest."
Xiyue wanted to thank her. Wanted to explain more.
But her eyes were closing, and the darkness was pulling her down again.
Last thing she heard: Old Liu's voice, muttering.
"Stupid girl. Brave, stupid girl."
Then nothing.
She dreamed of the emperor.
Not his face—she'd barely seen it. But his hands. Bandaged. Bleeding. Reaching for something she couldn't see.
In the dream, she took his hands. Stopped the bleeding.
Told him you're poisoned, I can help, let me help.
And in the dream, he looked at her with those red-rimmed eyes and said:
"Why?"
She woke before she could answer.