Mingyao's body felt heavy, her limbs weighted. She longed to sleep, but the rush of wind against her skin kept her from slipping into unconsciousness.
The sky above was the same bright shade as the mortal realm's daytime—one sun blazing in a vast stretch of blue. She drifted through clouds as if swimming in water—though it wasn't her doing the flying, but the great whale carrying her by the folds of her robes.
The breeze brushed against her, soft and real, almost convincing her that she'd returned to the mortal world. But deep down, she knew she was still in the nether realm.
The whale continued to swim through the sea of clouds, but soon Mingyao saw an inexplicable sight. Up ahead, the endless expanse began to blur, and images—unfamiliar, no, familiar—started to take shape within the mist.
Everything was hazy, like a dream struggling to recall itself, fragments of memory drifting in and out of focus. The gentle rise and fall through the clouds and the rush of wind against her cheeks gradually faded. In their place came a breath of air so fresh and calm it soothed her—so unlike the eerie stillness of the cave and the nether realm to that point.
The whale let out another deep, resonant call, a song that echoed through the sky. Then everything went white. Mingyao shut her eyes, and when she opened them again, streams of color flooded her vision. As her eyes adjusted, the light settled—forming a single, vivid image before her.
The scent of the sea filled her nose as the silhouette of a young woman beside her began to take form. Her ears caught faint screams in the distance—and beneath them, the melodious yet chilling voice of her aunt.
It was the scene from when Princess Taiping had dragged Mingyao into the recruitment for an immortal disciple. But before she could fully grasp what was happening, the familiar call of the whale echoed once more. The vision shattered into fragments, and a new one began to piece itself together.
Heat seared her skin as the air turned thick and charred. Her body trembled under an unbearable pressure, and a fiery pain ignited in her abdomen—right where her dantian lay. When her eyes flew open, she was met with a sight she knew all too well: the blazing crimson flames of the phoenix.
"You cannot run. You cannot hide."
The words reverberated through her very being, making her hands tremble. Within that trembling, she sensed something cold forming, creeping outward—but before it could take shape, the dreamlike sequence shattered, giving way to a new scene.
The fierce flames that engulfed Mingyao faded, and the scorched air grew calm. A tranquil stillness settled around her, wrapping her in peace.
Clouds drifted lazily in every direction, and before her stood a weiqi board suspended in the mist.
"Do you believe in gods?" a smooth serene and calm voice asked as Mingyao lifted her eyes to be met by a familiar youthful face it was her master.
"The game before you is shifting and changing, not due to any logical pattern, but because heaven dictates it."
Her master continued.
The memory unfolded once more, vivid and alive.
"So, do you believe in gods?"
"Gods?... No, I don't believe in gods," Mingyao replied instinctively, as though reciting lines from a play.
Her master smiled. "What if I told you they exist? That this board, this game—your very life—is written by forces beyond your comprehension?"
"What do you mean?"
"Your life, your memories, your struggles, your relationships—they are all threads woven by an unseen hand. A story crafted by pen and paper."
"You speak in riddles, Master."
He remained composed, his voice calm. "Just like the game before you, just like this tribulation itself, your life is at the mercy of powers far beyond your understanding."
"Do you mean... fate?"
"You may think of it that way," he said softly. "But soon, all will be revealed."
Then, the whale's call echoed once again, shattering the scene like glass.
Mingyao was thrown back into confusion. What was happening to her? Were these visions her memories—revived by the whale's power? Was it influencing her, searching for something? Watching everything with her?
But before she could think any further, the next scene was already taking shape.
The air grew still as golden pillars rose into the clouds and banners rippled like tongues of flame. A majestic palace took shape around her. Mingyao was back in her male form, kneeling in a posture of reverence.
Slowly, she lifted her head—and her breath caught at the sight before her. A familiar face.
Something deep within her heart stirred, and a rush of emotions surged up from the depths of her soul.
Mother.
The word echoed in her mind, though her lips dared not utter it.
"For your birthday, Your Majesty—the Mother of the Nation—I have prepared a fitting gift," Mingyu said, presenting a bowl of fried potatoes.
A warm, savory fragrance rose from the steaming dish, filling the grand hall with its comforting aroma.
Mingyu caught a flicker of something rare—an almost forgotten glimmer of his mother's childish curiosity, the playful side she kept carefully hidden behind her regal composure.
Just like him, Empress Li Zhen loved good food, poetry, and tinkering with peculiar creations. In fact, it wasn't far-fetched to say Mingyu had inherited most of his mother's traits, including her intelligence. The only things he might have inherited from his father, Emperor Zhao Jiancheng, were his martial prowess—and perhaps the immortal curse that plagued every generation of rulers. Sibling rivalries and the struggle for power that haunted their bloodline for centuries, passing from father to son, emperor to heir.
"Your Highness, Crown Prince—don't you think your gift is rather lacking?"
A soft, pubescent male voice rose from the side of the grand hall, reverberating through the vast space. "Her Majesty the Empress, Mother of the Nation, deserves the finest offerings—especially from her own son. While others present rare treasures—exquisite silks, brocade, rouge, fine ink, and other precious items—you offer... a mere bowl of food. Where is your filial piety? Your reverence for her station?"
Mingyu ignored the remark, keeping his gaze fixed on the Empress. "Your Majesty," he said evenly, "I wish to present a poem."
The Empress regarded him in silence, her expression neutral. Beside her, the Emperor turned to glance at her briefly before addressing Mingyu.
"Well then, don't keep us waiting," he said, his voice resonating through the hall.
Mingyu stepped forward—slow, composed—before he began to recite.
Fields lie barren under Heaven's sigh,Plows rest cold where spring once sang.Dust veils the furrows, hunger gnaws the plain,The wind bears children's cries across the land.
Then came a gift, humble yet divine,Unearthed gold from the mountain's heart.A root of life, steadfast through frost and drought,Its fragrance warmed the winter earth anew.
Mother of the Nation beheld and smiled,Her mercy spread like rain upon dry fields.Let this feed ten thousand homes,So none shall know the ache of famine again.
Now that Mingyao thought about it, this must have been what had deepened the Emperor's already lingering sense of inadequacy.
At the time, her mother had assigned Mingyu the task of finding a foreign crop that could thrive in poor soil, endure the harsh winters, and provide sustenance for the people.
In his poem, Mingyu alluded to the Empress's previous efforts to introduce famine-resistant crops—millet from the north, buckwheat from the west—and now, a new plant that might once again ease the burden of winter hunger and strengthen the empire's food reserves. He'd been following his mother's passion for this particular crop, one she often spoke about. Only after tasting it himself did he understamd why.
But looking back now, Mingyao realized how easily that moment could have been taken as an insult—an unintentional reminder of the Emperor's shortcomings, as though his wife was the more capable ruler all along.
"Hahaha, well done! It was a fine poem. Our Empress truly is the Mother of the Nation."
The Emperor's laughter echoed through the hall. His gaze fell on the steaming bowl, and Mingyu, slightly hunched, turned toward it before carefully presenting it to the high table. The Emperor gave a small gesture, and a eunuch stepped forward to lift the offering.
"My cooking skills may be far inferior to Your Majesty's, but I hope it will still be to your liking," Mingyu said respectfully.
The Empress smiled, nodding slightly before unconsciously reaching for the plate. She began to eat—at first composed, then with a sudden, childlike eagerness as she savored the flavor. For a fleeting moment, her regal mask slipped, revealing the warmth beneath. She muttered something indistinct under her breath before her expression quickly returned to its usual serenity, as though the moment of vulnerability had never happened.
"Thank you, Crown Prince, for your thoughtful gift," she said gracefully.
The Emperor glanced at her, a faint smile touching his lips. "Since my Empress is pleased, Crown Prince, do you have any wishes you would like fulfilled?"
Mingyu paused, thinking. There had been something he once wished to ask his father's help for—but after a brief moment of reflection, he shook his head.
"No, Your Majesty. Celebrating the Mother of the Nation is the greatest gift I could ever ask for."
Just as they were about to conclude the gifting ceremony, a messenger's arrival was announced. It was a late delivery—a gift from the Princess Royal, along with her apologies for once again being unable to attend this year's celebration.
Mingyu noticed Ye Huan, the Prime Minister's daughter, shift uneasily in her seat. The subtle movement caught his attention, and his mind briefly drifted—he didn't remember this moment happening before. Pushing the thought aside, he refocused on the messenger.
On the presented tray rested a book and a peculiar metal device—circular in shape and gold in color, composed of layered rings etched with intricate indentations and inscriptions.
"Ha!" the Empress exclaimed with a soft laugh. "What a gift—she does enjoy giving me work, doesn't she?"
"Indeed, my Empress," the Emperor replied with a faint smile, signaling for a eunuch to bring the gift forward. "Please, bear with my sister's eccentricities."
"Too late for that," the Empress said cheekily, extending her right hand toward the gifts before her. She flipped through the book briefly, then fiddled with the circular, layered metal device, her curiosity piqued. Just as the Emperor was about to bring the gifting session to a close and proceed to the next segment, a sudden voice interrupted.
"May His Majesty the Emperor live for a thousand years, and may Her Majesty the Empress endure for a thousand years!"
A young woman had risen abruptly, lowering herself into a proper bow. The unexpected interruption caught many off guard.
"Young Lady Ye," the Emperor said, his tone measured, "it seems you have something to add."
"Yes, Your Majesty," Ye Huan replied, her voice steady though her hands trembled slightly. "Today, many—both from the court, the harem, and even among the common folk—have gathered to celebrate Her Majesty's birthday. I know countless gifts have already been presented, but apart from my household's offering, I wish to bestow a personal gift upon Her Majesty."
Ye Huan kept her head lowered, daring not to look at anyone. The pressure in the hall was suffocating—every breath heavy with tension.
"Is that so?" the Emperor asked, his expression unreadable.
"Yes, Your Majesty," she replied. "I was inspired by the Crown Prince's efforts toward famine relief and have decided to open a series of granaries dedicated in honor of Her Majesty the Empress."
A brief silence followed, thick enough to make the air feel still.
"How virtuous of you, Lady Ye," the Emperor said at last. His tone was gentle, but something sharp hid beneath the surface. "My dear Prime Minister has raised such a lovely daughter."
Mingyao's heart sank. She already knew what was about to unfold. She wanted to stop it—to alter the course of this memory—but she couldn't. Every time she tried, she found herself watching from outside her own body, the scene replaying like a drama she could neither pause nor change, only shifting in and out of her own perspective at random.
"I am still lacking in many ways, Your Majesty," Ye Huan continued. "That is why I wish to learn from a noble and graceful lady such as Her Majesty the Empress."
And there it was—her move.
The Emperor let out a short, amused chuckle. "My dear Empress is indeed noble and knowledgeable. How about you join the family, then? You could learn from her more closely."
"You jest, Your Majesty," Ye Huan said quickly, bowing low. "It would be most inappropriate of me to presume such a thing. His Highness the Crown Prince already has a betrothed, and I would never dare to defy your decree. Your words are worth gold, Your Majesty—I merely wish to learn from Her Majesty's virtue."
"I see..." the Emperor murmured, his tone distant.
"Hahaha!" The Prime Minister's laughter broke the tension. "Your Majesty, do not mind my daughter's words. She simply idolizes Her Royal Majesty the Empress!"
"It's all in good fun," the Emperor said, smiling faintly. "Now, shall we move on to the next segment?"
Mingyu's heart raced as the next segment of the ceremony was announced. His mother's death, the dangers that would soon befall his sister, and the many predicaments he would face—all of it began here, with his mother's famous ritual.
Each year on her birthday, the Empress would request that all palace maids who reached the age of twenty be released from service and granted a pension to begin new lives. She called it her gift of freedom—a gesture of gratitude for their loyalty. For fifteen years, this tradition had continued without fail, though not without the occasional mishap of intrigue or subtle resistance from the court.
But this year was different.
This particular ceremony was steeped in schemes and intrigue, with hidden factions aligning in the shadows. Many who had long opposed Mingyu found new fuel for their resentment after Ye Huan's bold display earlier. Neutral parties were forced to take sides, for if the Crown Prince were to secure an alliance with the Prime Minister through marriage, his position would become unshakable.
And the one most unsettled by this growing tension was none other than the Emperor himself. He had watched as the Empress's influence grew stronger with each passing year—and with it, his fear. If her power continued to rise, he would soon find his own grip on the throne slipping beyond his reach.
"Your Highness, we need to move to the next area," a soft, familiar voice called. It was Li Xiulan.
Mingyao's thoughts reeled. Li Xiulan… in the present, she hadn't seen or spoken to her in so long. And the phoenix—was that truly her, or just another mirage? Then another realization struck her: Li Xiulan was nearly twenty. That meant she would soon be released from service.
A pang of loss stirred in Mingyao's chest. Li Xiulan had been by her side for as long as she could remember—almost like an elder sister. The thought of losing her felt like a quiet ache, but it was quickly tempered by reason. If she truly saw Li Xiulan as family, then it was only right to let her live her own life.
The severance ceremony began soon after. One by one, the maids who had reached the age of twenty were called forward to receive their pensions and their freedom in recognition of years of service.
Of course, not all were released—those serving members of the royal court or the imperial harem often remained under their patrons' care. But those directly under the Empress's household, and the palace maids who fell within her domain rather than the Emperor's, were granted their freedom that day.
The ceremony continued splendidly, but Mingyao—now in Mingyu's body—kept trying to focus on one particular maid, the one she knew would later trigger the avalanche of events to come. Yet her body refused to move differently. It was still only a memory, and she was bound to its script, unable to change a single line.
Before long, the severance ceremony concluded. Nearly two hundred maids were released, each given a pension to begin anew. Soon after, the Empress would depart for her annual recruitment journey—searching the land for impoverished families and orphaned children, especially young girls, to fill the vacancies left behind. But before that, she would always hold a festival for the common folk—a celebration of her people and of life itself. It was one of the many reasons she was so dearly loved.
As the midday sun began its descent, the sky blazed with shades of amber and gold. The city pulsed with energy, alive in festival spirit.
Garlands of fresh flowers hung from every doorway and balcony—bright marigolds, cherry blossoms, and pale white lilies spilling color across the streets. The air was thick with the scent of baked sweets and honeyed wine. Children darted between the crowds clutching ribbons and paper charms, their laughter ringing like little bells.
Musicians played in the open squares—flutes, strings, and hand drums weaving melodies through the air. Dancers in flowing robes moved gracefully, their long sleeves catching the sunlight like rippling silk. Stalls brimmed with offerings for all who passed: carved charms, loaves of good-luck bread, steaming cups of fragrant tea poured freely for traveler and noble alike.
From time to time, cheers rose as storytellers recounted old tales—of harvests saved, villages rebuilt, and kindness rekindled where despair once reigned. The people spoke the Empress's name with affection. Even the guards stationed along the streets wore easy smiles.
At the heart of the festival, an enormous tapestry unfurled, depicting a sunrise over fields of golden wheat. Beneath it, a children's choir sang—soft, pure voices rising toward the lanterns drifting upward like slow, glowing stars.
By then, Mingyu had already returned to his quarters to prepare for the evening's celebrations—from the soldiers' memorial to the commoners' gift raffle. Yet he knew his mother well. Just as she had done in years past, she would surely sneak out into the city. Though she was the Empress, a full-grown woman, she still carried the mischievous heart of a child. Mingyu could almost hear himself sighing, just as he had that day.
"Shadow, are you there?" Mingyu's voice cut through the silence.
From the darkness, a slender figure emerged—a woman with white hair, dressed in garments that shimmered like moonlight. Her eyes, a piercing shade of blue, seemed to glow faintly in the dimness. Though her presence was striking, the shadows cloaked her, blurring the edges of her beauty into mystery.
Yue Ying's face was as expressionless as ever."I am here, Young Master," she said softly.
"How secure is the area?"
"There has been some movement," she replied, "but the Pavilion has already taken care of it."
Mingyu paused, his brow furrowing. "What of the other matter?"
"Not yet, Young Master."
He fell silent for a long moment, lost in thought. Then, finally, he spoke again."I understand. Keep watch for anything suspicious."
"Yes, Young Master," Yue Ying said, bowing slightly as she prepared to depart, the conversation seemingly at its end.
But before she could fade back into the shadows, Mingyu spoke once more."And Yue Ying… thank you—for putting up with me. The Empress enjoyed the potatoes you found. I promise, I'll help you recover your memories and uncover the truth about your past."
The cold, stoic woman hesitated only for a breath before replying, "It is my duty, Young Master." Then, without another word, she vanished into the darkness.
In that moment, Mingyao felt an overwhelming urge to weep in frustration. She longed to cry out to Yue Ying, to give her the knowledge that might avert the coming horror—but no matter how desperately she tried, she remained bound to the same script, reliving the memory as a suffocating helplessness closed around her.
The scene shifted once more, and dread welled up inside her. It was the memory she feared most—her mother's death before her very eyes. She saw again how her father had twisted the tragedy into leverage against her, how Ye Huan had stealthily poisoned him soon after. The images pulsed and flickered like a nightmare she couldn't escape.
Just as the wish-granting ceremony began to take shape, Mingyao heard the whale's call again. The memory fractured and dissolved into shimmering fragments, fading into nothing.
The heavy emotions that had been pressing on her chest finally broke loose, spilling out as silent tears. Yet with them came a strange relief. She didn't want to relive that moment—didn't have the strength to.
It seems the whale noticed my emotional fluctuations… and gave me a reprieve, Mingyao thought, taking a deep breath. Slowly, she calmed herself.
And then, a new scene began to take form.
When she opened her eyes again, moonlight sliced through the canopy above. Trees swayed like dancers in a trance. Crickets sang.
She looked down at herself—at the soft, small hands before her.
This…
He crouched low, searching the ground for footprints, anything to orient himself. He had to find the main path. A sign. Maybe he could make his way back to civilization.
The earth trembled beneath him.
His head snapped up, heart pounding. The vibrations were growing stronger.
Leaves whipped past him in sudden gusts. From between the trees, a battle revealed itself—no, a storm of force and fury masquerading as two human forms.
It was a scene Mingyao remembered recently—a battle between a man and a woman wielding unimaginable strength.
Immortal cultivators? she wondered.
She watched as they fought, their strikes reshaping the forest itself. Mountains shifted, stars trembled, the world bent to their will.
Is this the power I'll one day wield if I continue on the path to immortality? Mingyao asked herself, though she let the memory unfold without interfering.
Then, suddenly, a moment in the scene jolted her attention.
A younger Xiulan crouched in front of him, her face pale but fierce. She whispered something he couldn't hear.
Then the trees screamed.
They moved, like serpents uncaged. Mingyu turned—and saw the woman again. Her eyes locked onto his. Cold. Ancient. Furious.
Xiulan leapt in front of him.
The trees pierced through her before Mingyu could cry out. Her body jerked. Blood bloomed in the moonlight. She didn't scream. She just looked at him—terrified. Protecting him.
Then she was gone.
The scream died in his throat.
Mingyao's attention sharpened, drawn to the fierce woman who commanded the forest and shook the very earth. There was something hauntingly familiar about her—her movements, her aura, even the shape of her face. She bore a striking resemblance to Mingyao's aunt.
Mingyao tried to focus, to see the woman's features more clearly, but the image wavered and blurred. Am I overthinking this? she wondered.
The man, however, she recognized at once—it was her master. What had once been a hazy memory now came sharply into focus. After her visit to Lady Gao's residence and the strange events of that day, everything aligned: his figure, his actions, the moment she became his disciple. She remembered his strange abilities—the ones he had used to save Xiulan. But the woman—she still couldn't place her.
Yet now, with the image of her aunt in mind, everything began to click. Yes, Mingyao thought, the woman must be my aunt. That would explain everything. It became apparent then that her master must also be an immortal cultivator.
As Mingyao's thoughts whirled, the whale's call echoed once more, and the scene dissolved, giving way to another. The sound of crying filled the air, mingled with the scent of incense and the faint tang of amniotic fluid. Feet shuffled around her. Mingyao looked down—her hands were tiny, fragile, the hands of an infant. She felt warm, slick, and gently caressed, as though someone were cleansing her anew.
"Your Majesty, congratulations — you have twins, a boy and a girl!"
A man hurried over, his face alight with joy, to look at the two newborns swaddled in silk. As the scene unfolded, realization struck Mingyao — this was her birth.
The man gently lifted the infants and carried them to the exhausted woman resting on the bed.
"Your Majesty, look — twins! What shall we name them?" he asked, his voice filled with awe and excitement.
The woman looked pale and drained, her hair clinging to her temples, but even in her fatigue she radiated grace. With the little strength she could muster, she raised herself slightly and spoke softly.
"We must consult the Imperial Master first, my empress. Please, call him in."
"Right away, your majesty."
The man turned to the servants and gestured for them to clear the room. Moments later, he returned with two figures — a man and a woman.
The pair approached the bedside and bowed.
"Greetings, Grand Preceptor. Royal Sister," the woman said.
"Greetings to you as well, Your Majesty," replied the Grand Preceptor. "This is an auspicious day indeed."
Mingyao's heart tightened. That voice — she recognized it. Her eyes darted toward the man, trying to confirm what she already knew deep inside, but she couldn't move.
"Indeed," the empress murmured weakly.
"Your predicament will finally be resolved," the Grand Preceptor said calmly. "Your souls will return to their rightful places and cease their shifting."
"That's good to hear," she said with relief.
"What of our children?" the emperor asked anxiously. "Will they be safe?"
"There is no need to worry, Your Majesty. It will be... well"
"It will be...well?" the emperor pressed, unease creeping into his tone. "What do you mean?"
The Grand Preceptor's faint smile didn't reach his eyes as he turned to glance at the princess royal beside him.
"While congratulations are in order," he said, "a difficult choice must now be made."
"A… difficult choice?" the emperor asked, his expression hardening. "What do you mean, Grand Master?"
"As you know, the child born of you two carries a wisp of divinity—one that has caused a host of strange phenomena: the shifting of your souls, the irregular seasons, and the unnatural flourishing of flora."
"Yes," the empress whispered. "You said that once the divine child was born, all would return to balance."
"Indeed," he replied gravely. "But there is a complication. You did not bear one child of divinity — you bore two. The divine essence is divided between them. To stabilize it, the two halves must be made whole again."
The emperor's face paled. "What do you mean, made whole?"
The Grand Preceptor's voice lowered, solemn and unyielding.
"One of the twins must die so the other may live. If not, both will perish before dawn tomorrow."
Silence crushed the room.
"You can't be serious," the emperor said, disbelief and horror etched across his face.
"Is there no other way?" the empress pleaded, her voice trembling.
The Grand Preceptor's eyes softened with sorrow, but he shook his head.
The emperor turned desperately toward the woman. "Jie!" he cried, anguish breaking through.
But she too shook her head. "It is the only way."
"Don't think of it as killing a child," the princess royal said gently. "Think of it as reuniting two halves of one soul. The lost twin will live on within the other."
The silence that followed was unbearable.
At last, the emperor — dressed in robes heavy with gold embroidery — drew in a shuddering breath.
"If we have to choose, then it's only right that I be the one to do it. I carried them for most of the pregnancy—they came from my body, after all. But… give me one day with them."
The Grand Preceptor thought for a moment before giving a small nod. He turned toward the two infants to inspect them, and as he drew closer, Mingyao finally saw his face clearly.
Her heart clenched.
It was indeed her master.
Before she could process the revelation, a deep, thunderous sound cracked through the air — like a war drum.
Golden light burst from above, consuming everything. The scene disintegrated into shards of radiance, and Mingyao felt herself plummeting downward — falling through clouds, through light, through time — until she was plunging toward a vast crimson sea that churned like a storm.
The whale was nowhere to be found.