The morning sun had already climbed high above the palace by the time Yue Zihan stirred. Golden light filtered through the silk curtains, scattering over carved jade pillars and gold coated walls.
It was almost noon.
Not that anyone dared to wake him after all, the Crown Prince's beauty sleep was a royal matter.
Zihan stretched lazily, his tiny arms poking out from his red silk quilt. His room shimmered faintly with spiritual energy, each breath thick enough to condense dew on the window panes. The air was sweet and intoxicating, like breathing in melted sunlight.
Just as he was about to crawl out of bed, the door slid open silently.
A boy about ten years old stepped in and bowed deeply. "Your Highness."
It was Ruo Jin, his personal servant. Barely past childhood himself, the boy had already learned to move with the grace and obedience of a shadow.
Zihan yawned, watching him with half-lidded eyes. "Morning."
Ruo Jin didn't answer, merely fetched a silk towel and began preparing his robes. He was a servant yes but one bound to the royal line by more than loyalty.
When Zihan first recovered his past life's memories, he had learned an unsettling truth: Ruo Jin bore a slave mark carved directly into his soul. If he ever spoke of the prince's secret of the boy's eyes his very essence would be shredded apart and cast into oblivion.
Zihan didn't blame them. His parents were… thorough.
He stepped before the mirror and caught his reflection.
Even after a year, he still couldn't get used to the sight.
This face… is illegal.
He had heterochromia one iris deep ocean blue, swirling with flecks of white like galaxies spinning in the void; the other a burning crimson, veined with specks of black. The sight of them together was otherworldly, beautiful enough to unsettle even immortals.
His father had called them "Heaven's Balance."
His mother preferred "My Perfect Little Monster."
Zihan simply called them a problem.
No one was supposed to see them. The last person who had the midwife was now buried six feet under royal marble.
Ruo Jin tied the black blindfold carefully around his eyes. It was made from silkworm thread refined with spiritual water, capable of blocking divine sense itself.
"There," the servant whispered, voice trembling slightly. "Perfect, Your Highness."
Zihan smiled faintly. "You're getting good at this."
The boy didn't answer, but Zihan could sense his nervous gratitude. Child labor or not, working in the palace meant luxury food, resources, a chance to cultivate. For most orphans, it was a dream. For Ruo Jin, it was survival.
Once dressed, Zihan's red robe shimmered with gold threads, embroidered dragons chasing phoenixes across his chest. His long white hair was left loose, flowing down to his waist.
There was a soft knock at the door.
"Your Highness," came a deep voice from outside. "His Majesty requests your presence."
That was Elder Mo, the palace butler and also a Nascent Soul cultivator. A single flick of his wrist could level a mountain range, yet here he was, politely knocking at a child's door.
Status really is everything here, Zihan mused.
They made their way through the palace corridors, each one lined with glowing talismans. Spiritual energy flowed like mist, drawn into invisible formations etched into the golden walls.
The scent of sandalwood and qi-infused orchids lingered in the air. Every breath Zihan took filled his body with warmth.
"This formation," his father once said, "will temper your bones and awaken your latent body. If fate favors you, it will forge the battle physique hidden in your blood."
At the time, Zihan had nodded solemnly.
Inside, he'd thought: Right, or it'll just cook me alive.
When they reached the Throne Hall, the two guards bowed and pushed open the doors.
Light spilled through like a flood.
The hall was vast large enough to hold a thousand men with golden pillars carved into spiraling dragons. The floor gleamed with white jade; the ceiling shimmered with a massive formation array that pulsed faintly in rhythm with the Emperor's aura.
At the far end, upon a throne of solid gold, sat Yue Chenxi, Emperor of the Yue Kingdom. His presence was terrifying even when silent like a sleeping beast cloaked in human skin.
Beside him, on a slightly smaller seat of crystal and silk, sat Chu Milan, the Empress. Her smile was the moon to his sun serene, breathtaking, and equally dangerous.
To the side of the throne lay a grotesque trophy: a pile of skulls, bleached clean and engraved with runes. Former traitors, assassins, usurpers each one a reminder that mercy was not a royal virtue here.
And just below them sat a smaller golden chair, carved with phoenix feathers his own seat, reserved for the Crown Prince.
Zihan bowed deeply, his voice soft but firm.
"Zihan greets His Majesty, the Rising Sun of the Empire, and Her Majesty, the Beautiful Moon."
His father threw his head back and laughed. "Hah! Such formality from my little brat! Come, come!"
Zihan smiled faintly and walked up the ten flights of stairs leading to the throne. Despite his tiny steps, each footfall echoed clearly in the vast hall.
The Emperor leaned forward and lifted him easily with one hand. "Let me see if you've grown taller."
Zihan let himself be placed on his father's knee. His mother reached out, brushing a strand of hair from his face.
He could feel their pride ,twisted as it might be.
"You've slept late again," the Empress chided softly.
"I was cultivating," Zihan said with a straight face.
She raised an elegant brow. "Cultivating… dreams?"
"Dreams are part of the Dao," he replied smoothly.
The Emperor burst out laughing again. "Hahaha! A sharp tongue already! You take after your mother."
A table of delicacies was brought forth: congee infused with spiritual herbs, steamed buns glowing faintly with qi, roasted spirit beast meat marinated in essence wine.
The aroma alone was enough to expand one's meridians.
Yue Chenxi scooped a spoonful and gently fed it to his son. "Eat. A prince must never start the day on an empty stomach."
Zihan tasted it and nearly melted. It was richer than anything he had ever eaten on Earth each bite a soft explosion of warmth and flavor that carried faint traces of heaven and fire.
Even the congee here could probably kill a mortal from excess qi.
Ah, he thought, being rich really is a cultivation path of its own.