I woke up in the cold glint of a blade.
It wasn't a toothache. I knew toothaches well—during my late-night shifts in the Department of Oral Surgery at Vancouver General Hospital, patients with acute pulpitis would roll around on their beds in agony. After giving them a painkiller injection, I'd often fall asleep right there at the nurses' station. That kind of pain was dull, muffled, drilling out from deep within the bone.
But this wasn't that.
This was a knife, held horizontally against my neck.
Ice-cold, pressed against my skin; I could even feel the texture of the blade's edge. The air smelled of blood, mixed with rust and sweat. Behind me, a candle flame flickered, casting several shadows on the wall—I was kneeling on the ground, with someone standing behind me, and another person sitting in front of me.
No, not sitting. Leaning.
A young man was leaning against a couch, holding a cup of wine, looking down at me.
He was handsome.
Not the scholarly, gentle kind of handsome. This was a blade-like handsomeness, sharp and imposing, the kind that made you dare not look a second time. His sword-like eyebrows swept back toward his temples, his nose was high and straight, and the line of his jaw was as clean-cut as if chiseled by a knife. The candlelight danced across his face, casting shadows from his brow ridge into his eye sockets, making those eyes appear exceptionally deep. His lips were slightly pursed—a subconscious gesture of someone with tooth pain—but even pursed, the shape was beautiful; his upper lip thin, his lower lip full, like a fully drawn bow.
There were a few drops of blood on his moon-white robes. They weren't his; they had splashed onto him. The stains looked like plum blossoms falling on snow; on him, they didn't look messy but instead highlighted a dangerous, heart-racing beauty.
He looked as if he had just returned from a battlefield, or perhaps from an execution ground. His gaze was calm, terrifyingly calm, as if he were looking at a dead man.
"Who are you?" he asked.
His voice was low and deep, like a cello string being slowly drawn. It wasn't an interrogation; it was a statement—as if he already knew the answer and was just waiting for my confirmation. I opened my mouth to speak, but my throat was as dry as sandpaper. I looked down at myself—a pair of unfamiliar hands. The knuckles were slender, the palms had thin calluses, and the nails were trimmed neatly. These weren't my hands. My hands had twelve years of manicures, with a callus on the side of my index finger from long-term gripping of dental instruments. Whose hands were these?
"Third Lady—Third Lady, say something!" someone behind me was crying. It was a young girl's voice, carrying a heavy Changzhou accent. "Your Highness is asking you a question—"
Your Highness.
My brain buzzed.
"What year is it?" I asked, my voice hoarse.
"Jinglong Year Four," the young man said, his tone as casual as if commenting on the weather. He slowly rotated his long finger around the rim of the wine cup, a careless motion that was impossible to look away from. "No, it is now Tanglong Year One. June."
Tang Dynasty.710 AD.
I had transmigrated.
"Are you a person of Empress Wei, or of Princess Taiping?" He set down his wine cup and looked at me. His gaze remained calm, but I noticed his hand had moved to rest on the hilt of the sword at his waist. That hand was beautiful too—slender fingers, distinct knuckles, nails trimmed cleanly. It was a hand built for holding a bow, for gripping a blade, for wielding a brush. Three completely different qualities existed in that single hand without any contradiction.
My mind went blank.Empress Wei? Princess Taiping? Things learned in history class surged through my brain—the Tanglong Coup, Li Longji leading troops into the palace, killing Empress Wei, and installing his father on the throne. The person before me—
"You are the Prince of Linzi," I said.
His expression shifted slightly. Just for an instant, but enough for me to see—it wasn't surprise, it was alertness. Like a wolf realizing its prey had suddenly turned to look back at it. He narrowed his eyes slightly; under the candlelight, those eyes resembled polished black obsidian, unbelievably beautiful, and unbelievably dangerous.
"How do you know?"
The knife pressed tighter. I felt the blade cut into my skin, a slight sting. The candlelight flickered on his face, his features appearing and disappearing in the light and shadow, like a moving painting.
The girl behind me cried even louder: "Third Lady—Third Lady, speak quickly! Aren't you from Changzhou? Didn't you come here to seek relatives?"
Changzhou. I am from Changzhou. No—the "me" of this body is from Changzhou. But my mind belongs to the Nursing Department of the University of British Columbia in Vancouver.
"Your Highness," my voice was steady, steadier than I expected, "I am neither of Empress Wei's people, nor of Princess Taiping's."
"Then who are you?"
"I am—" I took a deep breath. With a knife at my throat, someone crying behind me, and the future Emperor of the Great Tang sitting before me... The candlelight illuminated his face; his eyelashes were long, casting a fan-shaped shadow on his cheekbones. That face was so handsome it didn't seem real, but those eyes were cold enough to make one shiver. If I misspoke a single word, I would die a second time. "I am someone who can help you."
He looked at me, silent. The candlelight danced on his face, his eyes bright like the most distant star in the night sky—cold, yet compelling one to look.
"Help you?" he repeated the words, his tone containing both mockery and curiosity. He tilted his head slightly; a stray lock of hair slid down from his forehead, landing beside his brow ridge. The movement was casual, yet devastatingly handsome. "You, a woman, how can you help me?"
"Help you become the Crown Prince."
The crying behind me stopped. The knife stopped. The entire room seemed to freeze.
He looked at me, his gaze changing. No longer alert, but scrutinizing. He slowly sat up straight; the moon-white robes outlined the breadth of his shoulders—broad and straight, like an unsheathed blade. The candlelight hit his face, making his features even deeper in the play of light and shadow; the shadow of his brow ridge pressed down, giving his eyes an overwhelming presence.
"Do you know what you are saying?"
"I do."
"On what grounds?"
I looked at him. His lips were slightly pursed, exactly like someone with tooth pain—that was a typical sign of periodontitis: swollen, red gums, probing depth of at least five millimeters. No, not just periodontitis. His complexion wasn't great; there were dark circles under his eyes. It wasn't from lack of sleep, but chronic fatigue caused by long-term stress. His fingers were slender, but the knuckles were white; the hand holding the wine cup trembled slightly—a normal reaction after adrenaline subsided, but it also indicated he had been drawing his sword frequently recently.
Yet, even exhausted, even with dark circles under his eyes, the way he sat there was still handsome. Not the refined, meticulously maintained kind of handsome, but the kind that emanated from the bones, chiseled like stone. Like a blade that has been used for a long time, with chips on the edge, yet still so sharp one dares not look directly at it.
"Does Your Highness's tooth hurt when it touches anything hot? Does it hurt more when lying down at night?"
He paused. "What?"
"Your Highness's tooth," I said. "The upper right tooth. It hurts when eating, and hurts even more when lying down at night. Sometimes, half your face goes numb."
The room was utterly silent. The candle flame jumped inside the bronze lamp, and all the shadows on the wall swayed with it. He put down his wine cup and slowly leaned back against the couch. The movement was slow, composed, like a leopard retracting its claws after confirming the prey cannot escape. The corner of his mouth lifted slightly—not a smile, but something more dangerous.
"How do you know?"
"Because I can not only see Your Highness's tooth, but I can also see Your Highness's future." Saying this felt absurd even to me. But with a knife at my throat, I had no other choice. The candlelight danced on his face, his features appearing and disappearing in the light and shadow, like a Renaissance oil painting—no, better than a painting. Because he was alive. His breath, his gaze, the way his fingers lightly rotated the wine cup—it was all alive.
"The future?" He looked at me. "You say you can see the future?"
"Yes." My voice was steady. "Your Highness will become the Crown Prince. Not because your elder brother yields the position, but because you are more suitable than him. Your Highness will become Emperor. Not because your father abdicates, but because you have the capability. Your Highness will create a golden age. Not because you are lucky, but because you know what the common people need."
As I spoke, the words from history textbooks flashed through my mindKaiyuan Golden Age,Reign of Zhenguan,Emperor Xuanzong of Tang. But those words felt too distant, as if belonging to another world. Yet he sat before me, the candlelight illuminating his face, his eyes bright. Those eyes, under the candlelight, were like a lake in deep winter—cold, but with undercurrents surging beneath. The corner of his mouth curved slightly, not a smile, but something deeper, more elusive.
"Who exactly are you?" His voice changed. It was no longer an interrogation; it was—curiosity. Like someone who has walked in darkness for a long time finally seeing light. He leaned forward slightly; his moon-white robe wrinkled slightly at his chest, revealing a sliver of collarbone. The image was so beautiful I nearly forgot the knife was still at my neck.
"I am someone from a very faraway place," I said. "People from that place know many things Your Highness does not. For example, how to cure toothaches, how to prevent soldiers from dying after being injured, and for example—" I paused, "—how to help Your Highness sit on that chair."
He looked at me for a long time. So long that I thought he would drag me out and execute me.
Then he laughed.
That smile—how to describe it?—was like a string stretched tight for too long suddenly loosening slightly. It wasn't polite, nor perfunctory; he genuinely found it funny. But beneath the humor, something was hidden. Killing intent? Curiosity? Or something else? I couldn't tell. But that smile was beautiful. When the corners of his mouth lifted, his entire demeanor changed—from an unsheathed blade to a young man who could smile. The coldness in those eyes receded somewhat, revealing something softer underneath.
"What is your name?"
"Gu Qingyan."
"From Changzhou?"
"Yes." He pronounced my name, each word rolling around in his mouth as if tasting something. Qingyan." His voice was low and deep; hearing my name from his lips suddenly made it sound incredibly pleasant.
"The tooth powder from Changzhou is quite famous in Chang'an," he said, leaning back in his chair, his fingers tapping lightly on the armrest. That hand was beautiful—slender, powerful, with distinct knuckles. The candlelight shone on the back of his hand, revealing fine blue veins. "But this jar of yours smells better than those sold in the market."
He picked up a jar of tooth powder from the table—likely carried by this "Gu Qingyan"—opened it, sniffed, and raised an eyebrow slightly. His eyebrows were beautiful; when he raised them, the arc of the brow peak resembled a graceful parabola.
"Because it contains cloves," I said. "Cloves can relieve pain."
He nodded and put the tooth powder down. The movement was slow, elegant, as if admiring a piece of porcelain.
"Gu Qingyan." He pronounced my name again, this time slower, as if confirming something. "You say you can help me. Then tell me, what do I need most right now?"
I looked into his eyes. Those eyes were very deep under the candlelight, like a bottomless well. There was light in the well, the kind of light that had been buried for a long time and finally dug out. His eyelashes were long, casting a fan-shaped shadow on his cheekbones. That face was so handsome it didn't seem real, but those eyes were alive—warm, deep, possessing something that made one want to draw closer.
"What Your Highness needs most is not a strategist, nor an advisor, nor connections," I said. "What Your Highness needs most is someone trustworthy."
The room fell silent again. The candle flame jumped inside the bronze lamp, and his shadow swayed on the wall. He narrowed his eyes slightly; that expression was beautiful—like a leopard lazily squinting in the sunlight, yet you never know if it will continue sleeping or pounce to snap your throat the next second.
"You?" he asked.
"Me," I replied.
He looked at me. For a long time. So long that I thought he would drive me out. The candlelight danced on his face, his features appearing and disappearing in the light and shadow, every frame like a painting. His fingers tapped lightly on the armrest: once, twice, three times—
Then he stood up and walked over to me.
He was tall. Kneeling on the ground, I had to tilt my head up to see his face. He stood before me, the candlelight coming from behind him, outlining his silhouette with a golden rim. The moon-white robes hung on him like condensed moonlight. His eyes appeared exceptionally deep in the backlight, deep as the night.
The knife was still at my neck, but he reached out and pushed it aside. The moment the blade left my skin, I felt a stream of warm liquid flowing down my neck—blood. Not much, but it stung. His gaze fell on that wound, pausing for an instant.
"You are injured," he said. His voice was low and deep, like the vibration of a cello's low string.
"A minor wound."
"Are you not afraid?"
"I am."
"Then why don't you cry?"
I lifted my head and looked at him. He stood before me, the candlelight streaming in from behind, outlining his silhouette with a golden rim. His hair was tied with a jade hairpin, with a few strands loose, falling on his forehead, illuminated by the candlelight with a soft glow. His eyes were bright, brighter than the candle flame.
"Because crying is useless," I said.
He paused. Then he smiled. This smile was different from before—not mocking, not curious, but another kind. It was the smile of someone who had found something. That smile was so beautiful my heart skipped a beat. The corners of his mouth lifted, his eyes curved downward, transforming his entire persona from an unsheathed blade into a beam of moonlight piercing through the clouds.
"Gu Qingyan," he said, "you are interesting."
He turned and walked back to the couch, sitting down again and picking up his wine cup. The cup spun once between his slender fingers, the liquid sloshing against the wall of the cup, glowing amber under the candlelight. The way he drank was beautiful—tilting his head back slightly, his Adam's apple rolling, then setting down the cup and wiping the wine stain from the corner of his mouth with his thumb. The movement was casual, yet every detail was perfect.
"What did you say your name was?"
"Gu Qingyan."
"From Changzhou?"
"Yes."
"You say you can help me. Then tell me—" He took a sip of wine, his gaze falling on my face, "what should I do now?"
I looked into his eyes. Those eyes were very deep under the candlelight, like a bottomless well. There was light in the well, the kind of light that had been buried for a long time and finally dug out. His lips were slightly moist, traces of wine left behind, gleaming faintly under the candlelight.
"Let Your Highness let me treat the toothache first," I said.
He froze. "What?"
"If Your Highness's pulpitis isn't treated, in a few days this tooth won't be salvageable. If the tooth can't be saved, eating becomes difficult. If eating is difficult, the body weakens. If the body is weak, how can you fight for the position of Crown Prince?"
The room was silent for three seconds.
Then he laughed. He laughed so hard he bent double, laughing until tears almost came out. The guard holding the knife at my neck was stunned; the girl kneeling on the ground crying was also stunned. The way he laughed was different from before—not mocking, not scrutinizing, not a dangerous smile. It was real, pure laughter welling up from the bottom of his heart. His eyes curved into crescent moons, with fine lines at the corners, devastatingly handsome.
"Good." He set down his wine cup, looking at me, the remnants of a smile still on his lips. "What did you say your name was?"
"Gu Qingyan."
"Gu Qingyan." He pronounced it again, each word rolling around in his mouth like tasting a fine wine. "Good. This King will trust you once."
He leaned back in his chair and opened his mouth. The moon-white robe opened slightly at his chest, revealing a sliver of collarbone and the lines of his neck. His neck was beautiful—slender, powerful, the outline of his Adam's apple exceptionally clear under the candlelight.
"Treat it," he said.
I knelt on the ground, the wound on my neck still seeping blood, my fingers trembling, my knees numb with pain. But watching him open his mouth, I suddenly felt—maybe this transmigration isn't so bad after all.
I stood up and walked to him. Up close, I could smell his scent—agarwood, mixed with the scent of wine, and a faint trace of blood. His eyelashes were long, even more obvious up close, curling slightly upward like two tiny fans. His skin was excellent; the candlelight shining on it resembled fine white porcelain.
I picked up the jar of tooth powder from the table and opened it. Honeysuckle, mint, green salt, cloves—the scents mixed together, dispersing in the candlelight.
"Your Highness, this might hurt a little."
"This King is not afraid of pain." His voice was low, carrying a hint of laughter, rumbling from his chest.
I applied the tooth powder onto a strip of cotton cloth and gently wiped his gums. He frowned slightly but didn't pull away. The candlelight shone on his face, his features close at hand—high-bridged nose, deep eye sockets, slightly pursed thin lips. So handsome it didn't seem real.
"Your Highness, do you know why I said those things just now?"
"Why?"
"Because Your Highness needs me," I said. "Just as I need Your Highness."
He opened his eyes and looked at me. The candlelight danced in his pupils, like two tiny stars. At this distance, I could see the color of his irises—not pure black, but dark brown, glowing with an amber light under the candlelight. His eyelashes trembled slightly, brushing against the skin of my fingers, ticklish.
"Gu Qingyan."
"Hmm?"
"Who exactly are you?"
I looked into his eyes. Those eyes were bright, brighter than the candle flame, brighter than the lamps of Chang'an City.
"I am Your Highness's dentist," I said. "That is enough."
He looked at me for a long time. The candlelight danced between us, his breath warm on the back of my hand.
Then he smiled.
"Enough," he said.
That smile was the most beautiful one of the night.
(End of Chapter 1)