The woman's eyes fluttered open as distant voices filtered through the rotting walls of her prison.

"—The Emperor himself is coming—"

"—that cursed woman—"

"—spiritual plague, nobody should get close—"

Her luminous gaze fixed on the cracked ceiling above, confusion stirring in the depths of her fading consciousness.

In all the years she'd been trapped in this dying shell, relegated to this forgotten hovel like diseased livestock, no one had ever come.

The villagers left scraps of food outside her door like offerings to ward off evil, but they never approached, never acknowledged her existence beyond whispered prayers for protection.

Why now?

Why would an emperor—any emperor—come to this wretched place?

Her mind, still sharp despite her body's decay, began to work through the possibilities.

The name that echoed in the guards' hushed tones carried weight, authority that made even hardened cultivators step carefully.

But emperors didn't visit dying mortals in plague huts.

Not unless...

Could it be him?

The parasitic spawn—the so-called son—who had been draining her very essence for decades?

The thought sent a spike of fury through her weakened form, her skeletal fingers twitching beneath the bloodstained bandages.

If that bastard dared show his face here, if he had the audacity to gloat over his handiwork...

She would find the strength somewhere, somehow, to wrap her fingers around his throat and squeeze until his eyes bulged from their sockets.

But even as the rage flickered through her, cold logic reasserted itself.

Why would he come?

He was getting everything he needed from her without lifting a finger.

Her divine fortune, her accumulated karma, her very life force—all of it flowing into him like tributaries feeding a river.

He had no reason to acknowledge the source of his power, no need to witness the cost of his ascension.

Besides, she was dying.

Had been dying for months now, the final seals triggering as her memories returned in agonizing fragments.

The spiritual plague that clung to her like a second skin would repel any cultivator with sense.

Even looking at her was enough to make most practitioners flee in terror—the sight of rotting meridians and corrupted qi channels was a nightmare made manifest for anyone who had spent their lives building spiritual power.

So maybe it was someone else... some new emperor interested in seeing the renowned beauty Zhao Meilian. He would come, see what she had become, and leave.

Another disappointment in a life full of them.

She let her eyes drift closed again, surrendering to the familiar weight of despair.

In a few hours, maybe less, her heart would finally stop beating.

The last drops of her divine essence would be wrung from her failing body, and then... nothing.

Blessed oblivion.

No memories of past glory, no knowledge of what she had lost.

Just the peaceful darkness that awaited all mortals at the end of their brief, flickering existence.

The sound of approaching footsteps made her eyes snap open.

A figure stood in the doorway, backlit by the afternoon sun streaming through the gaps in the ramshackle walls.

As her vision adjusted, details began to emerge that made her breath catch in her throat.

Long black hair that seemed to absorb the light around it, falling in perfect waves past broad shoulders draped in imperial robes of deepest midnight.

Red and crimson eyes that held depths like pools of liquid fire, ancient and knowing in a way that spoke of power beyond mortal comprehension.

His face was sculpted perfection—sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, lips that curved with unconscious authority even in repose.

He was beautiful in the way that only true power could make someone beautiful, radiating an aura that made the very air around him shimmer with barely contained force.

But those eyes...

They were looking at her, yet somehow not at her.

As if his gaze was fixed on something behind her physical form, seeing through the layers of decay and corruption to something deeper beneath.

Her fragmented divine senses, still sensitive despite her condition, detected the subtle shift in his attention—he was reading something, processing information that existed beyond normal perception.

It didn't matter.

Nothing mattered anymore.

In perhaps two hours, her heart would cease its labored beating, and all of this would become meaningless.

The trap that had been laid for her so carefully, so cruelly, would finally claim its prize.

She would die ignorant and forgotten, just another mortal who had lived and suffered and passed into darkness without leaving so much as a ripple on the surface of existence.

She kept her eyes fixed on him, studying his face with the detached curiosity of someone watching their final sunset.

At least her last sight would be something beautiful rather than the moldy straw and cracked walls that had been her companions for so long.

Then he spoke, and her world exploded into fragments of remembered pain.

"I was searching for the mother of Zhao Chen."

The name hit her like a physical blow, every syllable a barbed hook that tore through her consciousness and dragged up memories she had spent decades trying to bury.

The celestial court, the chains of light, the spear of pure curse energy piercing her divine essence.

The laughter—cold, cruel, pitiless laughter as they condemned her to this fate.

Her body convulsed, every muscle contracting in sympathetic agony as rage unlike anything she had ever experienced flooded through her veins.

The bandages around her fists darkened with fresh blood as her nails bit deep into her palms, the only outlet she had for the storm of fury that threatened to tear her apart from within.

But her body was too weak, too broken to contain such emotion.

The rage burned through her like wildfire through dry grass, leaving only exhaustion and pain in its wake.

She tried to speak, to scream, to give voice to the cosmic injustice that had been done to her—but no sound emerged save for a soft, keening whimper that spoke of suffering beyond words.

Her jaw clenched until her teeth creaked under the pressure, but even that small act of defiance cost her dearly.

Fresh waves of agony washed over her as her body reminded her of its limitations, fatigue settling over her like a heavy blanket that muffled even her anger.

In the end, she could do nothing but lie there and stare at him with eyes that held the accumulated fury of ten thousand years and the helpless resignation of someone who had learned that even gods could be broken if the universe was cruel enough.

The man seemed to understand something in that look, some recognition passing between them that transcended words.

Without hesitation, he stepped forward and slid his arms beneath her, lifting her from the moldy straw with the same care he might show a precious artifact.

Princess carry.

The absurdity of it almost made her laugh, if she'd had the strength.

Here was this powerful cultivator—she could sense his aura now, Great Vehicle at minimum—cradling someone afflicted with what appeared to be the most virulent spiritual plague imaginable.

Any other practitioner would have fled screaming rather than risk contamination, yet he held her as if she were made of spun glass and starlight.

Why?

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