Chapter 1
Heavy snow blanketed the winter day, piling thickly atop the red walls and tiled roofs.
Urgent shouts rang out from within the palace. The Imperial Guards surged forward, breaking into a secluded palace deep within the imperial grounds.
Wild grass grew unchecked throughout the courtyard, lending the place an air of utter desolation.
The Imperial Guards swept in at a run and surrounded the palace, their solemn gazes fixed on the man standing in the snow.
Behind them, the hem of a heavy court robe dragging across the ground, Dowager Consort Ning entered with stately grace. Covering her nose and mouth with a jade handkerchief, she deigned to step into this desolate place. Her face twisted with disgust as she looked at the man in the snow. The heavy snow could not conceal the luxury adorning her from head to toe; yet when she looked down at him with contempt, there was not the slightest trace of affection in her eyes—only the hauteur of one accustomed to a position of power.
The man in the snow wore nothing but plain robes. His face was as pale as snow, devoid of all color. No charcoal brazier had been lit in the palace, and the cold air seeped through everything.
He was like a ghost imprisoned here, utterly devoid of vitality. His eyes were bottomless, his gaunt face filled with the pallor of illness, and an ugly scar marred one side of his face.
Only his eyes remained fixed, staring straight past the snow-covered palace walls. When the distant bells rang out, he tugged at the corners of his mouth and suddenly burst into laughter, as though he had heard the most ridiculous joke.
At the sound of that uninhibited laughter, Dowager Consort Ning’s expression darkened further. She shot a cold look at the people beside her, and one of them immediately stepped forward. Blood sprayed through the air as a head struck the ground with a hollow clang. Even before being beheaded, the dead man had worn an anxious expression, as though he had been desperate to deliver some message to someone but had not had the chance before being separated from his body.
Ying Fusheng lowered his eyes and met the gaze of the head that had belonged to the eunuch who had grown up alongside him. His eyes held no emotion.
“Your loyal dog was still trying to save you before he died,” Dowager Consort Ning said with a smile. “I had nearly forgotten. His Highness the Prince is no longer in his right mind and must have forgotten the eunuch you once released from the palace. What a pity. You let him go, yet he still thought of saving his master. He secretly contacted the rebels and tried to return to rescue you.”
Blood from the severed head seeped into the snow. Its eyes, refusing to close in death, remained locked with Ying Fusheng’s. The poison that had ravaged his mind seemed finally to have restored a thread of reason. He smiled and said, “It seems my good imperial brother is getting anxious. Then again, it makes sense. Having ascended the throne and proclaimed himself emperor without a legitimate claim, he must wake from nightmares every night.”
At the mention of the new emperor, Dowager Consort Ning gritted her teeth. The Imperial Guards behind her raised their swords toward him.
The urgent report had reached the palace less than an hour earlier. After ascending the throne, the new emperor had purged all opposition, sentencing every member of the rebel faction to the most severe punishment. The man confined in this cold palace was the last one left.
No one had ever imagined that a man like him, cut off from all news within the imperial palace, could join forces with the Prince of a different surname who had ruled the northern frontier for years and throw the entire court into chaos.
Rumors about the new emperor had spread in every direction. The most persistent claimed that there was something strange about his identity—that he was not the biological son of Empress Xu.
A eunuch loudly read the edict of condemnation: “The convicted criminal Ying Fusheng has deceived the sovereign, defied the law, and colluded with rebels to plot treason. The evidence is conclusive… He is hereby granted a cup of poisoned wine and shall end his own life.”
“Considering that we were mother and son, do you have anything to say?” Dowager Consort Ning asked.
“Why are you in such a hurry, Dowager Consort Ning? It was only a eunuch. Why trouble yourself to act personally?” Ying Fusheng reached out and closed the eunuch’s eyes. His voice was calm, almost as though he were speaking in perfect composure, yet every word was a defiance. “None of the Xu clan is in a hurry, yet Dowager Consort Ning is rushing to establish the new emperor’s legitimacy. Anyone who didn’t know better might think the new emperor was your own son. But, Mother Consort, I have committed treason. Do you truly think the new emperor will simply let you and the Ning clan off? Today, the Ning clan may be meritorious subjects; tomorrow, they may be traitors. Between leaving behind a hidden threat and eradicating the roots completely, which do you think would bring the new emperor greater peace of mind?”
“You lunatic. Send His Highness on his way,” Dowager Consort Ning spat through clenched teeth.
The Imperial Guards advanced.
Behind Consort Ning, a palace attendant carrying a tray followed in small, careful steps. A few snowflakes melted in the cup, and the poisoned wine trembled within it.
The senior eunuch said nothing as he carried the wine before Ying Fusheng. “Your Highness, please.”
One cup of poisoned wine.
Ying Fusheng looked out at the desolate palace courtyard. This forsaken place had probably never seen so many people set foot in it before. His brother had actually been willing to mobilize so many Imperial Guards for him.
He threw back his head and laughed. The sound echoed through the palace, carrying an almost sinister quality that made the guards grow tense and wary.
“There’s no need to trouble yourself.” Ying Fusheng’s entire body was trembling. Even without this cup of poisoned wine, he would not have survived the winter. He reached out and took the cup. His reflection flickered across the surface of the wine as he murmured, “Since there’s fine wine before me and no time to celebrate, then let me wish my brother sleepless nights and a throne that never brings him peace…”
With that, he drained the cup in one gulp. The poison seared his throat, yet it brought him a joy he had not felt in years.
What did it matter that he was a prince? Without power or influence, he could never cross that vermilion wall.
It had taken Ying Fusheng many years to understand that truth: Consort Ning’s exploitation, the secrets of the imperial harem, and his own absurd life, in which everyone had turned against him.
From the corner of his eye, Ying Fusheng looked through the snow and wind toward a place even higher.
His vision gradually dimmed. Unable to close his eyes, Ying Fusheng stared toward the heights of the palace, unwillingness and resentment filling his gaze.
Within moments of the wine entering his throat, his breathing stopped.
If there was a next life…
…
With a splash, suffocation rushed over him. Water flooded his nose as Ying Fusheng sank into the icy depths.
“It’s bad! His Highness has fallen into the water!”
“Quick, someone come!”
Gurgle, gurgle.
His ears seemed to be covered by a layer of water. He felt his body being carried, while the heavy breathing of others sounded nearby.
As the clamor reached him, the rumbling of water receded. The first thing Ying Fusheng felt was the intense heat of his body. His throat burned as though scorched, and breathing seemed to have become an arduous task. He struggled desperately against the brink of death. When a breath of air finally entered his throat, he abruptly awoke from his fit of unconsciousness.
Fallen into the water? What were they talking about?
Broken phrases drifted into his ears. He opened his eyes.
A bright bedchamber came into view. The curtains on either side of the bed were richly colored, their pearls gleaming, their tassels swaying gently.
The brilliance was so harsh that he could barely keep his eyes open. After years of confinement deep within the palace, he had long grown accustomed to damp and bitter cold. Yet now, warmth surrounded him, the room heated so intensely that he could hardly breathe. His thoughts were hazy, and his head throbbed violently.
Hadn’t I died?
As the voices around him grew louder, his face paled further. Before he could understand what was happening, an excited cry suddenly rang out beside him.
“Your Highness!”
The moment the cry sounded, everyone present fell silent. They turned toward the figure on the bed as though they had seen a ghost.
As his senses returned, Ying Fusheng felt chaos erupt around him.
“Go tell Her Ladyship! His Highness is awake!”
A distant memory came rushing back with those words. Ying Fusheng’s entire body tensed. His throat seemed to retain the final, searing bitterness of death. Before his eyes, the cold face of the new emperor in the great hall appeared and vanished, while the clamorous voices around him, laced with malice, gradually transformed within the illusion into the bedchamber before him.
A young eunuch knelt in front of him, tears welling in his eyes. The moment he saw Ying Fusheng open his eyes, excitement flooded his face.
In a daze, Ying Fusheng regained consciousness. “Song’an?”
Eunuch Song’an—the palace servant who had waited on him since childhood. The head that had died with its eyes open in the snow still seemed to hover before him, overlapping with this young, tender face.
Hadn’t he died alongside Ying Fusheng? Who was this person standing before him?
Had he truly gone mad in the end? Had the poison ravaged him so thoroughly that even as he died, it conjured such an exquisite illusion?
"I told you to leave the palace, why have you come back?" he murmured.
"Your Highness, what are you saying?" The young eunuch Song'an was first stunned, and grew so anxious that tears streamed down his face the moment he realized Ying Fusheng was rambling deliriously. "You accidentally fell into the water and have been unconscious for half a day. The imperial physicians all said you were barely clinging to life."
Ying Fusheng could not see clearly outside the room, and he felt the heat was almost overwhelming. Who ordered such a large charcoal fire to be lit? Did they not know they were supposed to conserve charcoal?
Ying Fusheng stared at the surreal scene unfolding before his eyes, and caught sight of Song'an back when he was still a scrawny, underage boy.
Double visions overlapped, and the tight grip on his hand grew heavier and heavier. Was this a dream? A hallucination? Or something else entirely?
It felt far too real. His face pale, he asked, "Fell into the water? When did I fall into the water? Has the new emperor ascended the throne yet?"
Those words shocked everyone around him silly, and they hurried forward. The Great Yuan was at the peak of its national strength at this time, and the Emperor was still in his prime. Had the Sixth Prince burned his brain out with the fever, spouting such outrageous nonsense?
Finally, Ying Fusheng noticed the horrified, ghost-struck looks on the people around him, and came to his senses. "What year is it now?"
"The sixteenth year of Taiyuan," the palace servants replied, seeing the Sixth Prince looking dazed and disoriented.
The sixteenth year of Taiyuan...? Fifteen years ago?!
A chill ran down Ying Fusheng's spine. He stared blankly at his surroundings, and finally fixed his gaze on his own thin, frail arm. There were dark purple bruises left by years of repeated needle pricks on his skin, and under the overly pale flesh, his blue veins stood out sharply. Most importantly, this pair of hands belonged to a child. He stared at the scene before him in utter shock, his mind reeling, and through his blurred, flickering field of vision, he looked at the people around him.
The familiar furnishings in the hall were nothing like the cold, desolate palace he had been imprisoned in for years. The charcoal stove gave off a warm glow, and no cold wind seeped inside. Long-forgotten memories came flooding back at the sight—this was Weiyang Palace, the place he lived in when he was a child.
Weiyang Palace? Was he mad, or was he hallucinating?
"Her Highness Consort Ning has arrived—" a shout came from the outer hall, pulling Ying Fusheng back from his muddled trance.
He almost turned his head straight towards the outer chamber following the sound, and saw the hanging curtain being lifted. A beautiful woman in formal palace robes walked in.
"Her Highness Consort Ning! The Prince has woken up!"
Ying Fusheng's gaze followed the commotion, landing on the beautiful woman in palace robes standing behind the group of servants.
In a blur, he could almost see the scene from not long ago, when this same woman had walked up to him, her luxurious palace robes dragging through the thick snow outside the gates of the cold palace. The palace servants had followed closely behind her, bowing and scraping, respectfully addressing her as Dowager Consort Ning.
The overlapping visions faded as the young Consort Ning stepped before him. This highly favored imperial consort's eyes held not a shred of concern, only unfathomable coldness. The two figures merged into one. The face before him had none of the aged, stately composure of later years, just as young and beautiful as he remembered. Her extravagant earrings, magnificent palace robes, even the scent of her face powder were all imperial gifts bestowed by the Emperor.
Ying Fusheng's pupils constricted. This was Consort Ning, his so-called "biological" mother.
The burning, acrid taste of poisoned wine surfaced as a memory overlay. The scene in Weiyang Palace felt so vivid and real that seeing this woman in her youth again brought back the memories of his teenage years, when he had been nothing but a puppet at everyone's mercy.
He had been born prematurely. His mother had nearly died giving birth to him, and the ordeal had drained half her life force. Since he was little, Ying Fusheng had never been loved by his mother, but he had never complained. He knew his birth had been difficult, and had nearly cost Consort Ning her life, so he had treated her with utmost respect and filial piety. Even when he was repeatedly ignored and overlooked, he never once disobeyed her.
So later, when his mother asked him to help with a "small favor", he had agreed without a second thought, never suspecting that it was the beginning of his frame-up. That small favor involved a military accounts ledger, and touching it was like triggering a landslide. It directly enraged his father the Emperor, and he was confined deep within the palace. Right before he was locked up, he had even worried that his mistake would get his mother into trouble. But he had worried for nothing. Not only did his mother come to no harm, the entire Ning clan had seized the chance to align themselves with the Crown Prince's faction.
He had been a scapegoat pushed out into the open, a stepping stone for the Ning clan to prove their loyalty and climb to power.
It was not until two years into his confinement that he learned the truth from an old wet nurse who had been poisoned and left for dead, but had somehow survived. He was not Consort Ning's biological son at all. The two princes had been swapped at birth. His real biological mother was Empress Xu. Back then, the Ning clan had been in decline, there had been no clear heir to the throne, and the Emperor had trusted and doted on Empress Xu deeply. So Consort Ning had bribed Empress Xu's personal lady-in-waiting, taken labor-inducing herbs, and pulled off the earth-shattering scheme of swapping their two sons on the very same day they gave birth.
In the end, the new emperor ascended the throne, the Ning clan rose to power, and became the meritorious officials of the new dynasty.
And he had been put to death with a cup of poisoned wine, only to open his eyes again and find himself right here, in the past.
"Her Highness Consort Ning!" The palace servants bowed in greeting.
Ying Fusheng was jolted back to his senses by the servants' exclamation, and realized his hands hidden under the quilt were trembling. A hatred so deep it felt like a festering poison seeped into his bones. He curled his fingers tight, and looked over everything around him. The overlapping visions faded away, and every person and object stood sharp and clear before his eyes.
The Sixth Prince had fallen into the water the day before and remained unconscious with a high fever. The entire Weiyang Palace had been in a state of tense chaos for the past day, with imperial physicians hurrying in and out in shifts. The moment he finally woke up, Consort Ning had arrived with the imperial physician in tow. The physician felt Ying Fusheng's pulse, his initial panic giving way to a flicker of joy. After examining him carefully, he said, "It is a blessing that Your Highness has woken up. A true blessing."
"Your Highness, the Prince has pulled through!" a person beside her said.
Consort Ning looked haggard, her eyes slightly red. A look of joy spread across her face at the news. She stepped closer to Ying Fusheng, wrapped her arm around his, and pulled him into an embrace. Her voice trembled with feigned emotion as she said, "Fusheng, are you feeling better now? How could you be so naughty, child, as to run to that dangerous place?"
"Thank the heavens for the imperial physician's skill that saved you. If anything had happened to you, what would your mother have done?"
The cloying scent of face powder wafted over Ying Fusheng, and the sound of rushing water that had been ringing in his ears faded away. He looked down at Consort Ning's hand, which was gripping him far too tightly. The sharp, stinging pull of her clothes against his skin pulled his thoughts back to the present. She did not even notice that her rough handling was far too harsh for a sick, feverish child. Every word she spoke, no matter how gentle it sounded, was implicitly blaming him for causing trouble by falling into the water, and calling him willful and reckless.
When Consort Ning finished speaking and saw the little boy in her arms did not say a word, she frowned. "Child, why don't you speak?"
"Your Highness, the Prince has only just regained consciousness. He needs to be treated with care," the imperial physician interjected gently. "But just the fact that he has woken up is already a great fortune."
Consort Ning seemed to suddenly realize this, and immediately began asking the physician what precautions she needed to take, acting every part of a flustered, worried mother.
The surrounding imperial physicians and palace servants, seeing this scene, all comforted Consort Ning, saying that the Sixth Prince was blessed by fortune and would surely recover.
Ying Fusheng listened to her hollow, performative display, and the soft, relieved looks on the faces of the imperial physicians around him. Finally, he remembered exactly what point in time this was. This was the incident in his childhood, when he had fallen into the water on a winter night and nearly lost his life. The imperial physicians had treated him through the night, pulling him back from the jaws of death. He had been sick for months after that, and the incident had left him with a permanent chronic weakness. But Consort Ning had hushed the whole thing up, spread rumors outside that the prince had been naughty and reckless, and played the part of a loving, grieving mother so perfectly that she had earned a reputation as a virtuous, caring consort.
"Your Highness, do you feel any discomfort at all?"
After a while, the imperial physician finally noticed something was amiss.
After all that talking, the Sixth Prince had not reacted at all. He had barely even moved.
Word had long spread that Consort Ning and the Sixth Prince shared an extraordinarily deep bond, and that she had even stayed by his side the entire previous night. But looking at the scene before them now, the onlookers could not help but wonder why the Sixth Prince seemed so little acquainted with Consort Ning. Just moments earlier, the young eunuch had gotten a response from him, yet when Consort Ning spoke, he did not utter a single word.
In the past, whenever Consort Ning said such things, Ying Fusheng would have responded long ago. But today, for some unknown reason, Ying Fusheng did not react at all even after a long while. The imperial physician nearby turned his gaze over to them, and Consort Ning gritted her teeth slightly, calling out to him softly while her hand pinched Ying Fusheng's, trying to force him to respond.
The child sitting on the bed remained motionless, leaning in Consort Ning's arms. His fever had flushed his lips a startling crimson, and his pair of dark, jet-black eyes stared up at her from behind his loose hair, giving off an uncanny, almost vengeful ghostly air. The palace servants snapped back to their senses, recalling the nonsensical ramblings the prince had babbled just after waking, and they could not help but feel a chill of dread creep over them.
Finally, just as the imperial physician was about to step closer, the Sixth Prince spoke: "Thirsty."
"Bring the medicine over," the imperial physician instructed.
The eunuch Song'an immediately got to his feet to fetch the medicine for Ying Fusheng.
When he brought it over, Consort Ning took the bowl. She carefully held it to Ying Fusheng's lips and said, "Here, Fusheng, be careful, it's hot."
Before she could finish her sentence, the Sixth Prince's body began to tremble uncontrollably. When he shifted forward slightly, he bumped into Consort Ning's hand holding the medicine. Consort Ning had not expected this at all, and the warm medicinal liquid spilled all over her, staining her magnificent palace robes. Her expression slipped out of control in an instant; the scalding heat made her jump to her feet, barely holding back a shriek.
The surrounding servants' faces paled in alarm as they hurried over. Ying Fusheng looked at Consort Ning, and after a moment, he seemed to finally register what had happened. He looked at her with a seemingly worried expression and said, "Mother Consort?"
Consort Ning met Ying Fusheng's gaze, forcing her expression back under control. "I am fine. Fusheng, did you get burned?"
The palace servants rushed to clean up the mess. Consort Ning's hand was bright red from the scald, but she bit down hard on her teeth to force a smile, not even daring to change out of her soiled robes. "Imperial Physician, how is Fusheng doing?"
After the whole flurry of chaos, the imperial physician saw that the Sixth Prince had calmed down. He stepped forward to ask a few questions, and seeing that Ying Fusheng responded to every one, he stepped aside to speak privately with Consort Ning. "His Highness fell into the water, and cold pathogenic wind has invaded his body. Now that he has woken up, he will be alright, but he must be closely attended to over the next few days."
"The palace banquet is just around the corner, and Fusheng's illness has stabilized for now. If word of this gets out, it will only make the Empress Dowager worry unnecessarily," Consort Ning said, her face etched with a look of haggard concern. As she spoke, she glanced repeatedly at the prince on the bed, her face full of apparent worry. "I will have to trouble you to look after him these few days."
"This official understands," the imperial physician said gratefully as he bowed. He knew very well that if anything went wrong with a prince who had fallen gravely ill after drowning, the entire Imperial Hospital could be held accountable.
It was only after she had finally seen the imperial physician off that Consort Ning's face smoothed back into its usual impassive state. She suppressed the disgust rising in her as she looked at Ying Fusheng lying on the bed, no longer bothering to hide her true feelings. The gaze she fixed on him was no different from the look one would give a random sick stranger, devoid of a single trace of affection or pity, as if she had only come to put on a perfunctory show.
Seeing that Ying Fusheng barely reacted at all, she thought to herself, Why can't this troublesome little thing just burn himself silly with this fever?
A palace maid came over carrying a newly prepared bowl of medicine. "Your Highness, Her Ladyship personally oversaw the preparation of this medicine, and watched over the simmering pot for more than an hour."
Consort Ning's patience was nearly at its end, but mindful of the other servants still present, she forced a look of deep concern onto her face and softened her voice. "The Empress Dowager's birthday is approaching, and the entire palace is extremely busy right now. Your father, the Emperor, is still away at the frontlines. Do not be willful at a time like this, Fusheng."
Her throat was parched from all the talking, and the soiled palace robes clinging to her made her feel unbearably uncomfortable.
Finally, just as she was about to lose her temper entirely, Ying Fusheng started to drink the medicine.
The moment Ying Fusheng swallowed the medicine, the tight lines between Consort Ning's brows finally relaxed. Seeing that he had drunk nearly half the bowl and was already growing drowsy, she set the bowl aside, instructed the other palace maids to keep a close watch on his condition, reminded them that the prince needed quiet rest, and then got up to leave.
The moment Consort Ning was gone, the other palace attendants in the chamber watched the Sixth Prince lie perfectly still on the bed. Especially when his eyes swept over all of them, a faint, unsettling sense of dread hung in the air.
When the senior palace maid repeated the order that the prince needed quiet rest, several of the servants hurried out of the room one after another.
The moment everyone else had left, Ying Fusheng suddenly clamped a hand over his throat, and a wave of overwhelming nausea surged up.
He spit all the medicine he had just drunk back out. Shocked, Song'an immediately tried to call for help. "Someone—"
But Ying Fusheng reached out and stopped Song'an right then. He made sure he had expelled every last drop of the medicinal liquid, his body still trembling uncontrollably from the violent nausea, his chest heaving so hard that his entire state of mind felt unsteady. After a long moment, the lingering nightmares of his past life gradually faded away, and he slowly looked down at the splatters of medicine on the floor...
This medicine could never be safe. When he was little, his body had always been weak. Everyone said that his foundation had been damaged when he was born prematurely, and that even if he managed to grow up smoothly, he would always be prone to illness and misfortune.
Back then, Consort Ning had seemed so attentive, constantly sending people to hunt down all sorts of tonics to nourish his body. For a time, Ying Fusheng had truly believed that Consort Ning loved him, but was just not good at showing it... But later, when he was locked away in the deep cold palace, with no one to turn to for help, a kind-hearted elderly senior palace matron had secretly examined him, and only then had he learned how deeply he had been poisoned by a forbidden secret palace drug.
It was a forbidden secret drug left behind by the previous dynasty. The old matron told him that even the most skilled imperial physicians could only diagnose that his body was severely depleted, and would never detect the drug unless they already knew its exact properties. But over time, the drug would slowly erode his internal organs and corrupt his mind, and in the end, most people who were given it would either go mad or die of illness.
Ying Fusheng stared at the dark, discolored medicine stains on the ground. The so-called life-saving tonic that was supposed to nourish his health was in reality pushing him step by step toward his grave. He shifted his gaze away, looking around the opulent, warm bedchamber. In the next instant, the room seemed to transform into the dark, gloomy forbidden cold palace he remembered, with howling winds that felt like they were about to tear his mind apart.
"Your fever hasn't broken yet, this servant will go find Sister Bizhu right now, and tell her to have someone brew a new batch of medicine for you," Song'an said.
Bizhu was Consort Ning's personal maid. Right after saying that, Song'an turned to leave.
But before he could take more than a few steps, his master suddenly reached out and grabbed the hem of his robe. He stopped immediately, afraid of disturbing the prince, and turned around, only to meet his master's pair of pitch-black eyes fixed right on him. Those eyes looked clear at first glance, but they also seemed bottomless, and the sight sent a jolt of fright through Song'an.
"Song'an, come closer," Ying Fusheng said.
Song'an stepped forward in a daze. The moment he got near, his master's warm hand came to rest on his neck.
The sudden heat from his high fever startled Song'an. The prince seemed to be feeling for some non-existent mark on his neck, and did not speak for a long time.
"Your Highness?"
Ying Fusheng could feel the steady, vibrant pulse beating under his fingers. The head he had once lost, staring wide-eyed in death, now had the warmth of life, and the thud of the beating blood pulled his scattered thoughts back to the present. He hid the strange flicker in his eyes, and after a moment said, "It's nothing. You may leave now."
Song'an was faintly worried, but seeing that his master seemed to want to rest, he had no choice but to step out of the chamber.
Consort Ning had given strict orders that no one was to enter the outer chamber, and once Song'an left, the entire space was perfectly quiet.
This kind of silence was the kind that Ying Fusheng knew all too well. For many long years later, this was the exact kind of suffocating, lifeless loneliness he had lived in.
Ying Fusheng got out of bed, pulling his outer robe over his shoulders. He picked up the medicine bowl, sniffed the remnants inside, and then poured what was left into the charcoal brazier. The medicine that Consort Ning had supposedly personally overseen the preparation of was instantly devoured by the flames, evaporating without a trace. He walked over to the bronze mirror not far away and looked at his current reflection. It was the face of a young child, too young to make out what he would look like when he grew up. His face was too thin, full of the pallor of sickness, and there was a faint, soft vulnerability in his downcast eyes. Even though he was already ten years old, he looked no older than seven or eight, his bones too small and delicate, making him look frail, easy to bully, young and cowardly, with none of the scars left by sharp blades that would mark his face in the years to come.
Ying Fusheng's entire body burned with a raging fever, yet his heart turned icy cold, bit by bit.
This face bore no resemblance at all to his mother's. If there was any similarity to speak of, it was only that his eyebrows and eyes looked somewhat like his father the Emperor's — there was no trace of the broad brows and large eyes that ran in the Ning clan...
He wasn't dead.
He had traveled back to his early childhood, to a time before everything had gone wrong.
