Late autumn, with its biting cold winds.
A dry, icy gust swept through the half-open wooden window, carrying withered leaves and a chill so sharp it made the people inside shudder.
Ye Ting lay stiffly on the wooden bed, her entire body cold, her expression frozen by the wind.
She was on the verge of turning into an icicle.
Why?
Because the moment she opened her eyes, a translucent screen appeared before her, displaying a health bar that was plummeting at a terrifying speed. By the time her mind fully cleared, only a sliver of health remained, barely clinging on.
Fantastic.
Starting off already on the brink of death.
Ye Ting closed her eyes briefly.
Whatever. Since she was already here, what was the point of being picky? Even in this godforsaken game world, there was love to be found—at least she still had a life.
Ye Ting adjusted her mindset, trying to console herself. Stay calm.
If she wasn’t mistaken, she had likely transmigrated into a dating sim. The way that screen had vanished in an instant was all too familiar, instantly reminding her of that infuriating game.
The game was called The Emperor’s Dream, and the premise was simple: players chose a character and used all sorts of underhanded methods to vie for the throne. Victory was achieved once the chosen character successfully ascended.
Due to work obligations, Ye Ting had been unlucky enough to be given a trial playthrough by her organization, forcing her to pull all-nighters writing gameplay logs and data reports.
The game was exquisitely crafted, with visuals so stunning they could make your eyes bleed. But the content was bizarre and nonsensical, and the difficulty level was absurdly high.
For example, the character she had chosen had a health bar that could never be fully restored. The paper-thin NPCs seemed to have minds of their own, intermittently ignoring commands, making even the simplest tasks feel like scaling a mountain.
But the most fatal flaw wasn’t any of that—it was the game-breaking bugs that could give you a heart attack from sheer frustration.
After pulling an all-nighter, she had stepped away for just a moment to charge her device, only for the system to crash. The result? Half her progress was wiped, and her character data was completely erased.
Not a single trace left.
Ye Ting was dumbfounded.
She nearly cried tears of blood from sheer rage.
Before collapsing, she angrily typed out a scathing review: Damn this trash game, wasting my youth. It’s a menace—should be deleted and obliterated from existence.
And now, after waking up, she found herself transmigrated into it.
Turns out, her dying words had been prophetic.
Trash game ruins lives—no exaggeration there.
The wind howled outside, blowing through the fully opened window, freezing her to the bone. She tried to move, but a sharp pain shot through her body, as if her organs were being twisted.
Something felt off.
But before she could figure out what, footsteps approached from outside. Moments later, the door was pushed open.
Ye Ting squinted, struggling to adjust her vision as she looked toward the entrance.
The maid at the front paled as if she’d seen a ghost, stammering, "Y-You! How are you not—"
Before she could finish, an elderly matron cut in, frowning. "What are you all standing around for? Bring her out."
"Yes, yes."
Thrust straight into the plot, Ye Ting was utterly lost. She had zero memories of the original owner of this body—no idea where she was, what her name was, or even her identity.
Exhausting. Not even a beginner’s guide.
Faced with this blind situation, Ye Ting had a headache. She chose to stay silent and observe.
First things first—she needed to figure out what the hell was going on...
Dazed, Ye Ting was led out of the courtyard. The body she was in seemed to have some preexisting condition, making her movements slow and laborious.
The matron grew impatient, her tone laced with sarcasm. "Is the young lady trying to put on airs? Save your energy. Anger the master, and none of us will be spared. As for beauties, the Crown Prince’s manor has no shortage. I suggest you behave."
Ye Ting barely registered most of that, but one keyword caught her attention.
Crown Prince’s manor.
Beauties.
She suddenly stopped in her tracks.
The matron, thinking she was causing trouble again, snapped, "What are you doing now?"
Ye Ting wasn’t trying to do anything. Her expression darkened as a sinking feeling settled in her chest. With difficulty, she asked, "Matron... why has His Highness the Crown Prince summoned me? Has something... auspicious happened in the manor recently?"
The last question was abrupt.
But Ye Ting had reason to ask—the courtyards and pavilions around them were decorated, as if for some grand occasion.
Her mind was a mess. She had no solid footing. In the game, she’d never encountered this part of the Crown Prince’s storyline. The only thing she knew was that, in the game, the Crown Prince was already dead from the start—his sudden demise was the opening narration:
[Great Zhou, 20th Year of Yong’an, autumn. The Crown Prince presided over the imperial sacrifices, and auspicious signs appeared in the heavens—a joyous occasion for the Eastern Palace. Yet fate was unkind. Soon after, the Crown Prince fell gravely ill and passed. With the throne left vacant, the court was thrown into turmoil...]
Ye Ting remembered this prologue vividly. There was no mistake. So, theoretically, this short-lived Crown Prince was either already dead or on the verge of death.
Given that, was there any chance this summons was for something good?
Almost certainly not.
The matron gave Ye Ting a strange look before replying coolly, "His Highness summoned you because of your remarkable talents—your performance yesterday caught his eye. Whether this is a blessing or a curse, that depends on your fortune."
Crown Prince’s manor. Beauties. Performance... The "joyous occasion" was confirmed. Ye Ting stiffened. She didn’t need to guess—a trap lay ahead.
The problem was, she was being escorted. Going wasn’t optional.
The matron, wary of resistance, didn’t give her an inch. She had Ye Ting firmly escorted toward the main hall.
Ye Ting resisted, coughing violently from the cold wind.
"Cough—cough—!!" She didn’t even bother covering her mouth, abandoning all pretense of dignity as she wheezed, "Cough... This servant feels unwell... This illness might be contagious... Such bad luck. I fear I won’t be fit to serve His Highness properly."
She looked half-dead. Surely the exalted Crown Prince didn’t lack for attendants—did he really need one who could barely walk without gasping for breath?
Once she grasped the situation, Ye Ting slipped into character effortlessly. The body was already sickly, and her performance—coughing as if her lungs were about to give out—was alarmingly convincing.
The matron recoiled in disgust, unmoved. With a mocking tone, she said, "How fortunate for you. His Highness prefers those on death’s door to serve him."
"..."
This prince had those kinds of twisted tastes?!
Ye Ting’s face was a picture of disbelief.
In the end, she went anyway.
Led through winding corridors, she arrived at an extravagant pavilion that exuded an air of debauchery—the kind of place clearly meant for indulgent pleasures.
Before stepping inside, she glanced up and saw the enormous gilded characters spelling out "Copper Sparrow Tower." A wave of speechlessness washed over her. Almost immediately, she heard a sharp, startled cry from within—
The sound vanished as quickly as it had come, so fleeting it might have been an illusion. But Ye Ting knew better.
Everyone present had heard it. The old matron’s face paled instantly, though she forced herself to remain composed.
Ye Ting was "invited" inside. She took a deep breath, steadying herself.
A miscalculation. She truly hadn’t expected this short-lived Crown Prince to be such a troublemaker.
What now? Run?
That was laughable.
A defenseless woman like her, trapped here, had no chance of escape. And given her current physical state, forget breaking through a siege—she could barely manage a brisk walk.
Dragged forward, Ye Ting weighed her options with each heavy step.
"Your Highness, she has arrived," the old matron murmured toward a crystal screen.
Silence. The stillness was unnerving.
The matron, accustomed to her master’s reticence, bowed and retreated without another word. But before leaving, she shot Ye Ting a fierce, warning glare.
The message was clear: fail to serve well, and death awaited.
The loud click of the lock behind her drained all expression from Ye Ting’s face. No warning was needed—she knew the consequences.
Alone in the vast hall, Ye Ting stood rigidly before the screen. Incense smoke curled around the drapes, its delicate fragrance clinging to her, only deepening the chill creeping up her spine.
Holding her breath, she braced herself, waiting for the Crown Prince to speak.
But after an eternity, not a sound came from within.
After mentally cursing him three hundred times—"Are you mute, you pretentious bastard?"—she finally broke, resignation lacing her voice. "Your Highness. May this servant attend to you now?"
No response.
A flicker of hope. "Your Highness, if you remain silent, this servant will take her leave. Could you have someone unlock the door?"
Still nothing.
A sinking feeling took hold.
Her face paled as a thought struck her. Without hesitation, she shoved aside the screen and rushed inside.
Beyond it, the space unfolded unexpectedly—past the opulent inner chamber, through winding corridors, a side door led to a secluded courtyard.
Ye Ting followed the trail to an inner courtyard bathing pool.
Her gaze dropped to the damp floor, the scattered droplets resembling barefoot steps. Though nothing was there, the pattern eerily mimicked streaks of blood.
Then, as if confirming her horror-movie imagination, she spotted two figures slumped by the pool’s edge—lifeless.
Ye Ting nearly fainted on the spot.
Holy hell, is this a crime scene?!
"Help!! Is anyone there?! His Highness is in trouble!! Someone, come quick!!" Her voice cracked with panic as she checked the two for signs of life.
But whether the guards had been ordered to stand down or had already withdrawn after locking her in, no one came, no matter how desperately she screamed.
This reckless Crown Prince was about to get himself killed for real!
Frantic, Ye Ting took matters into her own hands. But her desperate attempts at resuscitation were futile—the woman on the ground was already gone.
A poorly concealed dagger peeked from the woman’s sleeve.
Ye Ting’s eye twitched. Slowly, stiffly, she turned to the figure leaning against a stone lantern—
The man’s crimson outer robe remained draped over his shoulders, his long, ink-black hair disheveled. His face, strikingly handsome, was pallid, almost ghostly in the misty haze. His eyes were closed, shadows of chronic illness darkening his features. He radiated frailty, as if life had already left him.
It was him.
The doomed Crown Prince.
Trapped in this nightmare, Ye Ting felt suffocated, her palms slick with cold sweat.
On her way here, she’d considered playing the useless bystander—endure a bit of interrogation, get tossed out, and fade into obscurity.
But she never imagined stumbling straight into the Crown Prince’s sudden death scene.
Sure, his early demise was expected, but why did she have to walk in on it? Now, this colossal blame would land squarely on her.
She briefly entertained the idea of walking away. But if the Crown Prince died here, regardless of the cause, as the last person to "serve" him, she’d be executed before she could plead innocence.
This… this was a meticulously crafted hellhole, tailor-made by the heavens to ruin her.
Ye Ting checked his pulse—barely there. "Your Highness! Wake up, Your Highness!"
She pressed her ear to his chest. Nothing. Panic surged.
With no time to think, she clumsily attempted CPR, though she had no idea if it would work.
"Your Highness? Your Highness, please wake up."
...
"Hey!! Is anyone out there?! He’s dying!!" Her voice shattered from screaming.
But the guards outside, bound by orders, remained inhumanly loyal. Unmoving.
Just a little longer, and their master would be beyond saving.
What’s the point then?!
...
Sweat dripped from Ye Ting’s brow. Exhaustion and despair gnawed at her. Maybe I should just give up, she thought.
But after a moment’s hesitation, she leaned down once more, listening for a heartbeat.
Silence.
Then—a cold hand clamped around the back of her neck.
