Chapter 1

Forbidden City.

It was the third month, the season when warmth teases but the cold still lingers.

Last night, a sudden spring rain descended, a persistent drizzle shrouded in mist. It lasted no more than two hours before it ceased, yet it swept away the city’s gloom as though dark clouds had been brushed aside, leaving the entire Forbidden City fresh and renewed, its surface still and mirror-like.

Not far from the palace, tucked among a cluster of side rooms, a dimly lit chamber held a slender figure sprawled weakly by the bedside. Her expression was listless, her clear eyes shadowed with despair as they slowly drifted over every inch of the wooden furnishings.

She sighed softly, her tone heavy with melancholy. Then, with effort, she pushed herself upright, her long, black hair tumbling disheveled over her shoulders and the bedding, though she had no mind to care for it.

Sitting up, Li Shuyiao raised a hand to rub at the corners of her eyes, sore and dry from a night of weeping, only to wince as she tugged at the bruises on her cheeks—raw and stinging from having been slapped ten times, with no cooling ointment applied yet. The pain on her tender cheeks rivaled any pain at her eyes.

She had no choice but to lower her hand, slide out of bed, and, guided by memories not her own, found a basin of cold water behind a screen in the corner.

She took a clean cloth from the shelf, dampened it, folded it again and again before laying it horizontally across her swollen eyelids. The sensation was like a basin of icy water poured over her head, the fog in her mind clearing in an instant—

Li Shuyiao had crossed over to this world eight hours ago.

Before this, she had been an ordinary second-year university student, the semester just begun. One night, climbing out of bed, she misstepped, her right foot slipping into empty air. Her head crashed into the iron ladder at her roommate’s bed, and before she could even feel the pain, she sank into darkness.

When she regained consciousness, exhaustion weighed heavy on her, her cheeks burning and throbbing, her eyes leaden, dry and sore—as if she’d cried without pause for hundreds of days and nights.

Before her was a soft wooden bed neatly made. Overwhelmed with fatigue, she’d thought nothing of it, kicked off her shoes, crawled in, pulled up the covers, closed her eyes, and slept, not truly waking until half an hour ago.

Upon waking, memories that belonged to someone else overwhelmed her, and the antiquated décor around her left Li Shuyiao facing a cruel truth—

She had transmigrated.

She had entered a Qing dynasty palace intrigue novel she’d read over the summer break, becoming a minor character with barely two and a half chapters of presence, whose death was both pitiful and grisly.

What’s more, this hapless character shared her exact name.

For a moment, Li Shuyiao couldn’t tell which of them was more unfortunate.

Her only comfort was that, upon noticing the cannon fodder character bore her name while reading, she’d paid extra attention to those sections—though memorizing the entire novel was, of course, impossible. The original book spanned over two million words, detailing in vivid detail how the palace maid Wuya rose from a menial servant to the Empress Dowager of a new dynasty. The narrative was rife with betrayals, loss and restoration of favor, emotional awakenings, and ruthless calculations, culminating in her supporting her own son, Fourteenth Prince Aisin Gioro Yinti, to ascend the throne and ushering in decades of regency.

A deeply fictionalized account, wildly at odds with real history!

Li Shuyiao hadn’t truly memorized the novel, just skimmed several times and noted the major plot points—especially the scenes concerning “Li Shuyiao,” almost carving each word into her mind.

Originally, “Li Shuyiao” came from one of the five banners under the Han army, and entered the palace through the selection process last year. Among the other palace maids selected with her were two key figures: Wuya herself, later known as Empress Xiaogongren and mother of Yongzheng, and Lady Wanliuha, the famed consort of Kangxi known for her longevity.

All three were fortunate; they were assigned duties near the Palace of Heavenly Purity.

Three months ago, another selection was held. This year’s process was less successful, yielding only two-thirds as many chosen maids. With a grand bestowal of concubines scheduled for late August, most new maids were sent to the Eastern and Western Six Palaces, leaving the staff around the Palace of Heavenly Purity largely unchanged.

All, that is, except for one.

That exception was the major antagonist of the novel, Lady Guoluo, famed in history for her beauty and later known as Consort Yi. For reasons unknown, the Imperial Household sent her directly to the Palace of Heavenly Purity. The supervising matrons treated her with unusual warmth, giving her special care during her shifts—which quickly made the other maids hostile toward her.

Yet “Li Shuyiao,” being rather blunt, took a liking to her beauty and began addressing her as “sister.” Before long, a close friendship formed, with Wuya and Wanliuha joining their circle, and together they unwittingly isolated the other maids.

But fortune was fleeting. Ten days ago, due to a rotation of duties, Lady Guoluo, substituting for “Li Shuyiao” as storeroom guard, caught the eye of the Kangxi Emperor, who was there to select gifts. She was immediately appointed an official maid, received imperial favor, and soon after became a regular consort.

According to the novel, Lady Guoluo remained at the rear quarters of the Palace of Heavenly Purity for three months, then in the sixteenth year of Kangxi’s reign, was promoted to Noble Lady Yi and unusually granted residence in the main hall of the Palace of Tranquil Harmony. By the August investiture, she was promoted again to Imperial Concubine Yi and became principal of her palace. In the twentieth year, she ascended further to consort, her influence unrivaled.

These events matched historical records.

Thereafter, however, the story diverged wildly. Lady Guoluo repeatedly found herself at odds with the protagonist Wuya, who, still harboring affection for Kangxi, bore each affront with patience. Not until the thirty-seventh year, when Wuya’s twelve-year-old daughter, Princess Seven, perished in palace strife and Kangxi showed not the slightest concern—remaining for days in the Palace of Tranquil Harmony—did Wuya see her husband’s true nature.

With love abandoned, her reprisals grew ever more ruthless.

The eldest prince was confined; the crown prince deposed; the third scolded harshly; the fourth disfigured; the fifth exiled from the capital; the eighth set himself on fire; the ninth assassinated; the tenth, though escaping death, spent his remaining years bedridden; the eleventh was poisoned in infancy; the thirteenth, after nearly drowning as a child, grew up timid and of little use.

Of all the adult princes, only the seventh and twelfth met a peaceful end.

From the forty-seventh year, concubines in the palace began dying mysteriously; in the fifty-first, the emperor himself succumbed, his body ravaged by slow poison. On his deathbed, his will was altered by Wuya, clearing the way for the Fourteenth Prince to ascend and Wuya to rule as regent.

The antagonist Lady Guoluo’s downfall came even sooner. Around the fortieth year, Wuya’s agents led her astray, ensnaring her in addiction...

Her fate was sealed.

The chilled cloth over Li Shuyiao’s swollen eyes soon absorbed her body heat, its coolness fading away. She removed it, rinsed it in the basin, wrung it out, and this time unfolded the damp cloth and pressed it over her entire face.

The cold stung her already inflamed cheeks, heightening the pain until it felt as though her very soul ached.

Li Shuyiao endured with tightly knit brows, only removing the cloth after the worst of it had passed and tossing it back into the basin.

She moved to the dressing table, took up a blurry bronze mirror, and studied her reflection. Thankfully, her face was not disfigured—though the injuries looked severe.

Setting the mirror aside, she replayed the novel’s plot in her mind, confirming the timeline. She then picked up a box of white powder, carefully concealed the red marks on her face in the dim light, and swiftly returned to the bed, drawing the curtains down on either side to hide herself in shadow.

She didn’t have to wait long before someone knocked cautiously at the door, and a clear, pleasant woman’s voice drifted in, “Shuyiao, are you inside?”

Li Shuyiao made no response.

The knocking came again.

Feigning just-awoken drowsiness, Li Shuyiao coughed softly and replied in a weak voice, “I’m here, come in.”

She reassured herself: the protagonist at this point was still gentle, not yet ruthless, and just another palace maid. There was nothing to fear.

Yes, nothing to fear.

Still, she instinctively shrank further beneath the quilt, hiding her lower face in the pale, cloud-patterned coverlet.

The instant she spoke, the door creaked open. The visitor did not enter immediately, but stood at the threshold, watching for a moment before finally stepping inside.

She moved slowly, her soft cloth shoes making no sound—expected, for in the Palace of Heavenly Purity, even those on the periphery had to be light of foot and silent in all things.

Otherwise, what if the master was disturbed?

Wuya soon reached Li Shuyiao’s bedside. Likely just off duty, she wore a light green maid’s robe, her hair arranged in neat twin loops, simply adorned with two plain silver hairpins.

Her figure was delicate and graceful, and as she walked, her slender waist swayed, her wrist sending the silk handkerchief trailing in the air with calculated elegance. Every gesture was artfully designed.

She didn’t seem to be visiting out of concern, but rather... to show off.

Only the original “Li Shuyiao” had failed to notice, not only confiding in her as a close friend after Lady Guoluo’s “betrayal,” but also sharing grievances about Lady Guoluo and revealing her own desires. Ultimately, she became Wuya’s pawn, used to test the waters, and after a failed attempt to climb into the emperor’s bed, was sentenced to death by caning on the emperor’s orders—her entire existence summed up in just two and a half chapters, barely seven or eight days.

Thinking of this, Li Shuyiao regretted letting her in—she should have just pretended to be asleep.

“Shuyiao, how are your injuries?” Wuya’s gentle inquiry broke the silence.

Li Shuyiao flinched under the covers but quickly composed herself, sitting up weakly and leaning against the headboard. She raised the curtain just enough to show half her face, her gaze watery as she answered in a soft, aggrieved voice, “It’s... it’s nothing now.”

Wuya’s face softened instantly.

She came closer, lifted the curtain fully, exposing Li Shuyiao, and sat by her side. Concern and care were perfectly painted on her delicate, fair features. “As long as you’re all right,” she said.

“I heard from Yue Shu after I got off duty last night that you were punished by Matron Jiya. I was so worried, I wanted to come right away. But Yue Shu reminded me it was nearly lights-out, and if I came to see you, I might not make it back in time and would be punished by Matron Jiya as well.”

Wuya sighed. “Yue Shu also said you must have felt so wronged, and if you knew I was punished for visiting, you’d feel even worse. So I didn’t come.”

“Shuyiao, you’re not angry, are you?”

Li Shuyiao shook her head at once. “Of course not, how could I be angry with you?”

“I’m just happy you came at all.”

…Not at all.

Wuya smiled, reaching out to gently touch Li Shuyiao’s cheek, her tone full of pity. “Let me see… is it much better now?”

Her fingertips were soft and warm, yet Li Shuyiao felt as if a cold, venomous serpent had fixed its gaze on her, a chill racing up her spine.

She dug her nails into her palm, keeping her face composed and replied obediently, “It’s much better now—perhaps Matron Jiya didn’t use much force.”

“I see,” Wuya murmured, her dark eyes suddenly growing deep and inscrutable.

Li Shuyiao looked at her and thought: ...

Help.