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"Little witch, don't forget your duties as the Supreme Demon Empress. Don't be late for your class today. This matter ends here—our discussion is over."
Mo Tian's words were cold and final. Without giving her a chance to respond, he pushed the door open and strode out, not even bothering to summon his servants. He would rather wash and change in his study—or in one of his other chambers—anywhere but here.
Although it amused him to tease the little witch, his temper was not something he trusted. If he lost control, he might terrify her—or worse, snap the life out of her—and that would destroy his only hope of unlocking his spirit beast side. A risk he could never afford to take.
Feng Ling's hands trembled. Rage burned in her chest as she shouted after him, her voice cracking, "Bastard!"
Her insult was swallowed by the silence he left behind. He hadn't even given her a chance to argue further—just dismissed her with a single phrase, as if her feelings meant nothing.
Grinding her teeth, Feng Ling forced herself to calm down. She had wanted to heal her sprained ankle with magic, but before she could, the door opened again. Zǐyān, Zhǐlán, and three other maidservants stepped inside.
They had clearly been waiting outside, for their worried expressions betrayed that they had overheard the quarrel.
"Greetings, Your Majesty, the Empress," they said in unison, bowing. "Rise." Feng Ling's voice was sharp, her anger spilling over. "And don't ever call me that again. I am not the Empress!"
She tried to stand, but the moment her sprained ankle bore her weight, pain shot up her leg. A sharp cry tore from her lips before she collapsed back onto the bed, drenched in cold sweat.
The maidservants froze, panic flashing in their eyes. Mo Tian's warning echoed in their minds: Watch her closely. Don't let her out of your sight. If anything happens to her life, it will be your heads.
Their backs grew damp with sweat, each of them silently terrified—not of Feng Ling's pain, but of the punishment they would suffer if they failed to protect her.
Although Mo Tian had ruled the demon realm for only three years, no one dared to cross him. Even the previous supreme demon emperor's old subordinates—who had yet to be dismissed from their posts—tread carefully around him. They all knew how ruthless Mo Tian could be, especially when angered.
Zhǐlán, the head maid personally appointed by Mo Tian, was the most anxious of them all. Her steps quickened as she rushed to Feng Ling's side, her face pale with worry.
"Your Highness, where does it hurt? Are you in pain?" she asked, her voice trembling more than Feng Ling's.
Feng Ling blinked in surprise at such deep concern, but she quickly composed herself. Zhǐlán was a fellow White Witch—a kin she felt a rare bond with in this foreign realm.
"I sprained my ankle," Feng Ling admitted softly, shifting her leg with difficulty and placing it back on the bed.
"Wait, let me heal it for you," Zhǐlán said firmly. She cupped Feng Ling's foot in her hands, her lips moving in a low chant.
A soft white glow filled the chamber, so bright that Zǐyān and the other maids shielded their eyes. The light pulsed gently, wrapping around Feng Ling's swollen ankle until, at last, it faded.
Zhǐlán lowered her hands, her touch lingering carefully over the once-swollen spot. "Does it still hurt your majesty?" she asked softly, worry still lacing her tone.
"It's alright now," Feng Ling replied, lowering her leg carefully to the floor.
"Then, Your Highness, please come take your bath so you may have breakfast. The concubines are already gathered in the main hall, waiting to pay their respects."
At the mention of the concubines, Feng Ling's expression darkened. It wasn't anger—nor jealousy over Mo Tian's women—that unsettled her. It was the thought of facing those scheming women who fought tooth and nail for a man that saw them as nothing more than tools.
Feng Ling despised such matters. She was not skilled in trickery or palace games, nor did she care to be. The more she involved herself with them, the greater the chance of falling into their traps.
It would be far better for her to focus on her true priorities: training under the teacher Mo Tian had assigned to strengthen her witch powers—or, more importantly, gathering information about Mo Tian to pass on to that man.
She had foolishly considered probing the concubines last night, hoping they might slip useful details. But in the cold light of morning, she realized how naïve that plan was. Those women were surely far more cunning than she; attempting to outwit them would only end in failure.
Still, no matter how much she disliked it, she had no choice. This was Mo Tian's realm, his palace, and she was trapped within it. Until she gained the strength to stand against him, she could only endure… and bide her time. One day, she would grow strong enough to kill him and avenge the unjust death of her family.
After bathing, Feng Ling dressed in a flowing purple demon robe embroidered with blooming peonies. Her hair was styled into the elaborate bun of a demon empress, a crown of quiet authority resting upon her head. Once she finished her meal, she strode toward the side hall, Zhǐlán, Zǐyān, and several maidservants trailing respectfully behind.
At their arrival, the guards announced her presence. Inside, five concubines who had been seated immediately rose to greet her.
"Greetings to the Empress," they chorused, bowing low.
Feng Ling glanced over the five concubines, meeting each of their stares in turn. Their eyes were sharp, filled with hostility that pressed against her like invisible blades. She exhaled silently. Fortunately, she held no true feelings for Mo Tian; with the blood feud between them, she could never imagine lowering herself to compete with these women for him.
Sensing the disrespect in their gazes, Zhǐlán, who stood behind her, stepped forward and snapped, "Preposterous! What insolence! How dare you look at the Empress in such a way?"
Startled, the concubines quickly averted their gazes, embarrassment flickering across their faces. But among them, Qing Yao—the favored one—clenched her fists at her side, anger simmering just beneath her painted smile.
Qing Yao's lips curved faintly, but her eyes smoldered with contempt. A weak little witch dares to sit above us as Empress? The thought hissed through her mind like venom. Just wait until this tea ceremony is over. Does she truly believe her fragile life will last long in this palace?