The shame came first.
Not pain. Not confusion.
Shame.
It clung to the air like damp silk — thick, suffocating, impossible to ignore. The kind of shame that lives in the hush between voices, in the way a servant looks down when you pass, in the way your own mother won't meet your eyes at dinner.
I was fifteen.
And I was nothing.
They'd just finished measuring my cultivation base in the Grand Courtyard — a ritual for every Lin heir on their fifteenth winter. A formality, really. For the others, it was a celebration. For me?
A public autopsy.
"Qi Condensation Stage… Level 2," Elder Mo had announced, voice flat, as if reading a death notice.
A ripple of laughter followed. Soft, like the rustle of snakes through dry grass.
Level 2.
Out of 9.
My cousin, Lin Rui, had reached Level 6 last year. My younger brother — younger, but already taller, louder, more seen — had cracked Level 4 at thirteen.
And me?
I was the Weak One.
"The body is weak," Elder Mo said, "but perhaps the mind is salvageable. Any talent in alchemy? Divination? Beast affinity?"
My hands trembled in my lap. Not from fear. Not from sadness.
From rage.
Because I remembered.
I remembered dissolving a sect master's bones with a drop of dew.
I remembered writing the Treatise on Silent Death — studied now in forbidden libraries.
I remembered the night Prince Wei kissed me… and buried the dagger in my spine.
And now I was back.
Back in this frail body.
Back in this house of vipers.
Back ten years before the wedding.
But I wasn't her anymore.
I wasn't the timid, stuttering Lin Xiyue who flinched when shouted at, who burned her alchemy pills, who begged for scraps of affection.
I was Xiyue.
The Poison Queen.
And this time, I wouldn't wait to be erased.
They sent me to my room after the ceremony. No punishment. No scolding. Just silence — the cruelest sentence of all.
The room was small, cold, the tatami worn at edges. A single window faced the garden, where peonies bloomed in careless beauty. My mother had once told me they were my favorite.
I didn't remember loving them.
I didn't remember her.
I sat on the edge of the bed, fingers pressing into the wooden frame. The body was weak, yes. But the mind?
Sharper than a scalpel.
I closed my eyes and reached.
Not for Qi. Not yet.
For memory.
The poison formulas came first — etched into my soul like scripture.
Venom of the Hollow Moon — paralyzes in seven breaths.
Dew of the Black Lotus — induces madness, leaves no trace.
Ash That Whispers — kills slowly, makes the victim thank you on their deathbed.
Then the alchemy sequences.
The pressure points that stop a heart with a touch.
The herbs that bloom only in cursed soil.
And then — the faces.
Prince Wei.
Su Lian.
My so-called father, who signed the marriage decree with a smile.
They were all still alive.
And they had no idea what was coming.
A knock.
The door creaked open. My maid, Lian'er, slipped in with a tray of tea. Her eyes were red.
"Miss," she whispered, "I'm so sorry."
I didn't answer.
She set the tea down. Steamed rice, pickled radish, a single boiled egg — the meal of a servant.
"They say you'll never cultivate," she said. "That you'll be married off to a minor official. A quiet life."
I looked at her. Really looked.
She flinched.
Good.
"Lian'er," I said, voice quiet, "do you know what happens when you feed a dog the same scraps every day?"
She blinked. "It… stays loyal?"
I smiled. A small thing. Cold.
"No. It learns to expect scraps. And when you offer it meat… it doesn't even recognize it."
I picked up the teacup.
The scent hit me instantly.
Jade Dew Root.
Mild. Harmless — to most.
But for someone with a weak Qi pathway?
It dulls the mind. Slows reaction.
Perfect for keeping a "weak" girl… in her place.
Someone had dosed my tea.
Mother?
The elder?
Or was this just habit — a little poison to keep the useless daughter quiet?
I didn't know.
And for the first time in this body…
I didn't care.
I stood, walked to the window, and poured the tea onto the soil beneath the peonies.
The flowers wilted in seconds.
Lian'er gasped.
I turned to her.
"Tell the kitchen," I said, "that from now on, I drink only boiled water.
And tell them —
if anything touches my food that I didn't see them prepare… I'll burn their kitchen to the ground."
Her mouth opened. Closed.
I sat back down.
And waited.
Because this wasn't the beginning.
This was the first move.
And the game had just begun.
Author Note:
They always start by calling her weak.
They never learn that the quiet ones aren't afraid.
They're just deciding how slowly to kill you.
— Gopalakrishna