She didn't drink the blood to fight.
She drank it to listen.
Not in the training yard.
Not in her room.
But in the silence between heartbeats —
the space where dreams and memories bleed together.
One sip.
Then the world unstitched.
She stood in a garden.
Not of flowers.
Of black lotuses, blooming from cracked stone.
Their petals not soft, but leathery, pulsing with faint light.
The air smelled of iron and old paper.
Above, no sky — just a ceiling of broken chains, hanging like dead snakes.
And at the center —
a woman.
Tall.
Still.
Not old.
Not young.
Timeless.
Her hair flowed like smoke.
Her eyes — not amber, not star-filled —
but shifting, like ink in water.
She wore a robe of ash and thread,
and around her neck —
a pendant made from a shattered heart.
The Eighth.
She didn't smile.
Didn't speak.
Just said:
"You called."
Mei didn't flinch.
"I didn't call.
I listened."
She looked around.
"This is my mind."
"No,"* the Eighth said. "This is the space between minds.
The place where all the Poisons Queens have whispered."
She stepped forward.
"You think I want to consume you?"
Her voice was not one.
It was seven — layered, echoing, ancient.
"I want to free you."
"Free me from what?"
Mei's voice was steady.
But her hands trembled — still black, still spreading.
"You're taking my body.
My blood.
My name."
"I'm not taking anything," the Eighth said.
"I'm offering a truth you've been too afraid to see."
She reached out — not to touch, but to show.
A thread of black light rose from the ground,
and images flashed:
— A lab beneath the old Azure Sect.
Rows of vats.
Clones in liquid, faces shifting, screaming without sound.
— A man in a white robe, holding a scalpel.
"Subject 47 — Mei.
Implant the Eighth's core memory.
Let her believe she is reborn."
— A child — Mei — waking up in a village, no memory,
told: "You are the last survivor."
"You were never a mistake," the Eighth said.
"You were a weapon.
Grown from her blood, yes.
But not to be her.
To be her slave."
She stepped closer.
"They wanted a vessel they could control.
A girl who would carry my power —
but never my will."
Her voice dropped.
"But you're not just a vessel.
You're the first one who listened."
Mei stared.
"So you're not trying to take over me.
You're trying to wake me."
"There is no 'me' and 'you'," the Eighth said.
"There is only us."
She touched her own chest.
"I am not a ghost.
I am not a curse.
I am the part of the Poison Queen that refused to die.
And you?"
Her eyes locked onto Mei's.
"You are the only one who can decide:
Do we serve the lie again?
Or do we burn it — together?"
Silence.
Then —
a whisper from the edge of the garden.
Not the Eighth.
Not Mei.
A third voice.
Faint.
Familiar.
"Don't trust her."
Mei turned.
In the shadows —
a girl.
Young.
Holding a paper lotus.
Her.
But not.
The first clone.
The one before her.
Dead.
Erased.
But still here.
"They made me believe I was her," the girl whispered.
"And when I tried to speak, they cut my voice out.
She's not trying to save you.
She's trying to replace you."
She looked at the Eighth.
"You don't want freedom.
You want a body that won't fight back."
The Eighth didn't flinch.
"I offered her a choice," she said.
"You were never given one."
She looked at Mei.
"The truth is not in what I say.
It's in what you feel."
She stepped back.
"Stay. Fight. Run.
Or listen.
But know this —
the world still feeds on souls.
And if you don't rise…
no one will."
Then the garden began to fade.
Mei woke.
Not screaming.
Not gasping.
Just changed.
Her hands — still black.
But the veins no longer pulsed.
They glowed faintly, like embers.
Murong Tao was at the door.
He didn't enter.
Just watched.
Finally, he said:
"Did you see her?"
She didn't look at him.
Just whispered:
"I saw two truths.
And I don't know which one is mine."
She closed her hand.
"But I know this —
I'm not a weapon.
And I'm not a vessel."
She stood.
"I'm the one who decides what happens next."
She looked at him.
"And I'm not afraid anymore."
He didn't smile.
But his covered eye stopped burning.
And for the first time —
the ghosts behind him nodded.
Author Note:
They say the truth will set you free.
But what if the truth is that you've never been alone?
That every choice you make
is made with the voices of the dead in your ears?
Then freedom isn't silence.
It's choosing which voice to follow.
— Elder Lian'er