The palace never slept. Even after midnight, the corridors hummed faintly with the steps of patrolling guards, the faint jingling of bronze bells, and the sigh of the wind pushing against crimson silk banners. For the first time, Li Yue noticed everything clearly—every crack in the walls, every shadow behind the lanterns, every whisper drifting in the night.
In her past life, she had ignored these details, living like a caged bird that had already given up on flight. This time, her eyes were open.
She sat cross-legged on her narrow bed, staring at her hands. They were soft, still unmarked by poison or chains. Her heart pounded with a rhythm she hadn't felt in years—hope.
So it's true. I've come back to the beginning.
But another thought crept in, chilling her blood: Why me?
The answer surfaced as quickly as the question. Her memories weren't just her own. They were interwoven with scenes from a novel—a book she had once read in her first life outside this world. In that story, she wasn't the heroine. She wasn't even the villainess. She was the forgettable concubine, a stepping stone for the real heroine's rise.
Her role had been pitiful: mocked, discarded, falsely accused, executed. A mere plot device.
Yet here she was, alive again inside the very story that had sealed her fate.
She pressed a hand over her chest, her nails biting into her palm. If the heavens cast me into the role of cannon fodder, then I will shatter the script. If this is a story, then I will no longer follow its lines.
At dawn, the palace stirred awake. Drums rolled, signaling the emperor's court assembly. Servants rushed through the courtyards with trays of food and scrolls.
An Ruo helped Li Yue dress. "My Lady, do you wish to attend the morning banquet? His Majesty is expected to greet the ministers."
In her past life, Li Yue had avoided such gatherings. Being overlooked felt safer than attracting scorn. But today, she hesitated. She remembered that at this very banquet, Lady Wan had first appeared—delicate, weeping, claiming to have been bullied. The emperor had been instantly captivated.
But that wouldn't happen for another month. Which meant… Li Yue still had time.
"No," she finally said. "I will not attend today. I need to prepare."
An Ruo tilted her head, confused. "Prepare, My Lady?"
Li Yue smiled faintly, though her eyes were sharp. "Prepare to live."
The morning passed in silence. Li Yue sat at her desk, writing furiously with a brush. She drafted a map of the palace from memory: where the emperor liked to walk, where the empress's allies whispered behind screens, where the eunuchs exchanged favors. In her past life, she had been blind to all of it. This time, knowledge would be her armor.
By midday, her brush hand ached. She flexed her fingers and whispered, "I must move carefully. Too much too soon will draw suspicion."
Her plan was simple: survive. Protect An Ruo. Gain allies slowly. And when Lady Wan entered the stage, Li Yue would be waiting—with weapons hidden behind her smile.
As the sun set, she stared at the crimson sky. "The novel's heroine may think the world bends for her. But the story is mine now."
For the first time in her life—past or present—Li Yue felt something bloom in her chest. Not love. Not loyalty.
Ambition.