The last thing Dr. Anya Sharma remembered was the blinding flash of a surgical light. She had been in the middle of a complex neurosurgery, her hands steady, her mind sharp. One second, she was meticulously clamping an aneurysm; the next, a searing pain had consumed her, followed by a terrifying, silent darkness.
She woke to a gentle, floral scent, not the sterile scent of an operating room, and the uncomfortable feeling of silk against her skin. It was an unfamiliar sensation, far from the crisp scrubs she was used to. A soft, hazy light filtered through a window of rice paper, illuminating a room that looked like a scene from an ancient period drama. Lacquered wood furniture, scrolls on the wall, and the faint, tinkling sound of a wind chime. This couldn't be a hospital.
A soft groan escaped her lips. A young servant girl, no older than fifteen, who had been sitting by the bedside, immediately bowed her head. "Master Physician, you are awake! Thank the heavens."
"Master Physician?" Anya's voice came out as a man's, deep and unfamiliar. She bolted upright, her mind racing. It was her body, but... no. It was a man's body. She ran her hands through her hair, which was long and tied back. Panic began to claw at her. She felt the stubble on her chin, the broadness of her shoulders. This was a nightmare. A terrifying, nonsensical nightmare.
"What... what is this?" she stammered, looking at her hands. They were strong and calloused, nothing like her own delicate surgeon's hands. She felt a strange ache in her muscles, a soreness that hinted at a life of hard work, not one spent standing in a clean, air-conditioned operating room.
The servant girl looked up, her face filled with concern. "Master? Are you well? You hit your head badly when you fell." She gestured to a small, bloodied cloth on the floor. "You were delirious for a whole day."
Before Anya could process her situation, a new voice, laced with an almost regal impatience, cut through the air. "Is he awake yet? The Empress demands his presence." A tall, stern-faced eunuch stood in the doorway, his robes of deep violet. He looked at Anya with a mix of disdain and urgency. His eyes were cold, like chips of obsidian.
"He is, sir," the servant stammered, her gaze fixed on the floor.
The eunuch stepped forward, his eyes narrowing. "The Empress's condition has worsened. If you cannot find a cure, the Emperor's patience will run out. And so will your head." He stared at Anya, then scoffed. "And to think, you are the kingdom's only hope."
Anya's mind reeled. Empress? Emperor? Kingdom? The eunuch's words felt like a death sentence. And then, a sudden, powerful wave of memories that weren't her own flooded her consciousness—memories of herbs, ancient texts, and a life dedicated to medicine. She was a physician named Li Wei, renowned for his skill, but now, he had a task that everyone else had failed. He was the last one left.
The eunuch gestured impatiently. "Get up, Master Physician. The Empress is waiting. She is not a patient woman, and her condition will not wait for you to find your wits."
With a terrifying jolt, Anya realized the full, dreadful truth. She wasn't just a surgeon anymore. She was Li Wei. And the fate of a kingdom, and her own life, depended on her. Her blood ran cold. The aneurysm she had been operating on suddenly seemed like a simple case in comparison to this impossible, life-or-death diagnosis.