Xiyue's legs gave out.
She hit the dirt floor hard, but didn't feel it.
All her attention was on the woman in the doorway—the face from the original owner's memories, older now, more worn, but unmistakably the same.
"Nanny?"
The word came out broken.
Not her voice. Not her memories. But the emotions flooding through her were real enough to drown in.
The old woman stepped closer. Limping. One arm held at a strange angle—healed wrong, years ago.
Her eyes were clouded with age, but sharp. Assessing.
"You're not her," the woman said quietly.
"You wear her face. You have her voice. But you're not my Xiao Yue."
Xiao Yue. Little Yue.
The nickname the original owner hadn't heard since—
Xiyue's breath caught.
She knows. She can tell. How?
The woman sat down slowly, painfully, on an overturned crate near the cold hearth.
Her eyes never left Xiyue's face.
"I watched her grow up," she said.
"I held her when her mother died. I wiped her tears when the palace took her away. I know every expression she ever made."
A pause.
"You don't have any of them."
Xiyue's hand tightened on the knife. Then relaxed.
If this woman wanted her dead, she'd had plenty of chances already.
"I'm not her," Xiyue admitted.
The words felt strange—confessing to a stranger in an abandoned kitchen in another world.
"She died. Three days ago, maybe four. Her heart just... stopped. And then I woke up in her body."
The old woman nodded slowly. Like this made sense. Like people explained being possessed by dead souls every day.
"The gods work in strange ways," she said finally.
"Or maybe just cruel ones."
She coughed—a wet, rattling sound that spoke of lungs not long for this world.
"Either way, you're here now. And you found my food."
Her food.
The basket. The vegetables. The secret drop point.
"That's yours," Xiyue said. It wasn't a question.
"Every seven days, someone leaves supplies at the shed. Been happening for two years now. Keeps me alive."
The old woman's eyes narrowed.
"You took a radish."
Xiyue felt heat rise to her cheeks.
"I didn't know. I thought—I thought it was abandoned. I thought no one—"
"Stop." The woman held up a hand.
"I'm not angry. You're alive. That's more than I expected from anyone in this graveyard."
Another cough.
"Besides, I've been watching you. Three days now. You work hard. You don't give up. You killed a boar with a rusty knife and fought off rats with a pan."
A thin smile.
"I like you."
Xiyue didn't know what to say to that.
They sat in silence for a while.
The fire had died hours ago, but the morning light was growing stronger, pushing back the shadows.
Finally, the old woman spoke again.
"You found the handkerchief."
It wasn't a question.
Xiyue pulled it from her robe. The red silk caught the light, the plum blossom gleaming.
"How did you know?"
"Because I left it there."
The woman's voice was tired. Resigned.
"Three months ago. I was too weak to climb back down, dropped it on the wall. Couldn't reach it. Couldn't go back for it."
She looked at the handkerchief like it was a ghost.
"I thought I'd lost it forever."
Xiyue held it out.
"Here. It's yours."
The old woman didn't take it. Just stared.
"Do you know what that is, girl?"
"Silk. Expensive. Belonged to Consort Yao, apparently."
A bitter laugh.
"Belonged to. Yes. Once. Before she threw it in my face and told me I was worthless."
The words hung in the air.
Xiyue's mind raced. The nanny. Consort Yao. A connection she hadn't expected.
"You worked for her," Xiyue guessed.
"Before. When the original—when Xiao Yue was young. You worked for Consort Yao."
"I was her personal attendant for twelve years."
The old woman's voice was flat. Emotionless. Like she'd learned to bury everything long ago.
"Raised her from a child. Taught her everything she knows about palace politics. Loved her like my own daughter."
Loved. Past tense.
"What happened?"
A long silence. The woman's hands—twisted with age and hard work—clenched in her lap.
"She found out I had another loyalty. A little girl whose mother died. A little girl I'd promised to protect."
Her eyes met Xiyue's.
"Your girl. Xiao Yue. The one whose body you're wearing."
Xiyue's heart did that skip-thing, but for once it wasn't the heart condition.
"Consort Yao saw her as a threat," the woman continued.
"Not because of anything Xiao Yue did. Because of what she represented. A reminder that I had loved someone else before her. A reminder that I wasn't hers completely."
The nanny—Old Liu, the original owner had called her—had tried to protect Xiao Yue after her mother died.
Found her a place in the palace, a minor position, a chance to survive.
But Consort Yao had noticed. Had seen the way Old Liu looked at the girl.
Had grown jealous in a way that festered and rotted.
And then, two years ago, she'd acted.
Old Liu was accused of theft. Sent to the Cold Palace to die.
Xiao Yue, already a forgotten seventh-level concubine, was suddenly "relocated" to the same abandoned section.
Not because she'd done anything wrong. Because Consort Yao wanted her where she could be watched. Controlled. Eventually, eliminated.
"But she didn't kill you," Xiyue said. "Either of you. She just... left you here."
"Death would have been mercy." Old Liu's voice cracked.
"This place—it's slow. Years of hunger. Years of cold. Years of watching the girl I loved fade away while I couldn't help her."
She looked at Xiyue with those clouded eyes.
"I thought she died months ago. I stopped visiting her section. Couldn't bear to see it."
"She died four days ago," Xiyue said quietly.
"Alone. In a cell with no window. No one came."
Old Liu closed her eyes.
A single tear escaped, tracing a path through the dirt on her cheek.
"I know," she whispered.
"I know."
Another silence. Heavier this time.
Xiyue broke it.
"The food drops. Who leaves them?"
"Someone who still remembers me. A young servant girl I helped years ago. She risks her life every week to keep me alive."
Old Liu opened her eyes.
"She's the only reason I'm still here."
"And Consort Yao doesn't know?"
"If she did, the girl would be dead."
A pause.
"And so would I."
Xiyue thought about the system's warning. Fifteen percent potential enmity.
She hadn't even met Consort Yao yet, and already the woman had tried to kill her—well, tried to kill the body she was wearing.
"The handkerchief," she said. "Why did you keep it?"
Old Liu looked at the red silk like it was a poison.
"Because I'm stupid. Because I raised that girl. Because part of me still remembers the child she was before the palace twisted her."
She shook her head.
"I keep it to remind myself that monsters aren't born. They're made."
Xiyue didn't know what to say to that either.
The sun was fully up now.
Light streamed through the broken windows, turning the dusty kitchen almost beautiful.
Old Liu struggled to her feet. Winced. Held her twisted arm.
"I should go," she said.
"My shelter isn't far, but I need to rest. This conversation—"
She stopped, swallowed.
"It's been years since I talked to anyone."
Xiyue stood too.
"Will you come back?"
"Do you want me to?"
"Yes."
The word came out before Xiyue could think about it.
"I need—"
She stopped.
Company, she realized. I need company. I need to not be alone.
Old Liu studied her for a long moment. Then nodded slowly.
"I'll come back tomorrow. We'll talk more."
At the door, she paused.
"One thing, girl. The one who left you here—Consort Yao—she's not done with you. She doesn't know you're alive yet, but when she finds out..."
A shake of her head.
"She doesn't leave loose ends."
Then she was gone.
Xiyue stood in the empty kitchen, holding the red handkerchief.
Somewhere in the golden palace, a woman was going about her day. Beautiful. Powerful. Beloved.
And completely unaware that the girl she'd left to die was still breathing.
But not for long.
Because Xiyue had sixty hours left.
And now she knew that surviving wasn't enough.
She had to make Consort Yao believe she was dead.
Or find a way to become untouchable.
And there was only one person in this world powerful enough to make that happen.
The screaming emperor.