Xiyue didn't sleep.
The rock stayed in her hand until dawn, her knuckles white around it, her eyes fixed on the door.
Every creak made her flinch.
Every rustle of wind made her reach for the knife.
But the assassins didn't come back.
By the time gray light started seeping through the cracks, her whole body ached from tension.
Her hand was numb from gripping the rock.
Her heart had done the flutter-skip thing at least six times.
She was exhausted.
She was terrified.
And her brain wouldn't stop working.
The Emperor has crises, she thought.
Regular ones, by the sound of it.
Bad enough that guards are dismissed. Bad enough that even his favorite concubine won't stay in the room.
Her surgical mind started clicking through possibilities.
Seizures?
Possible. The aggression fit. The post-ictal confusion. But seizures didn't usually cause the kind of systemic chaos that required everyone to clear out.
Migraines?
Also possible. Severe ones could cause temporary blindness, vomiting, sensitivity to everything.
But the screaming—that primal, animal screaming—didn't match.
Chronic poisoning.
She'd seen cases. Not many—modern medicine caught most things early. But there were stories. Historical accounts. Rulers slowly poisoned over years, developing mysterious symptoms that came and went.
Tremors. Pain. Mood swings. Hallucinations.
Heavy metals, she thought.
Lead. Mercury. Arsenic.
Administered in small doses over time, building up in tissues, causing periodic crises when the body tries to purge.
The symptoms fit.
The secrecy fit.
The way everyone stayed away during episodes—either from fear or because they knew what was happening and didn't want to be blamed.
He's been poisoned since childhood, the system had said.
Since childhood.
Someone had been feeding him toxins for most of his life.
Xiyue stood up.
Paced.
Sat down.
Stood up again.
Her medical training was screaming at her.
Acute poisoning episodes required intervention. Supportive care. Hydration. Sometimes chelation agents if available—but they wouldn't be available here.
This world didn't have modern medicine.
But it had herbs. It had traditional remedies.
And she had knowledge—not of Chinese medicine, but of human anatomy, of how toxins worked, of what the body needed to survive.
If I could get close during a crisis, she thought. If I could help him through it—
She'd be valuable.
Maybe valuable enough to protect.
Maybe valuable enough that Consort Yao couldn't touch her.
The system flickered on.
[Medical analysis: 87% probability of chronic heavy metal poisoning.]
[Target: Ye Rong (Emperor)]
[Note: Traditional physicians unable to diagnose. Symptoms attributed to "demonic possession" or "heaven's punishment."]
"Demonic possession," Xiyue muttered.
"Of course. Because that's easier than admitting someone's been poisoning the Emperor for twenty years."
[Cultural context: Poisoning implies vulnerability. Demons imply external forces. Easier to blame demons.]
"Yeah. Sure." She kept pacing.
"What kind of heavy metals? Do you know?"
[Insufficient data. Recommend direct observation during crisis.]
"Direct observation." She laughed—a short, hysterical sound.
"Walk into the room while the demon-possessed emperor is having a seizure and say 'hey, let me take a look'?"
[Risky. But potentially effective.]
"That's one word for it."
She stopped pacing.
Stared at the wall.
The assassins would come back. Not today, maybe. Not tomorrow. But eventually. And when they did, they wouldn't be interrupted by alarms.
Fifty-something hours, she thought.
That's all I have.
Either I die from heart failure, or I die from Consort Yao's men, or I take an insane risk and maybe—maybe—get close enough to the one person who can keep me alive.
The math wasn't complicated.
[Bond Expansion Mission Activated!]
[Objective: Gather information about the "Emperor's Crisis."]
[Reward: Unlock [Advanced Diagnosis] function.]
[Risk: Extremely High.]
Xiyue stared at the words.
Advanced Diagnosis.
That could change everything.
If she could diagnose him accurately, she could treat him. If she could treat him, she'd be indispensable. If she was indispensable—
If.
If.
If.
"I know," she whispered. "I know it's insane. I know the risks."
"But what choice do I have?"
The system didn't answer.
It didn't need to.
She spent the morning preparing.
More mugwort tea—anti-inflammatory, calming.
Boar meat for energy.
Water, as much as she could carry.
The knife, sharpened on a stone until it could almost cut.
And the red handkerchief. She didn't know why she kept it. Maybe as proof. Maybe as a reminder of what she was fighting against.
At midday, she went to find Old Liu.
The old woman was awake this time, sitting outside her shelter, soaking in the weak sun. She looked better—less gray, more alive. The meat had helped.
"You're leaving," Old Liu said. Not a question.
"How did you know?"
"The way you walk. The way you carry yourself." She coughed.
"You're going to the main palace. To him."
Xiyue nodded.
Old Liu was quiet for a long moment.
Then she reached into her robes and pulled out something small—a jade pendant, worn smooth with age.
"This belonged to Xiao Yue's mother. I kept it after she died. Meant to give it to the girl when she was older." She held it out.
"Take it. For luck."
Xiyue's throat tightened.
"I can't. It's yours. It's—"
"She's dead. You're alive." Old Liu's eyes were wet but steady.
"That means something. I don't know what. But it means something."
Xiyue took the pendant.
It was warm from the old woman's skin.
"Thank you."
"Come back." Old Liu's voice cracked.
"Whatever happens out there—come back. I've lost too many people."
Xiyue wanted to promise. Wanted to say yes, of course, I'll be back.
But she wasn't a liar.
"I'll try," she said.
Old Liu nodded.
Like that was enough.
The walk to the main palace felt different in daylight.
Longer.
More exposed.
The minimap guided her through back paths and servant passages, keeping her out of sight, but every sound made her jump.
Every shadow could be an assassin.
She reached the wall.
The small gate.
The other side.
Chaos.
Not the organized chaos of last night—this was different. Servants cleaning. Guards repositioning. The aftermath of crisis.
People moved quickly, quietly, eyes down.
No one looked at her.
No one ever looked at her.
She slipped through the crowds toward the main hall. The minimap pulsed.
[Target location: Main Hall. East wing. Private chambers.]
[Current status: Recovering. Alone.]
Alone.
After a crisis, he was alone. No guards. No servants. No Consort Yao.
This is it, she thought. This is the moment.
Her heart did the flutter-thing.
She ignored it.
The east wing was quieter.
Fewer servants. More guards—but they were at the ends of hallways, watching outward, not inward. Protecting against external threats. Not expecting anyone from inside.
She found the door.
Wooden, carved with dragons, slightly ajar.
Through the gap, she could see him.
On a bed. Not the throne—a bed, simple by palace standards, pushed against the wall.
He was lying on his side, facing away from her.
His breathing was ragged. Uneven.
His hand—the one she could see—was bandaged. Fresh blood seeping through.
He hurts himself during crises, she realized.
Claws at himself. Punches walls. Fights his own body.
The surgeon in her wanted to go in. To check his vitals. To stop the bleeding. To help.
The survivor in her said: He kills people who get too close.
She hesitated.
And then his voice—hoarse, broken, barely a whisper—drifted through the gap:
"Who's there?"