The smell of blood.
That was the first concrete sensation to pierce the fog of my returning consciousness.
It wasn't the metallic tang of rust, nor the sharp sting of disinfectant. It was something far more primal—a warm, fishy stench so thick it made me want to retch.
I opened my eyes.
What greeted me was not the vaulted ceiling of the UCLA library, nor the white walls and black tiles of my ancestral home in Shaoxing.
It was the sky.
An alien, vast sky that pressed down on my chest, suffocating. The moon hung overhead, unreal in its size, like a pale, unblinking eye coldly surveying the earth.
I was lying on rough ground, my back digging into gravel, covered by an animal pelt. The texture was coarse, carrying the specific stink of fur and the scent of dust.
My mind felt like it had been churned in a blender.
Fragments of my last memories were still struggling to surface: the professor's voice in my Educational Psychology class, the blinking cursor on my laptop screen, the half-finished paragraph of my thesis"Early Intervention and Behavioral Correction for Problem Children"...
And then?
Then, nothing.
I tried to sit up, but my arms wouldn't obey. My fingers sank into the soft earth, dirt and unknown grass debris packed under my fingernails.
I stopped.
Not because of the pain.
But because I suddenly realized something—
My thesis would never be finished.
Two years of tracking data, interview records for twelve case studies, four drafts of a research framework.
Gone.
The thought pierced my chaotic mind like a needle so fine it didn't hurt, yet it was sharp. Sharp enough to make my eyes sting.
I didn't cry.
I just lay there under that alien sky, staring at the overly bright moon, quietly confirming one thing:
I wasn't going back.
Then, I heard sounds.
Boots crunching on gravel.
More than one person.
I turned my head stiffly.
A dozen paces away, several figures stood.
No, not "stood"—they were "surrounding" me.
They wore furs and rough cloth, curved blades at their waists, their faces weathered by wind and sand into rough angles. The tallest one, a leader, had a beard covering half his face, leaving only his eyes exposed, which were undeniably scrutinizing me.
The language they spoke was unintelligible. The syllables were staccato, like stones clashing, bearing no resemblance to Chinese.
But the intent in their tone needed no translation.
Contempt.
Inspection.
As if discussing a piece of cargo.
The leader squatted down.
His rough fingers pinched my chin, wrenching my face toward the moonlight. The calluses on his fingertips scraped against my skin, the pressure hard enough to make my jawbone creak.
Pain.
My eyes stung, but I didn't flinch.
In my crisis intervention course at UCLA, I had learned a lesson that stuck with me:When facing a completely uncontrollable environment, showing weakness does not buy safety; it only accelerates your demise.
Stay calm. Observe. Find the rules. Then survive.
"Do you speak Tangut?" the man asked.
This time, I understood—not everything, but keywords floated up from the stream of alien syllables like stones from a riverbed.
Speak. Tangut. ?
My throat was as dry as sandpaper. I opened my mouth, and the voice that came out sounded foreign even to me. "A... little."
The man raised an eyebrow, seemingly surprised.
He released my chin, stood up, and dusted off his knees as if brushing off something worthless.
"The Prince's residence lacks a literate Han person," he said in stiff Chinese. "If you behave, you will live."
Prince.
These two words pierced my chaotic mind like a needle.
"Which Prince?" I asked. My voice was steadier than I expected.
The man had already turned to leave. He glanced back, his expression treating me like an ignorant fool.
"Western Xia. Which other Prince?"
Western Xia.
I understood these two words. In the fragmented memories of the original host, these words carried an instinctual fear—they belonged to the people who kidnapped her, the ones who burned her home.
But what surfaced in my mind was something else.
My major at UCLA was Educational Psychology, focusing on "Child Behavioral Development and Problem Intervention." My thesis was titledEarly Correction Strategies for Aggressive Tendencies in Children.
And Li Yuanhao.
The founding Emperor of Western Xia. A military genius. He went to the battlefield at eleven.
Later, he became a tyrant.
He stole his son's wife, killed his own empress, and bled to death after his nose was cut off by his son.
History described him as "heroic and strategic," but also as "tyrannical and debauched in his later years."
But my profession told me—no one is born a tyrant.
That aggression, that need for control, that indifference to others... if it had been seen and intervened with during his childhood, would the outcome have been different?
My thesis was written for children like him.
I just never expected that one day I would actually face one.
At this moment, the moon over this grassland was shining on me.
And the man I had written thirty thousand words analyzing was likely nearby.
Perhaps eleven years old. Perhaps already having killed. Perhaps staring at me, this new Han woman, with eyes recorded in history as "round-faced, high-nosed, and heroically unassailable."
My fingers dug into the dirt.
Not out of fear.
But a feeling I couldn't quite name. Like standing on the edge of a cliff looking down—you know you should be terrified, but something inside you is rising up.
The man shoved me. "Move."
I stumbled, following the group forward.
The moon followed behind me, like an eye refusing to close.
I did not look back.
In the distance.
The youth stood in the shadows of the tent.
Moonlight couldn't reach his face, only the edge of the short blade in his hand.
There was still blood on the blade that hadn't been wiped clean. Not from today—from yesterday. The day before as well. Blood from the battlefield had seeped into the grain of the steel; no matter how much he wiped, a dark layer remained.
Someone spoke softly behind him: "Prince, the person has been brought. A Han woman."
The youth said nothing.
He had heard the commotion earlier. They were discussing this Han woman—saying she didn't cry or make a scene, saying she could speak Tangut, saying her eyes weren't those of a slave.
Not like a slave.
The youth flipped the blade over. Moonlight slid across the steel like cold water.
He remembered his father's words:"The Han are weak and untrustworthy."
But his father had also said:"There is wisdom in Han books. You must learn."
So, three Han tutors had already cycled through his tent.
The first two he had driven away with his temper. The third he had scared off with a knife.
Those people all feared him.
Father said it was right to fear him. He was a Prince, the future King of Western Xia. Everyone should fear him.
The youth sheathed his blade.
"Let her come see me."
His voice was light, like the sound of night wind blowing through withered grass on the steppe.
But the attendant behind him couldn't help but lower his head.
Because there was something in that voice that didn't belong to a youth—
It was the low, dangerous hum in a wolf cub's throat before it grows its fangs.
He had been waiting for three days.
Since the last Han tutor ran away, he hadn't had class for three days.
Father would ask.
So this one... better stay for a few days.
As the attendant turned to leave, the youth's voice came from behind again:
"Wait."
"Does the Prince have other instructions?"
The youth was silent for a moment.
"Did she... cry?"
"Replying to the Prince, she did not."
The sword hilt spun once in the youth's hand.
"Then that is somewhat interesting."
His voice was indifferent.
But in the darkness, the corner of his mouth seemed to curve slightly.
End of Chapter 1