The moonlight filtered through the intricately carved wooden windows of the Feng manor, casting long shadows across the stone floor. Feng Ziyan sat on the edge of her simple bed, the golden embroidery on her sleeves flickering with every sway of the candle beside her.
She was thirteen again.
Her hands trembled slightly, not from fear, but from the sheer rush of knowing what was coming. The betrayal. The pain. The loss. And yet, here she was—granted a chance few ever dreamed of. A chance to rewrite fate.
But the night was not meant for quiet reflection. She could feel it—something stirring in the air.
Suddenly, a faint knock echoed on her window lattice.
Ziyan's eyes narrowed. At this hour?
Silently, she reached under her mattress, pulling out the short dagger she had secretly stolen from her father's study earlier that week. She hadn't fully recalled every moment from her past life yet, but her instincts screamed that the darkness held more than wind tonight.
With silent steps, she approached the window and flicked it open in one swift movement, blade ready.
But what greeted her was not an assassin.
It was a boy—no older than sixteen—cloaked in black, with a hood pulled low over his face. He moved like smoke, his breath barely disturbing the air. But Ziyan's eyes locked onto the glint of a pendant around his neck—an insignia she didn't recognize, but one that tugged strangely at something in her soul.
"Who are you?" she hissed.
"I'm here to help you," the boy replied, voice low and steady.
Ziyan's grip on her dagger didn't ease. "Do I look like I need help?"
"Not yet," he murmured, stepping aside just as a muffled explosion rocked the far wing of the estate.
The east wing.
Her mother's chambers.
Ziyan's heart froze.
In her past life, this was the night her mother died—framed as suicide, buried without honor. It had been the first domino to fall, pushing Ziyan into isolation, then submission… and eventually, destruction.
But not this time.
Without hesitation, Ziyan rushed past the boy, vaulting out the window. Her bare feet pounded the cobblestones, the icy night air cutting against her skin. Screams echoed. Servants scattered like frightened birds. Guards fumbled with weapons.
The east wing was already ablaze.
Ziyan's mother, Lady Feng Wanrou, was caught in the center courtyard, her figure surrounded by a trio of masked figures. Her pale robes shimmered like moonlight, already stained with blood.
"Mother!" Ziyan screamed.
She didn't wait. She threw the dagger with perfect aim—buried it deep into the shoulder of the closest attacker. He stumbled back, cursing.
The others turned.
But before they could strike, shadows danced again.
The boy from earlier appeared like a phantom, cutting across the courtyard in a blur. His movements were fluid, merciless. One attacker fell, his pressure points struck with precision. The second hesitated—but Ziyan didn't. She launched herself forward, adrenaline and rage guiding her, and drove her knee into his stomach before slamming his head against a pillar.
He collapsed in a heap.
The final masked man—her dagger still lodged in his shoulder—glared at her with venom in his eyes.
"You weren't supposed to be awake, little phoenix."
Her blood chilled. That voice. She knew that voice.
Before she could speak, the boy stepped in front of her, hand outstretched protectively.
"You'll have to go through me," he said coldly.
The attacker scoffed. "You're no one."
"No," the boy agreed, a dangerous smile playing on his lips. "And that's the only reason you're still breathing."
With that, he moved. A flick of steel. A sharp grunt. The attacker crumpled, unconscious.
Ziyan exhaled, finally letting her legs buckle. The boy turned to her mother and knelt, inspecting the wound.
"It's deep but not fatal. She'll live if we stop the bleeding now."
Ziyan's mother groaned softly, eyes fluttering open.
"Ziyan…" she whispered.
"I'm here, Mother. You'll be fine," Ziyan said, her voice breaking.
The boy pressed a pouch into her hands. "Use this powder on the wound. I'll handle the rest."
And then, just like that, he vanished into the smoke, leaving nothing behind but the lingering heat of his presence.
---
Hours passed. Guards cleaned up. The family physician arrived. Her mother's life was saved. But the attackers escaped—or so the report claimed.
Ziyan knew better.
Back in her room, she sat with the pendant the boy had dropped. It wasn't an ordinary insignia. The markings were old—ancient, even. Etched in celestial runes she had once studied in secret.
They spoke of soul-bound sanctuaries. Of sealed realms hidden within a person's soul.
A power source.
Could it be connected to the space within her soul she had begun sensing after awakening? A vast, fog-covered realm where time stood still and a soft, golden lotus floated in the center?
She hadn't told anyone—not even her mother. It felt sacred. Forbidden. But now… she wondered.
And the boy.
He wasn't just any servant or warrior. His movements were too trained. His demeanor too composed. There was nobility in the way he fought—regal, restrained, yet deadly.
Who was he really?
She didn't know yet. But she would find out.
---
Later that night, as she entered her mindscape to meditate, the golden lotus within her soul shimmered brighter than ever. And this time, there was something else—a flicker of shadow… a presence standing at the edge of the space.
Watching.
Waiting.