Just as Ruolin predicted, Ruoyu's skin retains traces of the toxin. The evidence is damning.

  She denies everything, of course. Tears streaming, voice cracking, she clings to Diping’s leg like a drowning woman grasping driftwood—until Ruolin’s men peel her off, finger by finger.

  Her motive? Obvious to anyone who understand what it means to be a nurse in their world. These women were taken from their parents as children. They have no lives, no futures—no marriages, no children, no hope beyond the gilded cage they serve in. Yes, a comfortable retirement awaits them—decades from now. But that’s cold comfort to a woman watching her youth evaporate under constant surveillance and whispered orders.

  Keyang’s security chief is a different matter. But there is no need to rush. First, we remove him from duty—along with all four security chiefs who failed to protect their charges, including Diping’s. Once they leave the Summer Palace, the military procuratorates will handle the rest. Quietly. Efficiently.

  Qiuhan and Huoning can't protest. They are still in ICU, hooked to machines that beep more reliably than their voices. Keyang is recovering, but unusually silent. The evidence against him is stacking up—vials of the same toxin used on Qiuhan, Huoning, and himself are found in his nurse Kejun's quarters. A neat little package.

  Shajun appoints new security chiefs. All loyal to him. All loyal, by extension, to me. The balance of power among the Ruby Five has shifted irreversibly in our favor.

  As for investigating Keyang? It won't happen. Punishment does not apply to the Ruby Five.

  Still, the evidence is enough to turn some of the old guard against him. Poisoning three top Party officials isn’t just reckless—it’s destabilizing. That kind of weapon is reserved for desperate hours, not factional squabbles. Even the most hardened loyalists flinch when the rules of engagement are rewritten in blood.

  Everything is moving in our favor.

  Except for one thing: Diping’s headache.

  Unrelenting. Untouchable. A constant reminder that the man who holds the Republic’s three highest titles can’t sit upright without wincing.

  The toxin is gone.

  But the pain remained.

  And it is a crisis.

  I have hoped that identifying the compound would unlock a cure.

  The doctors fails me.

  Dr. Yang can only marvel at its design—elegant, lethal, and terrifyingly precise. A scientist’s admiration, not a healer’s solution.

  “The toxin is colorless, odorless, liquid at room temperature,” he explains. “It disperses easily as vapor or aerosol. Invisible. The lethal dose is measured in micrograms—less than a grain of salt.”

  It metabolizes fast. Within hours, liver enzymes break it down into harmless byproducts—so ordinary they vanish into the bloodstream and urine without raising alarms. But a trace amount remains trapped beneath the skin, just under Diping’s upper lip groove. That’s how we confirmed exposure.

  I ask the question I've been dreading. "If it breaks down into harmless metabolites, does that mean Diping will recover once the effects wear off?"

  Dr. Yang shakes his head, eyes dark. “No. The pain isn’t caused by the toxin itself. It’s caused by what the toxin triggers. It rewires the brain. Permanently.”

  He pauses, then continues. “We tested it on five political prisoners. Two died within hours. The other three developed the same symptoms as the General Secretary.”

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  He gestures to a screen showing comparative scans—MRI, CT, PET, EEG. “We still don’t fully understand how it works. But we believe it targets astrocytes—support cells in the brain that regulate neuron function. When enough astrocytes fail, neurons begin to misfire. The brain’s electrical system collapses. Organs shut down. Death is rapid.”

  Diping was lucky. Or unlucky, depending on your definition of mercy.

  “Instead of killing him,” Dr. Yang says, “it overstimulated the trigeminal nerve—the main pain pathway in the face and head. It opened new NMDA receptors, formed new neural connections for pain. The result is chronic, unrelenting headache. Resistant to morphine. Resistant to everything.”

  I glance toward the bedroom, where Diping lies curled in agony. The man who signs every important order in the Republic can’t lift his head without screaming.

  “Is there any way to fix him?” I ask.

  Dr. Yang shakes his head again. “The most effective approaches are Pain Neuroscience Education, physical therapy, psychological and behavioral treatment.”

  “So basically teach him how to suffer better?” I cut in.

  “Yes,” he says quietly. “That’s one way to put it. I’m sorry, First Lady. Medical science is limited when it comes to the brain.”

  Mental resilience. Willpower. That’s Diping’s weakest trait.

  I’m furious. But taking it out on the doctors won’t help.

  If there’s any hope left, it lies with the Sanguine Institute.

  And I don’t care how foreign their roots are.

  I’ll use them.

  But contacting them directly would be reckless. I need a discreet channel—one that protects secrecy while building trust.

  Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.

  I have a foreigner I trust—perhaps the only one. The vault keeper who guards our overseas assets. She navigates political labyrinths with the same deft touch I do, and she knows when to stay silent.

  … …

  "Lyra," I say into the secured line, my voice steadier than I feel. "How have you been?"

  "Never better." Her voice is warm, vibrant—like sunlight breaking through winter clouds.

  “Liran, what’s bothering you? What can I do for you?” She knows I never call without reason.

  Outside my family, she’s the only person who still calls me Liran. Not First Lady. Not Madam Peng. Just Liran. And somehow, I don’t mind. Maybe it’s because she’s a foreigner. Maybe it's because I once lived in her home for three months—exiled from the Dance and Art Troupe by Zhuying Song, hiding at Tsinghua to earn a nominal degree.

  “Do you know anything about the Sanguine Institute?” I ask, forcing casualness into my tone.

  “Very well. The CEO is my protégé.” No hesitation. “They have an excellent stem cell therapy program—keeps you young and energetic past one hundred.”

  “That’s remarkable.” My pulse quickens. “Do you think their treatment could cure headaches? The kind that come from inside. Primary. Neurological.”

  “Central Sensitization?” Her tone shifts—clinical, precise.

  “Something like that. The doctor called it Long-Term Potentiation.”

  A pause. I can almost hear her thinking.

  “I’m not sure,” she says finally. “But if they can’t fix it, no one can.”

  I nod, even though she can’t see me. My throat tightens.

  “Give me some time,” she adds. “I’ll call you back by the end of today.”

  I hate waiting. I’m used to getting what I want the moment I want it. But this time is different. This time, I have no leverage. No control.

  I should be investigating the stock market sabotage Ruolin mentioned. I should be making calls, tightening my grip, consolidating power. But I can’t focus. My mind keeps drifting back to the bedroom—to Diping curled in the dark, groaning into a pillow like a wounded animal.

  I built this empire through Diping’s weakness.

  Now I need him strong enough to hold it.

  Around three o’clock, the verdict comes.

  The phone rings. I snatch it up before the second chime.

  “We have a solution,” Lyra says. Her voice is calm, but I hear the weight behind it. And just like that, the vise around my chest loosens.

  “Excellent.” The word bursts out of me, too fast, too raw.

  "Not a cure, per se," she clarifies. "But a life without headache nonetheless. It's a new method. Untested. I suggest you consult a trusted doctor before committing."

  She’s right. This requires precision, not panic.

  "Can you arrange a conference?" I ask, steadying my voice.

  “They’re in Wuhan. A phone call is best.”

  … …

  The call between Dr. Yang and Dr. Kane lasted two hours. When Dr. Yang finally emerges, his face is flushed, eyes bright with the kind of intellectual thrill I have seen multiple times since the incident.

  "Synaptic Modulator Infusion," he marvels, almost breathless. "Genius. It's like putting noise-canceling headphones on the pain-sensing neurons."

  The core of the treatment is a synthetic gene that expresses a unique class of neuro-regulatory peptides called Synapto-Stabilins.

  "Is it safe?" My voice is sharp, cutting through his enthusiasm.

  He hesitates. “Introducing engineered material into the central nervous system always carries risk.” His eyes meet mine. “But stem cell therapy has precedent. They claim the carrier cells are non-replicating. The peptides remain active for six months. Any side effects are contained.”

  Then he adds, with clinical indifference: “We’ll test it on a few political prisoners anyway.”

  Of course we will.

  That’s what they’re for.

  The treatment will begin tomorrow.

  Not because he deserves it.

  But because I need him.