For the next two weeks, both Ren Lins toiled from dawn till dusk, earning just enough to keep breath in their bodies. They copied verses, wrote for hire, scraped what coins they could. Whenever misfortune struck—a spilled ink pot, a stingy customer, a storm that ruined their papers—Ren Lin would tilt the blame toward the same name.

  “The princess made it so,” she would say lightly, as if stating a fact rather than planting a seed.

  Little Ren absorbed every word. Hatred, like rot, needs only a damp heart to thrive.

  But Ren Lin, having written the original story, knew something the others didn’t: on the night of her birthday, the princess was destined to flee her home and stumble upon a fortuitous encounter that would change everything.

  This was Ren Lin’s only chance.

  So, in the final week leading up to that night, Ren Lin visited the gates each evening. These weren’t ordinary gates—they were Cores. Capable of teleporting someone to another connected gate. And Ren Lin knew exactly which one the princess would use.

  Fortunately, she didn’t need to pay a fee. That was the privilege of being a cultivator… and having a silver tongue gilded with gold.

  Each night, she ventured into the forest near the gate. In theory, she had a rough idea of the route the princess would take—she had, after all, written the scene. Yet in practice, a forest was vast, and memory was fickle.

  Currently, since she had no essence, she couldn’t feel Cores. She was like a blind man navigating without a cane.

  But they both had something else.

  Imagination.

  The blind man, if he’d walked the path enough times, would carry it in his mind like a map.

  “I wrote her escape,” she mumbled, pausing before a branch-split trail. “Which way looks like the one I would’ve made her follow?”

  Even with those thoughts to guide her, day after day passed fruitlessly. She sacrificed sleep and comfort, trudging through underbrush and torchlit trails, only to return empty-handed.

  This night was no different—at first. She entered the gate, arrived at the forest, and wandered down yet another path. This time, she didn’t try to guess whether it was the one she had envisioned. She simply walked.

  The moon stood high, casting pale silver light through the canopy. Owls called, insects chirped, and the rustle of her footsteps mingled with the night. The torchlight in her hand flickered against tree trunks and shadows, painting the forest in warm, shifting hues.

  It was peaceful, in a lonely sort of way.

  Eventually, she spotted a fallen tree and sat down on it with a sigh.

  “It’s harder than I thought,” she muttered. “Well, even if I can’t find the mark, I can always wait at the gate and tail her. Still… finding it first would be a huge advantage.”

  Her eyes drifted across her surroundings—

  And froze.

  “No way…” A burst of laughter erupted from her lips.

  Right in front of her stood a tree, and carved into its bark was a shape she immediately recognized: a rectangle.

  She stepped forward and ran her fingers along the rough edge. It wasn’t just a carving—it was a hinged panel, like a secret door. She pulled.

  It creaked open.

  Inside was a hollow space, about the size of a box. Empty.

  Or so it would seem to normal people. Ren Lin’s hand felt around the space and found it soon—a small cool metallic object. It was so transparent that on the first glance it couldn’t be seen. She picked it up, the slight distortion when looking through it, made the shape of a key.

  She put the key back and closed the bark.

  The day of Princess Feiyun Qingru’s birthday arrived not with fanfare, but with a quiet that felt heavier than any silence. No grand banquet was prepared, no courtiers gathered. The only light in her chamber came from the sun through her window and the single candle her brother, Xing, had brought with a small, exquisite cake.

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  He stayed for hours, talking, laughing, doing his best to fill the vast space her parents’ absence created. But when he finally rose to leave, the room seemed to grow larger and emptier, the silence rushing back in.

  “We should get some rest now, Qingru,” he said, his hand on the doorframe.

  “I will. Thank you, Xing Xing… for everything.”

  “Pfft. Why so dramatic? You make it sound like a final goodbye.” The Prince chuckled. “Goodnight, I love you my silly sister.”

  “Goodnight, I love you too.”

  Once he was gone, the stillness became unbearable. Qingru slowly paced around her room, her heart twisted between determination and guilt. Was she really going to do it? Then the thought echoed in her mind, a dull, familiar ache: forget about presents… they didn’t come. Not even for a moment.

  Driven by a restlessness she couldn’t name, she slipped into the hallway, her footsteps silent on the plush runners. The palace was a tomb of polished stone and gilded wood, each empty corridor amplifying her loneliness. She turned a corner, moving toward a balcony for a breath of night air, when the voices reached her—hushed, but sharp in the resonant quiet.

  Two maids were dusting a large porcelain vase, their backs to her.

  “…what a birthday,” one sighed, not with kindness, but with casual cruelty. “I wouldn’t be able to handle it. I mean imagine your parents wouldn’t even care to show up.”

  The other maid giggled, a low, mean sound. “Can you really blame them? Look at her, that face… like a toad’s. You’d think on her birthday she’d at least try to smile. But that sad expression just makes it worse, doesn’t it? Even uglier than she already is.”

  Qingru froze. The words did not land like a blow; they seeped into her like a poison she had tasted a hundred times before. They were not a revelation, but a confirmation. The final, whispered verdict on a day that had strengthened her resolve.

  The maids moved on, their conversation fading, never knowing she had been there.

  Even though she was a princess, it was true.

  Her features, though delicate, were wrong by royal standards. Nose too big, eyes too wide, hair curling in ways that defied the family’s expectations. She was not the porcelain doll they had desired. She was a stain upon the empire’s lineage.

  Qingru already had spent her childhood enduring their scorn—the whispers behind painted fans, the laughter buried beneath forced smiles. She was a blemish on the empire’s pristine image, a misfit born into silk and gold.

  Her mother had never needed to say it outright. She saw it in her eyes—and in everyone else’s.

  Disappointment.

  Although she was mistreated by everyone, only her brother had shown her kindness. Yet, his goodwill was no match for the hatred of many.

  Over time Qingru was convinced that she was the problem. She had tried to mold herself into something more palatable. Lowered her gaze, softened her voice, smoothed her unruly curls beneath delicate pins. Working hard. But it was never enough.

  She was never enough.

  Tonight, that would end.

  Not with defiance, not with a desperate plea for their love—

  But with absence.

  Let them wake to an empty room. Let them speak her name only to be met with silence.

  Let them realize, too late, that ghosts do not return. Maybe then they would notice that she wasn’t some unlovable object.

  She returned to her room, a dark cloak swallowed her figure. Then she slipped through the palace corridors. Her movements careful, her breath shallow. She had studied the guards' rotations, memorized the hidden paths beyond the palace walls. And when the moment arrived—when the final watchman turned his back—she ran.

  To a gate nearby, she activated this Core and teleported to the furthest gate.

  Her feet didn’t stop until the kingdom was nothing but a distant glimmer.

  And the forest swallowed her whole.

  The forest was quiet, save for the whisper of wind through branches and the distant hoot of an owl. Qingru walked, guided by instinct—or perhaps something more ancient, more intimate. A pull in her chest, soft and persistent, led her deeper into the woods.

  She could feel it: the Core’s aura.

  It pulsated faintly at the edge of her senses, like a memory about to return. Her pulse quickened. This was the place.

  Then she saw it.

  A tree—unremarkable at first glance—but the air around it was different. Charged. Breathing.

  Qingru stepped closer. Her fingers brushed the bark and immediately she felt the tug. Beneath her touch, a panel shifted—smooth and silent. She opened it.

  The inside was a small, empty hollow.

  No… not empty.

  A key scintillated faintly inside, translucent like water caught in moonlight. She reached in and took it, the metal cold and alive in her palm. It vibrated softly, resonating with her essence. She poured her energy into it, threads of power weaving from her fingers into the key.

  It responded.

  Slowly, she lifted it and turned it in the air, though there was no visible lock. The air itself seemed to resist—then give way with a click that echoed deeper than sound. The key dissolved, vanishing in a ripple of light.

  A hidden door slid open with a hush. A dark chamber carved into the forest itself was revealed. A room untouched by time, radiating faintly with a mystical power.

  Qingru took a step forward, her hand reaching toward the magical chamber—

  Squelch.

  What met her was the cold bite of metal. It had pierced through her neck.

  A wet, sickening slosh followed. Then the metal slid back out.

  Warmth started spilling down her chest. A gurgled breath escaped her lips. Her head turned in confusion.

  Behind her, a shadow.

  It was too late—her limbs began to grow heavier with each breath, until she collapsed on the mud.

  The shadow stepped into view: it was a beautiful woman; maybe… she should have been the princess instead.

  Above them, the moon watched.

  Pale and full, silent and cold, it bore witness to the scene below: a girl bleeding into the roots of destiny, and another standing above her, blade in hand, eyes unreadable.

  And so ended the night of Princess Feiyun Qingru’s birthday—not with celebration, not even with sorrow.

  But with a stab from the very one who had created her.

  Ren Lin.