“I’ve read that it takes between two and five minutes to bleed out.”

  The words came calm, entering the princess’s fading consciousness. Qingru’s eyes, heavy with shock, squinted up at the woman standing over her.

  Ren Lin did not remain standing. She settled herself on the earth beside the dying girl, lying down with a distance—close, yet far enough to avoid the spreading pool of blood. She reclined as if on a picnic, her gaze turning upward to the indifferent tapestry of stars.

  “So.” Ren Lin took a deep breath in, then exhaled. “Let’s use this time to talk.”

  She let the silence hang for a moment, the only sound being Qingru’s ragged, wet gasps.

  “Firstly, this little event has been… informative. It seems that only little details change, like filler scenes. The major plot… it seems to hold its course.” A rustle of leaves was heard as she turned her head. Her eyes met Qingru’s. “You must wonder what I’m babbling about.”

  She paused, letting the anticipation build, even here, at the end.

  “I am the author of this world.”

  Qingru’s expression changed. Her brows furrowed as she squinted harder. It looked as though she wanted to ask: “you don’t believe your own words, do you?”

  “It sounds insane, I know. But what you believe doesn’t matter to me.” Ren Lin’s voice softened, not with kindness—no, it sounded more like some sort of analysis. “Qingru, your life was meant to thrive. After you claimed the core from this mark, you would have been reborn, a phoenix rising from the ashes. You would have become the one and only beloved heroine. Love, forgiveness, success… it was all right here, waiting for you. But that wasn’t how I intended for you to be.”

  Her gaze hardened. “I wanted you to be a villain. I wrote you to take revenge, to conquer, to be gloriously, unapologetically selfish. Instead, you were… a good person. A character with flaws—yes, and yet someone who always tried her best. And you are, in a way, admirable for that. But that goodness? That was never my intention. My editors forced it upon you… upon me.”

  She was still gazing into her protagonist’s eyes. Watching the final sparks of emotions fighting within them—a storm of hate, guilt, and profound, unanswerable confusion.

  “You can rest now,” Ren Lin whispered, a light smile formed on her lips. “You deserve it. And regardless of how you turned out in the end… I am proud of you.”

  She rose to her feet, then brushed the forest’s debris from her robe. She looked down at the moribund princess, at the life she had once written and now edited—or rather deleted.

  “I will take your place now.”

  Her lips opened as one faint gasp escaped. An apology, not to herself for coming here, not to her parents for disappointing them. Only to her beloved brother. He had helped her, yet what did she do…?

  I was a burden to you… and now, I will cause you even more pain.

  I am so sorry.

  The surroundings left her vision, turning into infinite darkness.

  Ren Lin stepped over the warm body and entered the hidden chamber. A bare room—stone, dust, a single table. Nothing at first glance—until her hands found it by touch alone.

  A Core.

  Smooth as still water, carved like a face—no, a mask. Utterly transparent. High-grade. Left behind not by chance but by intent. A “mark”—the relic of someone who knew death was coming and refused to leave the world without proof of existence.

  They would leave their experiences, or Cores there. It was quite a common thing to do. But to find something like that was very lucky.

  She picked it up and left the room, the door shut. This time for eternity. There had been other things inside it, such as a last will. However, she couldn’t care less.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Outside, the corpse waited. Not a corpse, to her. A discarded thing. She looked at it one last time. Rain began to fall—thin at first, then heavy; as though wanting to wash away what had happened.

  She bowed once. Not out of reverence, but acknowledgement of utility.

  Her footsteps gave a muddy squash with every step.

  On the way, she cleaned the blade, disposing of it before returning to the slums.

  When Little Ren finally woke, rubbing her eyes raw from sleep and grief, she found Ren Lin seated on the floor, expression unreadable.

  “What… happened?” the child whispered.

  “She is dead,” Ren Lin said plainly. No tremor. No softness. “The princess is gone. What you hated is gone. You are no longer owned.”

  Little Ren stared at her, stunned—not relieved yet, not understanding.

  Ren Lin leaned forward, her voice low and unadorned.

  “Do not expect change tomorrow. Tyrannies do not fall like trees. They rot from within first. It will take time before this city loosens its grip. But the first crack is here—and because of it, you must not break. Do you understand?”

  The girl nodded slowly, tears mixing with rain-water still clinging to her hair.

  “And listen carefully,” Ren Lin continued, her tone turning hard. “The prince will hunt for answers. He will sniff out every inconsistency, every rumor. You will say nothing about me. Nothing about the glove. Nothing about a core. You will never again use my name as your master. If they ask who guided you—you say no one. Forget I exist if you must.”

  Little Ren’s chin trembled. “Will… will you stay?”

  “No.” Ren Lin stood, tying her sleeve. “My part is finished. I walk a different path now.”

  The child lunged and clutched her robe, desperate. “Then what do I do?”

  “You survive,” Ren Lin answered without hesitation. “You keep your head bowed until the moment arrives to lift it. Freedom is slow. But it is real. Do not die before you reach it.”

  She pried the girl’s hands off gently—then turned and walked to the door.

  Little Ren’s voice cracked behind her. “Will I see you again?”

  Ren Lin didn’t look back.

  “If fate insists.”

  But elsewhere in the city, mourning hadn’t yet begun. Only confusion.

  How could he? His sister was gone. Not absent—vanished. He had searched every hall, every hidden passage, every corner of the gardens, even places where she used to hide as a child. He had questioned guards, servants, even the kitchen maids—his throat gone raw, his eyes red-rimmed and wild. But Malama was not in the palace. His sister was not in the city. She was—

  Where?

  On the third day, he stood before his parents in the great hall. The firelight danced along the walls, casting monstrous, wavering shadows—like specters mocking his desperation. His father, the king, sat slumped in his throne, fingers drumming impatiently. His mother, her beauty preserved by the cold magic of vanity cores, watched him with a gaze like polished glass—hard, unfeeling.

  “Mother, Father,” he rasped, falling to one knee. “I beg of you. Let me hire the investigators.”

  The queen sighed, waving one bejeweled hand lazily. “Again with this?”

  His father rubbed his brow. “You’ve pleaded every day since she vanished, son. What else can I say? Your loyalty moves me… and wears me thin.”

  “It’s embarrassing,” the queen cut in. “All this effort for that ugly little thing?”

  The prince said nothing. But his tired gaze moved to his mother’s face—the product of a dozen vanity Cores. How ironic.

  The king leaned forward with a tired nod. “Very well. You’ll have your help. But not the most expensive ones. No need to drain the treasury over one girl.”

  She is not just one girl, Feiyun Xing thought. But he bowed.

  And the next day, the investigator arrived.

  He moved with a limp, leaning on a stick like it was the only thing holding him up. Feiyun Xing’s tired eyes scanned the man: a glass orb, a compass clinking at his belt, and a serpent’s tooth wrapped tight around his wrist. They were all semi-transparent—Cores glinting with secrets. Hopefully, they would be useful.

  “You’re late,” Feiyun Xing muttered.

  The man bowed lazily. “Nice to meet you too. I’m Lai Tan.”

  A silence passed between them—awkward, brittle.

  “Let’s find my sister,” the prince said.

  “Just us? Without guards?”

  “Just us. Let’s start.”

  "Alright then, say her name," Lai Tan answered, lifting the compass. "It will do the rest."

  "Feiyun Qingru."

  The needle spun wildly, then froze. Northeast.

  They rode without delay. Using the outermost northern gate to teleport, then heading east.

  The compass trembled. Urged them forward.

  It was as the prince thought. She went into a forest.

  Into the woods they went. The leaves kept quiet. Even the birds seemed afraid.

  Then—there she was.

  Feiyun Qingru. Beneath a leafless, grey tree. Roots clung to her as though not to let go. Her cloak was torn, stained with earth and blood. A hole was in her throat.

  Wide-eyed, Feiyun Xing stared. For a moment, the world ceased—no wind, no breath, only silence.

  Gently, a hand touched his shoulder. It brought him back. Lai Tan’s action brought more comfort than words could. They got off their horses, as Lai Tan kneeled beside the cold body. With practiced care, he slightly pressed the serpent’s tooth into her arm, his essence flowing into it—not smoothly; it wasn’t the highest quality.

  "This one’s called the guilt brand Core," he explained.

  Letters burned across her skin, glowing like embers.

  "It reveals the name of the one who killed her."

  Feiyun Xing leaned in, his voice hoarse. "Ren Lin?"

  “I never heard a name like that before…” Lai Tan tapped his cheek. “But that’s good.” Pulling out the compass again, he continued, “There won’t be many people named like this.”

  “Ren Lin.”

  The compass needle twitched, spinning in erratic circles before slowing, then locking in place.

  Feiyun Xing squinted at the dial. “This way is the opposite side of the kingdom.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Lai Tan said. “We follow it.”

  And they did.