Hua Jing... Hua Jing...

The voice was so faint it felt like wind brushing past her ear. Soft. Fragile. Almost not there at all.

Hua Jing stirred.

Her lashes fluttered. She blinked into the dim golden light, confusion fogging her mind. Was she back? Back in that white room in her world? Was that soft, steady beep of machines calling to her again?

But no.

The scent here was warm sandalwood, not antiseptic. She wasn’t beneath fluorescent lights. She was still in that familiar chamber—ancient and quiet, where time moved differently.

And when she turned her head, he was still there.

Zhao Yan.

Still. Pale. His face ashen against the embroidered pillow.

She inhaled sharply, tears threatening her peace. A month had passed since he had fallen, pierced by an arrow meant to end everything. A month since physicians rushed in with empty words and no hope. A month since he had opened his eyes.

And still, he lay there.

Breathing. Barely.

Alive. But somewhere far away.

Her fingers trembled as she reached for him. His skin felt colder today—or maybe her hands were too warm from endless worry.

She stared at that face. So perfect. So still.

"Zhao Yan..." she whispered.

No answer. 𝓯𝓻𝒆𝙚𝒘𝓮𝙗𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝒍.𝙘𝓸𝙢

Tears welled again. Her chest ached from crying. From holding on to hope that grew thinner with each passing sunrise.

What if... what if he was already gone?

What if he had gone back?

Back to their world. To his body there. To Fu Jing Rong.

She wasn’t sure anymore.

And if he had left—why was she still here?

Why was she left behind?

Her eyes searched his face again, desperate for even a twitch. A flicker. Anything.

Nothing came.

She pressed her forehead gently to his hand. "Please..." she breathed. "Please come back to me..."

— — —

Meanwhile, across the veil of space and time...

In Yellow Garden, Fu Jing Rong sat quietly beside another bed.

The woman lying there looked peaceful, as if merely resting. Her breath came slow. Light. Her features, elegant and untouched, were serene. But she wasn’t there—not really.

Not with him.

Hua Jing.

Still asleep.

Still in the other world.

Still unreachable.

He hadn’t left her side since she was brought here. He hadn’t moved from the simple bed placed next to hers. His eyes were locked on her as if blinking might break the spell that kept her there.

He missed her.

He missed her even while she was here.

His thoughts turned to her—back when she stood beside him, fierce and clever and stubborn. When she’d chosen to trust him. When they had survived together. Fought together. Laughed together.

Loved.

And now...

Now, two bodies lay in two worlds—one in silence, the other in stillness.

One waiting. One fading.

These two parallels closed in softly and it almost felt as if they were in the same place yet separated by a veil of something none of them could undo.

Both of them felt anguish, and the cool note explain just how badly they wanted to touch the other.

It was utter and complete torture!

...

The light that spilled into the chamber was soft and pale, brushing gently against the walls like a sigh.

Hua Jing stirred quietly from the small bed placed just a few steps away from the larger, silk-draped one where Zhao Yan lay unmoving.

She sat up slowly.

Her eyes, still heavy with sleep, drifted to him first—always to him. His chest rose and fell in steady rhythm. His face was pale, far too pale, lips bloodless, lashes casting soft shadows on high cheekbones.

A month had passed. Still, he did not wake.

She had lost count of how many times she had held his hand in the dark, whispered to him through the quiet of the night, hoping something—anything—would pull him back.

But this morning, like all mornings, nothing changed.

She stood up from her narrow bed and padded softly across the room, adjusting the simple robe tied around her waist.

No attendants, no fuss.

Ever since the war, Hua Jing allowed no one to dress her, no one to paint her face. Her clothing was now muted—soft greys and cream, her long hair pulled back by a single strip of white silk. No jewels, no color. Nothing bright enough to mock the silence beside her.

She paused at the door, glancing back once more.

Zhao Yan looked like a sleeping god—still, regal, unreachable.

She opened the door.

Outside, three familiar figures waited as they had every morning since the war ended.

Wei Ling, Deng Mi, and Zhao Ling Xu stood silently, straight-backed beneath the weight of grief. The moment they saw her, they stiffened—eyes sharpening, expressions tightening.

They searched her face for hope.

She gave none.

"Not yet," she said quietly.

The words fell like a stone in still water.

Wei Ling bowed his head, jaw clenched. Deng Mi blinked fast, biting back whatever he wanted to say. Zhao Ling Xu said nothing at all. His expression was unreadable, but his hand curled at his side.

They all understood.

They had hoped today would be different.

Hua Jing stepped fully into the hall, her soft slippers brushing against polished tiles. She stood in front of them with her arms folded loosely over her chest.

"He still breathes," she added. "But he does not stir."

Zhao Ling Xu finally looked up. His voice was low, nearly a whisper. "He’s strong. He will return."

"He has to," Hua Jing said, voice tight.

For a moment, they all stood there in a solemn huddle—four pieces of the same broken heart.

---

Hua Jing glanced toward Wei Ling.

"The border reports?"

He reached into his cloak and retrieved a scroll.

Deng Mi handed her a folded parchment with seal marks from three provinces. Governors were responding—sending in grain, metals, supplies. The empire was healing, on the surface at least.

Zhao Ling Xu produced a list of loyal nobles. "They await instruction. Some of them... still hope Zhao Yan will name a regent if he wakes."

Hua Jing gave a hollow laugh.

"If."

The others looked at her and said nothing.

...

Reconstruction of the empire was nearly complete. Gilded banners snapped in the breeze. Marble markets flowed with merchants.

Gold and emeralds gleamed in shopfronts and palace halls.

The empire’s wealth astonished Hua Jing when she first came to this place. What had once taken years had been rebuilt within mere months.

Yet one question loomed above all others: who would sit on the throne?

Nearly every bloodline tied to the fallen emperor was tainted—fled, overthrown, or unmasked as traitors. The people had lost faith in legacy.

Only two remained.

Zhao Yan, the rightful emperor—but he lay motionless in a coma. His life hung in fragile suspension.

And Zhao Ling Xu—who never sought power. He had made that clear long before the empire collapsed. His devotion lay with Zhao Yan alone: to serve him, restore the kingdom, and wait.

Just then, from the side came someone. Hua Jing immediately recognised him, "Lord Fang"

Lord Fang stared at her and said softly, "Seventh consort, can we have a word?"

Hua Jing looked at him in surprise, "We?"