I am your ancestor.

Year twelve of Anping, the twenty-first day of the ninth month. The Emperor convened court with his ministers in the Hall of Political Harmony. Only at midnight did the ministers depart, while the Emperor remained at his desk, finally returning to his chambers at the third watch. Suddenly, he was stricken with heart trouble and collapsed outside the hall. He died at the age of twenty-nine, leaving no heir. The court wept; the entire nation was plunged into mourning. All draped themselves in white hemp, and the wailing did not cease for months. — "Chronicles of Wei: The Sagely and Fierce Emperor"

—

“Your Majesty!”

“Your Majesty—”

Amidst the distant clamor in his ears, Qin Duoye frowned and turned over unconsciously.

“Your Majesty, wuu wuu wuu... your old servant... would rather die... wuu wuu wuu ah!”

“Your Majesty, wuu wuu wuu—”

What’s all this noise? They’re crying as if I’ve just passed away.

Qin Duoye was deeply asleep. Ever since he had been thrust onto the throne at a time of peril, he rarely slept so soundly, always draining himself with worry day and night.

His mind remained in a haze, as if floating in the softness of brocade clouds.

Yet the incessant wailing outside kept dragging him from his slumber.

“Your Majesty! Your Majesty! Such injustice cannot stand in the world, I beg you...”

The voices gradually grew clearer. They sounded like some old minister’s.

Qin Duoye’s muddled mind turned: which of his senior officials had suffered such a grievance, to come to the palace crying to him at the crack of dawn?

He prepared to stretch and peel himself from the bed.

As his wrist moved, a bell chimed.

Qin Duoye: ?

What was that sound?

He finally opened his eyes, still dazed and weary. He saw the bed’s canopy, unfamiliar, embroidered with honeysuckle patterns. His own sleeping quarters didn’t look like this.

As his eyes adjusted, his hearing and mind sharpened. The wailing outside was ragged and desperate, several voices taking turns.

“Your Majesty, you cannot go against the principles of Heaven!”

“Your Majesty! This old servant begs you to rescind your order, wuu wuu wuu.”

“Your Majesty, we would rather die remonstrating—wuu wuu wuu!”

Qin Duoye was utterly confused, muttering to himself, “Have I done something so monstrous?” Those old men—who would argue to the point of fisticuffs in court—now sobbing like this.

As he was speaking to himself, a cold, cutting voice rang out beyond the door: “What, do you all make such a fuss because I have done something so monstrous?”

“Your Majesty!” The voices outside grew even more frantic, heart-wrenching. Qin Duoye worried for their throats. “To keep a male favorite—is that not a violation of Heaven’s order?! Such an act, Your Majesty, what would the ancestors...”

Qin Duoye’s jaw almost dropped: “What?”

Keep a male favorite? Me?

Once more, he was lost in bewilderment. By instinct, he raised his hand to his forehead.

A bell chimed again.

He frowned and lowered his gaze—a flash of gold caught his eye.

Gleaming, exquisitely wrought golden manacles, one end chained to the bedpost, the other locked around a slender, pale wrist.

Qin Duoye was momentarily stunned by the dazzling gold, then blinked.

Uncertain, he looked again.

He surveyed himself in a blank daze.

His dark sleeping robe had been removed at some point, replaced by a lascivious garment—so sheer that the skin beneath was visible through the scarlet gauze.

The vivid red gauze was artfully designed to expose every part that proper clothing would cover. Where skin was left bare, golden chains wove through, like a sumptuous gift wrapped for display.

—

Qin Duoye gazed impassively at the shackles on his wrists and ankles. His expression darkened, calm as water above yet turbulent beneath.

“Heh.”

Expressionless, he gave a cold laugh.

All the years of tempering since his accession, his imperial aura now surged forth, like a dark dragon opening its slumbering eyes.

Which palace attendant dared commit such outrage against him?

This was a capital crime.

Suddenly, a sharp “Silence!” rang from outside. Instantly, the wailing ceased; the hall grew quiet.

Qin Duoye’s eyes flickered as he took in the room’s furnishings, then glanced toward the carved doors. By the entrance burned a Boshan incense burner, its smoke curling up—Dragon’s Descent incense, his familiar scent.

Creak—the door opened.

Against the blinding daylight, Qin Duoye saw a tall, slender figure in the doorway. The voice was chilling, like an ice cellar frozen through the years: “Ancestors... If you don’t mention those black sheep of the Qin clan, I might be in a good mood and change my mind. But if you do... Qingxuan, these ministers are getting on in years. See them back to their estates.”

Bang.

The door slammed. The daylight was cut off, the room falling into sudden silence.

Qin Duoye remained still, but his gaze was sharp as a blade, sizing up the newcomer.

The man wore a robe of pure black brocade, high-collared and narrow-sleeved, with coiling dragons embroidered on the chest, back, and shoulders—a style reserved for royalty.

Qin Duoye ransacked his mind but couldn’t place any royal of such appearance. In the capital, only his unreliable younger brother Qin Zezhi fit the description.

Had someone rebelled while he slept???

Tap. Tap.

Boots sounded on the floor, drawing closer to the bed.

The man looked down at him, lips curling in a sneer. Without ceremony, he removed his outer robe and draped it over a wooden dragon rack.

Qin Duoye saw clearly—the man wore imperial regalia.

What? A coup?

Qin Duoye’s face remained calm as the stranger leaned down, inching closer.

Phoenix eyes, narrow and slanted, high brow, sharply arched, a prominent nose, deep eyes fringed by long lashes. As he squinted, cold light flashed through his lashes, like a viper sizing up its prey. His lips were thin, bloodless, lending him a ruthless, cold, forbidding air.

He braced one knee on the bed, reached out, and forcibly tilted Qin Duoye’s chin, his thumb pressing hard at the corner of Qin Duoye’s mouth.

Calloused from martial training, the man’s touch left a red mark on Qin Duoye’s skin.

Qin Duoye frowned, a flash of cold light in his eyes.

Insolence.

“Proud to call yourself a scholar-official’s son…” The man withdrew his hand, noticing the red at his thumb’s tip, and muttered ironically, “Emperors come and go, but the great clans endure. Such integrity—yet still bit your tongue and killed yourself.”

Bit his tongue?

Qin Duoye flicked his tongue inside his mouth.

It was whole, unscathed.

There was, however, a faint, peculiar bitterness.

“Lost your wits?” The man, seeing Qin Duoye unresponsive, suddenly shoved him down onto the bed, pressed his body atop his, one hand gripping his shoulder, the other forcing up his chin.

“Even the purest of you, Minister Wen, have ended up as my male favorite.”

Male…favorite?!

Qin Duoye’s composure cracked; his eyes widened in shock and indignation: “You’re saying I am a male favorite?!”

“‘I am’?” The man raised a brow, as if amused by a great joke. “Ha—Wen Qinghe, has my beating addled your brains? You’re calling yourself ‘I am the Emperor’? Then who, pray, am I—Qin Xuanxiao?”

“Qin Xuanxiao.” Qin Duoye repeated the unfamiliar name, glanced down, and suddenly realized—his bare chest was smooth, his old scars from northern campaigns gone.

—

This frail, untested body was not his own.

From the moment he awoke, Qin Duoye had sensed something was terribly wrong. Now he understood: the rough touch of that thumb, the heavy feel of golden manacles—all told him this was no dream.

He was no longer Emperor of Wei, but some ordinary scholar-official. This young man had somehow offended the Emperor, who, in a fit of rage, dragged him into the palace as a male favorite.

It mattered not if he was no longer an emperor, or someone else, or even a male favorite for now—Qin Duoye only wanted to know how his Great Wei fared.

He wondered if his foolish brother Qin Zezhi could bear the burdens of the throne.

Qin Xuanxiao looked down at the stunned man beneath him, mistaking his silence for terror. He lost interest, released his grip, and lightly slapped Qin Duoye’s cheek, about to rise.

Suddenly, his wrist was seized. Qin Xuanxiao looked down into a pair of deep, unfathomable eyes, bright as polished onyx, calm as a hidden pool—quiet yet commanding.

Though the face was pale and delicate, those eyes alone lent the whole figure a force that seemed utterly changed, sending a tremor deep into Qin Xuanxiao’s soul.

It was as if someone had tossed a bundle of dry tinder into his heart—the spark caught, flaring into wild flame.

He suddenly found himself intrigued, lips curving as he studied Qin Duoye closely.

Qin Duoye, never one for ghost stories, found the notion of swapped souls outrageous, but he lied: “I seem to have lost my memory. What dynasty is this, what year?”

Qin Xuanxiao replied, “Wei, fourth year of Tiancheng.”

Had any other minister or servant witnessed the Emperor answering so directly, they would have been thunderstruck, then fallen to their knees in terror before the tyrant.

All who knew Qin Xuanxiao understood that when this capricious Emperor deigned to converse so amiably, someone’s life was surely forfeit.

But Qin Duoye knew none of this; he had never heard this era’s name. His soul, then, had not gone back in time, but forward.

Still the Wei dynasty… that was enough.

Qin Duoye breathed a sigh of relief.

Qin Xuanxiao cocked his head, unfazed by Qin Duoye’s indifference. He reached for the man’s loose black hair, twining it idly through his fingers.

Suddenly, the commotion outside rose again.

A voice cried out, “Your Majesty! If you do not rescind your order today, I shall dash my brains out on your steps!”

Another voice shrieked, “Your Majesty! Never has it been the custom of Wei to admit officials of the previous dynasty as male favorites—it defies all teachings, Your Majesty, I beg you to rescind your decree!”

Qin Xuanxiao’s face clouded: “So I spare a few, and now they think I’m soft? Courting death.”

Qin Duoye was deep in thought, when suddenly the Emperor before him drew his sword in fury, its cold gleam flashing in Qin Duoye’s eyes.

The blade shone cold as ice, like a pearl of moonlight hanging from the heavens.

That sword!

Qin Duoye’s pupils contracted.

My Sword of Peace!

He had once led armies in person, and his years in battle had left him hypersensitive to the scent of death.

At a glance, he saw Qin Xuanxiao meant to kill.

No time for hesitation. Qin Duoye sprang from the bed, flicking his wrist—the lavish gold chain coiled around the Sword of Peace’s blade.

The blade, sharp as ever, instantly sliced through the chain!

With a yank, Qin Duoye wrenched the sword from Qin Xuanxiao’s hand. Qin Xuanxiao spun in shock.

It all happened in a blink. The next moment, Qin Duoye had Qin Xuanxiao pinned beneath him, the Sword of Peace in hand, its edge plunged into the floor, less than an inch from Qin Xuanxiao’s neck.

Cold light glimmered in Qin Duoye’s jet-black eyes.

Such speed and reflexes were beyond any ordinary scholar. Qin Xuanxiao’s expression hardened, his voice icy: “Who are you?”

Qin Duoye pinned Qin Xuanxiao down, gripping his hands, fury simmering as he gave a cold snort: “I am your ancestor!”