The Breaking of Yuwen Zhi

The torches in the underground chamber flickered weakly, their flames casting long, grotesque shadows against the cold stone walls. The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood, mingled with the acrid tang of burning incense—an offering not to the gods, but to the monster who now stood in the center of the room.

Ling Xuefeng.

She did not sit upon a throne tonight. She had no need for symbols of power when her presence alone was suffocating. The silken hems of her crimson robe trailed over the damp floor as she moved, a specter in the darkness, her expression unreadable.

Before her, kneeling in chains, was Yuwen Zhi.

Once, he had been her shadow, a rival worthy of her time. Now, he was nothing but a broken thing, his once-proud frame slumped, his wrists bound with iron that bit into his flesh. His fine robes were torn, the once-immaculate silk now a mess of sweat, grime, and blood. But the true horror was not his body—it was his mind.

Ling Xuefeng had not merely defeated him. She had unraveled him.

"Raise his head," she ordered, her voice as soft as a lover's whisper.

The guards obeyed, grabbing Yuwen Zhi by his matted hair and forcing him to meet her gaze. His once-sharp eyes were empty, hollowed out by the torment she had subjected him to. His lips trembled, as if attempting to form words, but no coherent thoughts remained.

It had not been simple pain that had broken him. No, pain alone was too crude, too primitive. She had taken him apart piece by piece, stripping away his pride, his confidence, his very identity, until all that remained was a shattered husk.

She had begun with starvation, keeping him locked in utter darkness for days on end, feeding him only enough to keep him alive, but never enough to keep him strong. He had been bound in chains too tight, causing his flesh to swell and bruise, the metal biting deeper each time he moved. But the true torment was the poison—her newest creation.

She had called it Phantom's Lament, a delicate blend of rare nightshade, crushed lotus venom, and a single drop of her own modified Black Widow Tincture. The effect was exquisite. At first, it induced vivid hallucinations—visions of his greatest fears, his dearest loved ones turning against him, past failures playing over and over in his mind. Then, the real nightmare began.

The second phase brought an unbearable itching beneath his skin, as though a thousand insects crawled through his veins. No amount of scratching, no amount of clawing at his own flesh could relieve it. He had screamed then, begged for mercy, but she had only watched with cold amusement.

The third stage was even more sinister. His sense of time began to fracture. Days stretched into eternities; moments blurred together in endless loops of suffering. He forgot where he was. He forgot who he was. And worst of all, he forgot that he had ever been anything more than this.

She had whispered to him in the darkness, feeding him false truths. That he had always been her prisoner. That his past life was a dream, a cruel fantasy his mind had conjured. That he had never been a man of power, only a fool who belonged in chains. And in time, he had believed her.

"Tell me, Yuwen Zhi," Xuefeng murmured, stepping closer, her fingers trailing over the hilt of a ceremonial dagger. "Do you remember who you are?"

A choked sound escaped his throat. A sob? A laugh? It did not matter.

She knelt beside him, her perfume intoxicating, suffocating. "No? Then let me remind you."

With the gentleness of a mother soothing a frightened child, she cupped his cheek. "You were the one who thought he could rival me. The one who believed he could stand in my way."

Her grip tightened, nails digging into his skin. "But now look at you."

She gestured to the mirror set before him—a final cruelty.

Yuwen Zhi gasped, recoiling from his own reflection. Gone was the cunning nobleman, the brilliant tactician who had once stood as her equal. In his place was a gaunt, hollow-eyed specter, his skin marred by the bruises of sleepless nights and poisoned dreams. His lips moved, but no words came. He no longer recognized himself.

Ling Xuefeng smiled, tilting his chin up. "It is quite tragic, is it not? You could have been great. But you made one mistake."

She leaned in, her lips brushing against his ear.

"You forgot who I am."

With a flick of her wrist, she drove the dagger into his hand—not to kill, but to remind him that pain was still real.

His scream was raw, animalistic.

She stood, wiping the blood from her blade with a silk handkerchief as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "Release him."

The guards hesitated. "My lady—"

"I said, release him."

The chains fell away, clattering against the floor. Yuwen Zhi collapsed, too weak to hold himself up, his breath ragged.

"Let him crawl out of here," she commanded, turning away. "Let the world see what happens to those who forget my name."

And so, Yuwen Zhi was cast out, his mind broken beyond repair, his soul forever haunted by the things she had done to him. He would walk the streets like a ghost, a living testament to the price of defiance.

And the court? The court would remember.

They would whisper of this night in hushed tones, warning their children, their allies, their enemies.

Ling Xuefeng had reminded them all—she was not to be challenged.

And she had done so in the most inhuman way possible.