The Art of Eternal Suffering

Lady Ling Xuefeng never rushed vengeance. Patience was a blade far sharper than steel, and suffering—true, exquisite suffering—was an art form. Yuwen Zhi had been her greatest test of endurance, but now, her sights were set on far grander prey: the Emperor and Bai Shenzhi.

Unlike Yuwen Zhi, they would not be granted the mercy of death. No, their punishment would be an unending descent into madness, humiliation, and despair. Ling Xuefeng did not seek mere execution; she sought to strip them of power, dignity, and even their will to live. She would not just break them—she would erase them.

Bai Shenzhi – The Walking Corpse

For a man who had spent his life among potions and elixirs, his undoing would be the very thing he trusted most: his food and drink. The human mind was a fragile thing when faced with paranoia, and Xuefeng would turn Bai Shenzhi's own brilliance against him.

First, she sent whispers into the court—subtle at first, barely noticeable. A trusted servant mentioned hearing of a new toxin, a rare, undetectable poison that mimicked slow decay. A guard spoke of a physician who had fallen ill under mysterious circumstances. A single grain of doubt planted in Bai Shenzhi's mind.

Then, the games began. She ensured his meals contained nothing lethal—only the illusion of poison. Herbs that left a slightly bitter aftertaste. Dried petals that tingled the tongue ever so faintly. Nothing that would kill, but everything that would make him question.

The first time he vomited after a meal, he dismissed it as coincidence. The second time, he grew suspicious. By the fifth, he refused to eat without testing every bite himself.

But the true cruelty was not in the food. It was in the unseen hand that turned his mind against itself.

A few carefully placed notes, left where he would find them:

"You will never know which sip is your last."

"The dead do not always die in a single breath."

His paranoia grew. He became gaunt, sleepless, staring into his reflection with hollowed eyes. He tested his meals with alchemy, with silver needles, with the desperate hope that he might detect the invisible hand suffocating him. But there was nothing there. Nothing but fear.

And that was the genius of it.

Bai Shenzhi was not dying.

But he believed he was.

The Emperor – A Living Ghost

The Emperor had ruled with iron certainty, but certainty could be shattered with the right pressure. And Xuefeng knew exactly where to press.

His punishment would be far more insidious than Bai Shenzhi's. It would be a slow unraveling, a descent into delirium that left him questioning not only his power but his own mind. He would become a ghost haunting his own throne, abandoned by his court, distrusted by his own blood.

She began with whispers, just as she had done with Bai Shenzhi. Rumors of shadows lurking in the halls, voices heard where none should be. Servants spoke of nightmares plaguing the Emperor, visions of unseen figures standing at the foot of his bed, watching. Always watching.

Then came the subtle poisons—herbs slipped into his wine that caused only mild confusion at first, slight forgetfulness. He would misplace documents, stumble over his own decrees, forget the names of men he had known for years. Nothing drastic, nothing that could be blamed outright. Just enough to plant doubt.

Then, the hallucinations began.

A servant sworn to her cause swore before the court that he had seen the Emperor speaking to someone who was not there. A council member muttered of hearing his ruler whispering to ghosts in the dead of night.

Xuefeng ensured he saw things in his chambers—shadows where none should be, flickers of movement in the mirrors. A candle blown out by an unseen breath. The Emperor was not a weak man, but even the strongest minds could be broken by the unknown.

And finally, the finishing touch—turning his own court against him.

His paranoia made him lash out, condemning those closest to him, accusing his most loyal ministers of treachery. They distanced themselves, fearing his growing instability. The very men who had once knelt before him now whispered of his declining mind. He was still Emperor in title, but his rule had become a mockery.

And Xuefeng made sure he knew it.

A note, left on his pillow in the dead of night:

"How does it feel to rule an empire that no longer obeys?"

The Grand Design

She did not need to see their suffering unfold in real time. She had orchestrated it with perfect precision, and now, she could sit back and enjoy the unraveling.

Bai Shenzhi, once a man of reason, would become a caged animal, fearing the unseen poison in his veins until he starved himself into nothingness.

The Emperor, once the unshakable ruler of the empire, would become a ghost haunting the palace halls, his own people whispering of his madness, his own reflection a stranger.

Neither would die quickly.

Neither would escape.

And that was what made this revenge so perfect.

She did not need to spill a single drop of blood.

Because she had learned long ago—the most exquisite destruction was not done by the blade.

It was done by the mind.