24.Suling’s Accusation

The shadows of the night had not yet lifted, yet the palace was already preparing to put blood on trial.

Behind whispering veils and marble floors echoing with the steps of restless spirits, this was no ordinary morning—it was a morning of reckoning. And the name to be spoken was no longer a name of the living, but of someone the world suspected did not belong.

___________

After a long night wrapped in ghostly whispers and the silver gleam of the Shadow Mirror, the palace had not yet returned to peace.

Rumors of a maid possessed in the Pavilion of Consort Qing began to spread softly, whispered among handmaidens and guards too frightened to name names.

And now, morning arrived without mercy—bringing a summons to the Zhaoyang Hall, where a banquet of judgment awaited.

Beneath the golden glow of lanterns in the eastern hall of Tianxu Palace, silk curtains draped like mourning swans. A flute played faintly from afar—not a soothing harmony, but a vibration of anger hidden behind soft notes. Ji Suling walked slowly—too slowly—like a serpent dancing across silk, carrying something in her hand: a white cloth stained with dots of red.

The banquet of judgment was opened by the Empress Dowager, her voice calm yet piercing:

"Today we hear accusations—not to shame, but to uphold the bloodline."

Zhenyu sat among the consorts, her face as serene as a winter pond, yet her pulse beat like a war drum only she could hear.

Ji Suling stepped forward with a smile too wide to be called kind.

"Helian Qingyin—or whoever you are now... do you know what pure blood of the Heavenly Line truly means?"

Zhenyu gave no answer. She knew the question was no question at all—it was a blade.

Suling slowly unrolled the cloth, revealing the blood-test silk—an ancient palace artifact used to examine a consort's lineage for submission to the Grand Empress.

"This blood," she said, pointing to a red stain cracked at the edges, "came from your body. But it bears no trace of Ninghua descent. No Helian blood. No sacred mark of the ancestors."

A servant's cup clattered to the floor. The hall froze.

One consort held her breath.

Two handmaidens exchanged fearful glances.

But Zhenyu stood.

Her steps moved slowly to the central dais. Her silk gown swept across the floor like the hush of a midnight river. She looked Ji Suling in the eyes—not with anger, but with a love that had understood the rot of the world.

"There is an old edict," she whispered. "Issued by the forty-sixth Emperor, two hundred and twenty years ago. Concerning the recognition of bloodlines from outer branches—those born in shadow yet loyal to the heavens."

She pulled a small scroll from her sleeve—not forged, not imitated. Upon it, the long-dead Emperor's silver seal shone.

"This edict states that if one's blood is not recognized by worldly instruments, but the soul is known to Heaven, then she remains a daughter of the Sky."

The Empress Dowager rose halfway, her eyes narrowing as memory returned.

"Where did you find that?"

Zhenyu bowed deeply in respect.

"Among the old records sent from Baiyin Pavilion. When the palace requested I reorganize the inheritance archives of the palace women, I discovered it. Forgotten by all—except the one it was meant for."

Ji Suling let out a sharp laugh, nearly hysterical.

"Who would believe in a dusty edict never reaffirmed?"

Zhenyu gazed at her softly.

"Belief does not come only from reading. It comes from those who feel their ancestors guiding their steps."

At that very moment, the Shadow Mirror behind the altar stirred with an eerie shimmer. Not bright. Not blinding. But enough to make the room hold its breath. On its surface appeared a faint image of a woman—her long hair flowing, her robe white as snow, and in her eyes—tears of blood.

Helian Qingyin.

The shadow made no sound, yet its whisper echoed in every heart that watched:

"I never forged my blood. But they forged my fate."

The curtains swayed though no wind blew. The lanterns trembled as if restless.

And the Shadow Mirror—its cracks spread, like the nerves of a soul beginning to awaken.

Physician Yin Hou, seated in a corner of the hall, narrowed his eyes.

"This... is no ordinary manifestation. This is some kind of... soul-split."

The Empress Dowager gestured swiftly to the guards.

"Close the back curtains. Take the Mirror to the Palace's secret chamber. At once."

But Yuwen Jinhai stepped forward first. He stood between Zhenyu and the guards.

"I will take the Mirror myself. If the Empress Dowager permits."

His voice was gentle, but laced with command. Not even the wind could refuse it.

The Empress Dowager stared at him for a long time, as if seeing the silhouette of a young Emperor from a past she did not wish to recall.

"Very well, Prince Jinhai. But if that shadow brings ruin, then the blood that pays for it must be yours."

Zhenyu looked at Jinhai. And for a moment, she saw hesitation in his eyes.

But also a promise.

A promise long buried, never fully understood.

As the consorts were dismissed and the hall emptied once more, Meilan approached and whispered into Zhenyu's ear:

"That shadow doesn't belong only to Qingyin... it belongs to you as well."

Zhenyu turned to her. "What do you mean?"

Meilan smiled. But for a moment, her eyes were no longer those of an old maid—

but of someone who had seen death and chose to return.

Night came too quickly, as though the sky could no longer bear to witness what the light had uncovered.

The Pavilion of Consort Qing was silent, like a box filled with prayers never sent. Lanterns on the veranda swung gently, casting shadows that no longer belonged to this world. Inside, Zhenyu sat alone, her body upright but her soul undone. Her sleeping robe hung loosely, as if it no longer mattered to hide the wounds that could not be seen.

Meilan had left to fetch warm water, and Bai Rouxi kept silent vigil behind the outer curtain.

But the stillness of that night belonged to none of them.

It belonged to something older than flesh, more ancient than blood.

Before her, a shard of cracked mirror lay on a jade tray.

Its fractures branched like roots—or veins—dancing wildly, as if trying to reassemble a face.

Not her face.

But a face that slowly, terribly, began to feel like her own.

Helian Qingyin.

Zhenyu stared at the shard and felt her body warm, like it was being touched by a sacred fire—one that did not burn, but did not forgive either.

Then she spoke—not to anyone, only to the darkness that listened.

"If no one believes in my blood, and no one remembers my soul... can I still belong to myself?"

No answer came, save the wind slipping through the lattice window.

But from the corner of the cracked mirror, a faint mist stirred.

Not a reflection.

Not an illusion.

But a memory.

Or a soul that refused to leave.

In that instant, Zhenyu felt her body go weightless—too weightless—and the air around her shifted. The scent of incense vanished. The lanterns' creaks ceased. Time slowed. She knew this sign.

Rongxu Jing.

Yet this time, she was not drawn in.

She was pushed out.

Her body remained seated in the pavilion, but part of her... was no longer there.

She stood amidst soft mist with no direction.

Silver light dripped from an unnamed sky.

Around her, palace walls formed from memory—half-real, half-forgotten.

And there, in the center of it all, stood a woman with her back to her.

Her white hair long, her robe drifting like sea fog.

Zhenyu knew who it was before she turned.

But when the woman did turn, her face was not only Helian Qingyin's.

There was a trace of Zhenyu too.

The curve of her smile.

The slant of her eyes.

Even the faint scar on her right temple.

The woman's voice was like a whisper from inside bone:

"If you hate me, I understand. But if you reject me... we will both perish."

Zhenyu bit her lip. A metallic taste spread on her tongue.

Then she asked, voice barely a breath:

"Who is truly living inside whom?"

But the mist had already risen.

And Rongxu Jing swallowed everything once more.

Zhenyu awoke with cold sweat on her brow, the mirror's cracks still etched behind her eyes.

Meilan entered with a tray, as if time had never broken.

But that night, Zhenyu knew one thing for certain:

The banquet was only the beginning.

What would be questioned next was not just blood, nor simply spirit—

But fate itself.

____________

The banquet was over, but the mirror had not finished speaking.

Night closed in like a wound unwilling to heal, and between Zhenyu's fractured breaths, one truth emerged: it was not just her blood being questioned, but her very existence. And within the timeless realm of Rongxu Jing, fate had begun to stir.