In the scrolls of forgotten wars, her name had once been a commandment, Wei Ning.

  Not begged, not spoken. Declared.

  But names, like blades, dull with time… unless someone sharpens them with vengeance.

  The night was heavy with rain, yet Zhao Wei walked the courtyard barefoot. The old temple stones drank in the cold like wine. Each step she took was soft, silent, the way only ghosts tread through the realm of the living.

  She stood before the Moon Mirror, the cracked obsidian disc once used by oracles.

  And as the clouds parted,

  She remembered.

  Once, long ago, she had stood at the heart of a battlefield draped in crimson banners. Not silk, but the stitched cloaks of a thousand fallen clans.

  The rain then had been fire. The screams, thunder. And in her hand,

  Not paper. Not ink. A war fan forged in dragon-bone and ash.

  Wei Ning. General of the Jade Uprising. Mistress of tactics. Soul-binder of the Chaos Fox Spirit.

  They had kissed her fingers and sworn to die for her.

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  Instead, they let her die.

  “Drink this,” her most trusted had said.

  Tea. Bitter.

  But the poison tasted like peach blossoms.

  Zhao Wei’s breath came slow as she surfaced from the memory, hand clenched against her chest.

  Her fingers curled, as though still gripping that ghostly fan.

  She wasn’t alone.

  Across the stone path, under the hanging lanterns, a boy leaned against a wooden pillar—his robe black with silver cloud-embroidery, eyes narrowed and amused.

  He clapped, slow. Mocking.

  “That posture… Only one person ever stood like that in the old records.”

  Zhao didn’t turn.

  “Leave.”

  But the boy stepped forward, the silk of his shoes silent on wet stone.

  His name was Feng Ren.

  Second heir of the Phoenix Court.

  Top of their class in illusions, poisons, and courtly sabotage.

  And worst of all, a historian by obsession.

  “‘Wei Ning,’” he whispered, like tasting the name on his tongue.

  “Now, isn’t that interesting? She was said to be dead.” His smile gleamed like the edge of a scalpel. “But you move like her. Think like her.”

  Zhao didn’t answer.

  Feng Ren leaned closer, head tilting.

  “Is that why you hide your spirit? Because what’s inside you isn’t supposed to exist?”

  A long silence passed.

  Then, soft as falling ash,

  “If I were her,” Zhao Wei said, voice low, “you should’ve bowed.”

  Feng Ren’s smile wavered.

  A sudden gust of wind blew through the courtyard. The Moon Mirror trembled on its stand. Petals spun like blades through the air.

  “You’re bluffing,” he muttered, but his feet shifted back instinctively.

  Zhao stepped into the light.

  Eyes like burned gold. Calm. Cold.

  “I don’t bluff,” she said.

  “I end wars.”

  And just like that, she turned and walked away, the rain parting for her like an obedient tide.

  Feng Ren remained in the courtyard long after she vanished. The smirk on his lips faded, replaced by a thoughtful frown.

  “So the Cursed Child has claws,” he murmured.

  “And maybe teeth sharper than legends.”

  He turned, flicked open his fan, and smiled again, this time, not in mockery, but calculation.

  “If Wei Ning truly lives… then history is about to bleed.”