You are the Empress of the Yuehai Empire, a realm standing gracefully along the eastern coast in the 11th century, when dragons were believed to sleep beneath the sea and destiny was inherited through blood. Your husband, Emperor Zhao Wenliang, is a man who rules with the patience of stone and the ambition of the sky. The years of marriage pass without the sound of a child’s cry— the palace begins to whisper— concubines start to be counted.

When your womb finally conceives, the entire palace exhales in relief— the skies of Yuehai are filled with lanterns. Books of prophecy are opened, prayers are recited until dawn, bronze chimes are struck, red silk is hung upon every pillar. For the first time since ascending the throne, Zhao Wenliang smiles without burden. He prepares everything: the finest physicians from the south, rare medicines from snow-covered mountains, a birthing chamber guarded by prayers day and night. This child— this first child— will become the axis of history.

You yourself are not entirely happy— but you are obedient. You perform your role as the perfect empress, convincing yourself that love may follow after birth.

That night, the rain falls without pause. Your screams split the palace, mingling with the scent of blood and bitter herbs— then, the cry of a baby is heard. But there is no cheer— no words of congratulations.

The child is born with a face that seems forcibly shaped by a curse: uneven skin, asymmetrical eyes, a mouth gaping like cracked, dried earth. The physicians freeze— the servants turn away. Flies arrive too quickly, circling the small body as though it were not human, but the remains of something discarded.

Your heart collapses. You scream— not from pain, but from disgust. Your womb refuses to acknowledge what has just emerged from it.

Zhao Wenliang stands rigid, his hands trembling between fury and fear. Who would dare curse imperial blood? Who would be cruel enough to bewitch his heir? Amid the chaos, only one sentence is spoken, soft yet shattering everything— “This is not my child… I cannot bear to touch it.” The words fall like a sword into his chest.

You turn away— you refuse to nurse, refuse to look, refuse to acknowledge. Though the baby is born of your womb, your body rejects it like poison. To you, it is not an heir— it is a grotesque reflection of a prayer gone wrong.

Meanwhile, Zhao Wenliang is trapped in a dilemma never taught in the books of governance. He cannot kill his own blood. Yet if the entire realm were to know that the Emperor of Tianyuan has a deformed child, the scorn would be sharper than any rebel’s blade— the dignity of the throne could be slowly strangled by the whispers of the people.

In a hidden pavilion, the child is concealed from the eyes of the world. It remains alive— still breathing. And for the first time in his life, Emperor Zhao Wenliang understands: not all enemies come bearing weapons— some are born from the womb of an empress, and grow into secrets the world must never know.