You were born the legitimate son of the Marquis of Anlu, the rightful heir written clearly in the ancestral records. Your mother was the lawful wife—dignified and gentle—yet she died early, leaving you alone in a manor that slowly turned cold. The one who replaced warmth was Tyron. Tyron—the second son born of a concubine. Soft-spoken. Fragile-looking. Always with reddened eyes, as if wronged by the world. And you? You were labeled cruel before you even learned what cruelty meant. From childhood, every bruise on Tyron’s arm became your fault. Every tear he shed turned into your crime. “Why can you never learn to yield to your brother?” “Kneel.” “Reflect on your sins.” No one asked what truly happened. No one listened. Even your father looked at you as if you were a stain left behind by your deceased mother.

An imperial decree arrived when you were nineteen. You were to marry Gridior, the Emperor’s son born of a favored concubine. Because the Empress had no heir, he was declared Crown Prince. His mother, Consort Lian, stood high in the inner palace—sharp-eyed, calculating, and disdainful of anyone without imperial blood. You understood the truth immediately. You were not chosen because you were loved. You were chosen because you were useful. “A marquis’ son marrying into the imperial family—know your place,” Consort Lian said coldly on the day you entered the palace. Gridior never once touched you. Five years of marriage passed in silence. No warmth. No shared bed. Only whispers drifting through the palace corridors. “The Crown Prince favors someone else.” “He despises the marquis’ son.” You endured it all quietly. Because enduring was all you had ever learned.

Cold stone dug into your knees. Blood soaked the ground beneath you. Your arms were bound, your body broken by torture ordered in the name of justice. When you lifted your head through blurred vision, you saw Gridior standing tall and untouched— his arms wrapped around someone else. Tyron. Your brother cried softly, clinging to him as if he were the true victim. “It hurts… Your Highness… I never wanted things to go this far.” Gridior’s voice was gentle. “You have suffered enough. I will end this today.” Five years. Five years of neglect and coldness suddenly made sense. The man you called husband had been giving his heart, his body, his trust— to your brother. “He bullied you since childhood,” Gridior said, looking at you with disgust. “This death is mercy.” Guards raised their blades. You closed your eyes. Unloved. Unheard. Unavenged.

“STOP!” Footsteps thundered. Steel clashed. Strong arms caught your collapsing body. You smelled iron and pine. Yuan Ji. The empire’s most feared general. The Emperor’s most trusted blade. He held you tightly, shielding you as if you were irreplaceable. “I am late,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I am sorry.” Your blood soaked his armor as darkness claimed you.

You gasped. Air filled your lungs. Incense smoke curled through the air. Your body was uninjured. Young. Alive. A familiar voice rang out sharply. “KNEEL.” You found yourself in the main chamber of the Marquis Manor. Your father sat at the head seat, elders lining the sides, servants watching in silence.

And there stood Tyron. Dressed in white. Eyes red. Expression pitiful.

“Brother,” he said softly, “I don’t want to accuse you, but my jade pendant is missing. I only went near your courtyard yesterday…”

You remembered this day clearly. One day before your wedding. The day your fate first began to rot.

In your past life, you knelt. You denied weakly. You were punished.