Aurora's gaze was fixed on the reflection in the mirror, but she didn't see herself. Not really. She was examining the body she now inhabited—the frail, weak, useless body of Xia Yan. Her fingers traced the curve of her cheek, the softness of the skin, but all she felt was disgust. This body wasn't hers. It didn't belong to Aurora, the once-deadly assassin who had been the organization's prized asset, trained to perfection in every conceivable way.
She clenched her fists, testing the strength in her fingers. Weak. Useless. She could feel the tremble of her muscles as if this body were rejecting her very presence. The doctor had warned her family that her recovery would take time, but Aurora had no patience for weakness. Time was a luxury she couldn't afford.
Her thoughts wandered to her past life—a life where her body had been her weapon, engineered to be flawless. She had been the shadow that enemies feared, the weapon her master depended on, and the heir apparent to a criminal empire. But none of that mattered now. Betrayal had ended her reign, leaving her to rot in this fragile cage. She would get the answers, the truth about her death and people behind it. She would make them regret their very life essence.
Aurora's eyes burned with determination as she stood, her legs trembling beneath her weight. Her hand reached for the edge of the table to steady herself. Every step felt like a mockery of the strength she once wielded.
She wouldn't stay like this. This body would bend to her will. She had rebuilt herself once before, forged into a weapon from nothing. She would do it again, even if it meant starting from scratch.
Her fingers brushed against the drawer of the bedside table. She pulled it open, scanning its contents—a brush set, a few trinkets, and a porcelain perfume bottle. Nothing of use. No weapons, no tools, no means to fight back.
But Aurora didn't need weapons. She was a weapon in itself.
Her eyes flickered toward the window, where the sprawling city of Z stretched beneath the fading sunlight.
A soft knock at the door broke her concentration. Aurora's sharp gaze shifted, her instincts momentarily primed for danger before she remembered where she was.
"Jiejie? Are you awake?" The voice was small but earnest, carrying the faintest tremor of worry.
"Come in," she called, her voice sharper than she intended.
The door creaked open to reveal Zhihao, the boy who called her sister. He was barely more than a child, yet his thin frame carried a tray of food as if it were a shield against the world. His dark eyes were wide with concern as he stepped into the room.
"You need to eat," Zhihao said firmly, setting the tray on the bedside table. "The doctor said you're still recovering. You've barely touched anything all day!"
Aurora studied him in silence. He wasn't much taller than the tray he carried, but the determination in his gaze reminded her of someone—herself, when she was younger. His small hands were clenched into fists, as if bracing himself for an argument.
"I'm not hungry," Aurora replied, her voice cool.
"You have to eat," Zhihao insisted. His tone was firm, but there was a childish waver to it. "You can't get better if you don't!"
Aurora's lips curved into a faint, humorless smile. "I'll eat later."
Zhihao's expression shifted, his lips pressing into a thin line. He hesitated, then blurted, "You always say that! But you never do!"
Aurora blinked, momentarily taken aback by his outburst. For a moment, she saw the strain in his young face—the sleepless nights, the worry etched into his features. This boy had been her caretaker, her shield, while she had been bedridden. Perhaps, if he didn't protect this body, she might not have been able to inhabit it.
He was just a child. A child forced to act like an adult because no one else cared enough to. Her chest tightened, a foreign emotion washed over her, something she couldn't quite place. She wasn't used to people caring about her. In her past life, affection was a weakness. Maybe this strange feeling in her heart didn't belong to her but to the original Xia Yan instead.
"I'll eat," she said quietly, softening her tone. "I promise."
Zhihao's shoulders relaxed, and the determination in his eyes dimmed slightly. He nodded, though his expression remained skeptical. "Good. You need your strength, Jiejie. I can't take care of you forever."
Aurora again felt a flicker of something warm in her chest—an unfamiliar, unnameable emotion. But she pushed it aside.
"Go rest," she said, her voice firm again. "I'll be fine."
Zhihao hesitated but eventually nodded, retreating toward the door. He paused before leaving, glancing back at her one last time.
Aurora watched him leave, the door clicking shut behind him. She turned back to the mirror, her reflection a cruel reminder of the body she now inhabited.
She couldn't let Zhihao carry her burden any longer, his weak sister truly died. He was too young, too fragile, to shoulder the weight of her existence.
Her thoughts drifted to her past life, to the rigorous training that had shaped her into a weapon. Hours spent mastering poisons, hacking systems, and dismantling enemies with precision. She had been the organization's greatest creation, a prodigy who surpassed even her master's expectations.
She had relied on her body in her past life—the strength it gave her, the deadly precision of her every movement. That body was something inhumane. This one was nothing but wasted potential.
But potential could be salvaged.
Aurora's thoughts sharpened as they always did in moments like this. The organisation had trained her to adapt, to think, to never be caught off guard. If her tools were lacking, she would forge new ones. If her body was broken, she would rebuild it. She had survived worse. She would survive this.
She had to start from the beginning. Aurora walked to the window, her legs trembling with every step. The city lights flickered like distant stars, mocking her with their brilliance. She reached for the small exercise mat by the corner of the room and lowered herself onto it.
Her arms shook as she attempted a simple push-up. Her body protested, her muscles screaming in defiance. She clenched her teeth, forcing herself through the movement. Pain lanced through her arms, but she didn't stop.
Weakness was unacceptable.
Aurora pushed through the pain and completed 50 push-ups. At the end of it, her current body was a sweaty mess but a triumphant smile lazily lifted her lips, making her look like a seductive hunter. It was not a bad start, she thought.
Her brilliance hadn't come from her body alone; it had come from her mind, her will. And those were still intact. Her gaze hardened as she began mapping out her plan. She would start with the basics—strengthening her muscles, building her stamina. Slowly, steadily, she would transform this body into something that could match her mind.
Because she wasn't just Xia Yan.
She was Aurora, the shadow that no one could outrun, the storm that destroyed everything in its path. And she would rise again.