In the world of Xianluo, where power was the only currency that mattered, the cycle of life was both merciless and eternal. The ancient forces that once governed the realm now lay dormant, their whispers drowned in the wind, but Murong Shuyin—reincarnated into this broken world—knew that power was still the only truth.
She stood on the balcony of the ruined estate, watching as the crimson autumn painted the sky in hues of blood and fire. The world before her seemed to pulse with a quiet violence, every leaf falling like a silent promise. Each whisper of the wind, each creak of the decaying stone beneath her feet, carried with it a secret, an opportunity, a threat. She had learned to listen, to interpret the faintest tremor, for in this life, nothing was left to chance.
Murong Shuyin had died once. But she had not been reborn out of necessity. No, her return to this world was a calculated move, a carefully laid plan by someone who had learned the fragility of life. In her past life, she had been a noble, an unyielding force that commanded respect. But she had fallen, just like all who sought power recklessly. Now, she was reborn—smarter, colder, and with a purpose that was far more dangerous than mere survival.
She had no illusions of morality or kindness. Emotions were an inconvenience, distractions that had no place in the pursuit of power. The world had shown her that mercy was weakness, and weakness was the enemy. Compassion? A tool for those too naïve to see the bloodstained road ahead. No, she would not be a victim again.
Her fingers traced the edge of the stone railing, feeling the sharpness of the cold wind against her skin. The Murong family, once powerful and revered, was now a shadow of its former self. But she was no longer the naive child who had been betrayed. She was an instrument, forged by the harsh lessons of the past, her ambition now as sharp as the blade at her side.
"Lady Shuyin," a voice called from the shadows.
She turned slowly, her expression impassive. A figure emerged from the darkness—a man dressed in the robes of a servant, though there was an air of familiarity about him. He was not someone important, but he was useful, for now.
"What is it, Qian?" Shuyin's voice was low, her words measured and deliberate.
"The time has come," he said, stepping closer with a cautious look in his eyes. "The Crimson Veil is lifting, and your destiny calls."
Shuyin's lips curled into a faint smile, one that held no warmth. "Destiny," she repeated, as if tasting the word on her tongue. "Destiny is a fool's illusion. The only truth is that the world is mine to take. It's simply a matter of knowing when to strike."
Qian hesitated, sensing the weight of her words. "You understand what it means, don't you? The ancient forces are stirring. The powers that once ruled this world... they will return. But they will not tolerate anyone who dares to stand in their way."
Shuyin tilted her head, her crimson eyes narrowing as she studied him. "I do not care for the return of old gods or forgotten forces. I only care for what I can control. And when the time comes, I will make sure the world bends to my will."
Qian's gaze faltered. He had seen her rise before—seen her ruthlessness, her cunning—but there was something different now. Something darker.
"And what of the Murong family?" he asked cautiously.
Shuyin's lips parted as she glanced down at the ruined estate. "They were a stepping stone. A means to an end. Now, they are nothing more than a memory, an old lesson I will not forget."
She stepped forward, her gaze never leaving the horizon. "The blood of the past has been spilled. The dead are of no consequence to me. The future is all that matters, and I will take it with both hands."
Qian bowed his head, knowing better than to question her. "And what of the others? The rivals?"
"They are nothing but obstacles," Shuyin replied, her voice cold and indifferent. "They will either bend to my will or fall before it. No one can escape what is coming. No one."
The wind picked up, swirling around them as the last vestiges of daylight faded. The crimson autumn had begun, and with it, the slow unraveling of a world that had forgotten what true power was. Shuyin could feel it—the weight of her rebirth, the calculated vengeance that would shape the world around her.
Her heart was as cold as the night. Her mind, sharp as a blade. She had nothing to fear, and everything to gain.
And as the first of the crimson leaves fell to the ground, she whispered softly to herself: "Let the game begin."