The void was silent.
It always was.
'Look at the stars, Layla,' Yasmina had once told her. 'Do you know what Ibn al-Haytham wrote? He said that the universe is written in light, and that those who read its language can decipher fate itself.'
Layla had scoffed at the time. She had ruled through steel and cunning, not superstition.
But now, as she drifted between death and whatever lay beyond, she wished she had listened more carefully.
A negotiation room, dimly lit by lanterns, the scent of ink and spice thick in the air. Layla sat with the same poise she had always wielded, a blade hidden behind silk. She had not been born into power—she had seized it, carved it out with wit sharper than any steel. A queen, not by divine right, but by sheer force of will.
She had been nothing at first. The forgotten daughter of a noble too unimportant to remember. A child born into a world that did not love her, cast aside by parents who had only wished for sons. She had been tolerated, ignored, treated as little more than an obligation—a girl who should never have mattered.
Her father had ruled a minor province, a bureaucrat clinging to power through false alliances and carefully played deceptions. Her mother, a woman obsessed with status, saw Layla only as a bargaining piece, a future bride to be traded away for political advantage. Her older brothers? They had seen her as nothing but a burden, an unnecessary competitor in their hunger for inheritance.
She learned early that love was conditional. That kindness was currency. That the world would never hand her anything freely.
So she took. Yet she had learned early that power was not given to the meek—it was taken. When the throne had been left vacant, torn apart by warring factions, it was she who had maneuvered, whispered, and outplayed every rival. She had turned enemies against each other, made the strongest warlords dance in her palm, and when the dust settled, it was her name that was whispered in reverence and fear.
The nobles who had scorned her? Gone. The siblings who had mocked her weakness? Eliminated. The father who had once declared she was 'unsuitable' to lead? He had bowed before her in his final days, too broken to resist the storm she had become.
'You always had sharp eyes, Layla,' he had wheezed from his sickbed, 'but I never thought you would turn them on your own blood.'
She had looked down at him, expression unreadable. 'Neither did I.'
Regret? No. She had done what needed to be done. The world had given her nothing, so she had taken everything.
She had ruled the greatest empire in the known world, not by birthright, but by making herself indispensable.
Her reign had not merely been one of survival, but of revolution. The laws that once silenced women had been rewritten under her decree. Child marriages, once a common practice, were abolished. Women were given the right to own businesses, to be educated, to hold power—true power, not borrowed from fathers and husbands. She had fought for these changes, and she had won.
But it had come at a cost. The noble houses had resisted her, calling her unnatural, a deviation from tradition. They had whispered of her arrogance, of her refusal to submit. They had called her dangerous.
Jinhai had once told her, during a late-night negotiation, 'You forced history to turn its gaze upon you, Layla. Most rulers let the tide of tradition guide them. You rewrote the course of the river itself.'
She had smiled, sipping her tea. 'And you disapprove?'
'I admire it,' he had admitted, though his voice was laced with the weight of his own constraints. 'But my empire is not ready for such things.'
And yet, despite his reluctance, he had always listened to her. Always watched, fascinated, as she tore down the walls that bound her people.
She had done more than rule. She had built. She had introduced public sanitation, the first large-scale bathhouses, and the earliest forms of city planning. It had been her idea to refine scented oils into what would later be known as perfume, turning the art of fragrance into a booming industry. And in secret, she had begun drafting blueprints for a new invention—an engine. The first of its kind, incomplete, but the beginning of something greater.
She sat across from Emperor Shen Jinhai of the Eastern Celestial Dynasty, a man as cold as the mountain winds. Between them, a parchment bearing terms of peace—a treaty that could unite two powerful empires. Yet, in the flickering candlelight, their gazes lingered just a little too long, the silence between words heavier than mere diplomacy. It was not the first time they had shared such moments. Over the years, their paths had crossed time and again—formal visits, feasts veiled as political maneuvers, quiet moments stolen in grand halls where they discussed not war, but poetry, philosophy, and the burdens of sovereignty.
'You always hesitate before signing, Layla,' Jinhai murmured, fingers tapping against the parchment. 'Why is that?'
She exhaled, a soft, nearly imperceptible smile touching her lips. 'Because treaties are easy to sign. Harder to uphold.'
Jinhai chuckled, low and knowing. 'You don't trust me?'
She studied him in the dim light, recalling the long years of their interactions. The stolen conversations between court feasts. The nights spent in quiet negotiations, where they spoke less like rulers and more like weary souls who understood one another.
'I trust you more than I trust most,' she admitted finally. 'But trust is not the same as certainty.'
'I trust you,' she admitted. 'I do not trust history.'
For a moment, there was only the sound of the crackling lanterns. The unspoken truth hung between them—they were both rulers bound by duty, both aware that what existed in these fleeting interactions could never be. Not truly. It was unspoken, a forbidden understanding—admiration, respect… perhaps something more.
There had been moments—small, fleeting, but impossible to ignore. The way he had once reached to adjust the heavy golden clasp of her ceremonial robe before thinking better of it. The night they had walked the palace gardens, discussing the weight of leadership, when she had allowed herself the rare indulgence of imagining a world where things had been different.
'Perhaps in another life,' he had once murmured.
'Perhaps,' she had replied. But there had never been another life. Only duty. Only war. Only fate pulling them apart before they had ever truly come together.
'You speak of prosperity,' Jinhai had said, his sharp eyes searching her own, 'but can your people accept foreign rulers?'
Layla had smiled then, weary but resolute. 'We do not need conquerors, nor do we need division. We need unity. Trade, knowledge, strength—our worlds are more alike than you admit, Your Majesty.'
But neither of them would ever see the future they envisioned.
The first sign of betrayal had been the bitter taste in her tea. The second had been the way Jinhai clutched his throat, his eyes widening in shock.
A single, deadly poison—administered to them both. A cruel, poetic fate for two rulers who had, against the tide of history, dared to find kinship in one another.
Layla, even as her vision blurred, calculated. The dosage, the delivery, the precise moment—none of this was random. Yasmina had always spoken of poisons as tools, their timing as vital as the blade that followed. But something was wrong—Jinhai was collapsing too fast.
Her mind raced, assessing, calculating. If the poison took full effect before Jinhai hit the floor, his head could strike the stone with enough force to rob him of what little dignity he had left in death. She had seconds—seconds.
Summoning her last reserves of strength, she reached across the table, knocking over a small silk pillow just in time to break his fall. A meaningless act? Perhaps. But dignity in death mattered. Even if she could not save him, she could offer him that final mercy.
Yet, even through her pain, her mind latched onto one final puzzle: who?
The tea had been inspected. Every precaution taken. And yet… it had still reached them.
Her mind sifted through the last moments, recalling three figures who could have orchestrated this.
First, Minister Halim—her most trusted adviser, a man with a reputation beyond reproach. But had his loyalty waned? Had he grown tired of serving a ruler who refused to be a puppet?
Second, Lady Zafira—a concubine turned diplomat, once loyal but increasingly frustrated with Layla's rejection of certain 'traditions.' She had reason, she had access.
And lastly… the unassuming servant, Jinhai's own cupbearer, a boy who had been with him since childhood. The least likely suspect. But was that not the mark of a true assassin?
Her breath slowed as she accepted the bitter truth—trust had been her greatest weakness.
As the world blurred, Layla had reached out—not to the treaty, not to her crown, but to Jinhai himself. 'They will rewrite history,' she had whispered, even as her vision darkened. 'They will make it seem as if we never tried.'
The last thing she heard was the sound of a goblet shattering against the floor.
Jinhai's face twisted with a mixture of emotions—gratitude, regret, and something deeper, something heavier. His lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. His eyes, dark and unwavering, locked onto hers, silently conveying the apology he could not voice.
Layla understood. He had been a ruler first, a man second. Bound by duty, by expectations, by the weight of a thousand unspoken rules. And yet, in this moment, he was neither.
His fingers trembled, lifting slightly from the table, as though reaching for her—too late. Always too late.
She exhaled a bitter breath, her strength fading. 'Don't apologize, Jinhai,' she whispered. 'We both knew this was how it would end.'
A tear traced down his cheek. Whether for himself or for her, she would never know.
And then—a whisper, barely a breath against the darkness.
'I'm sorry, Layla… This is all I could do for you…'
Faint, distant, yet unmistakable. A voice she had not heard in years. But there was something else—another presence.
A second voice, layered beneath Yasmina's, barely above a whisper. Foreign, unknowable, yet strangely familiar.
'It is not yet your time, you are more than this'
Her heart clenched. Who was that? The words held a weight she could not place, a significance that chilled her bones. A name she had never heard, yet it coiled in her mind like a long-forgotten memory.
Then, like an ember igniting within the abyss, consciousness returned.
She awoke.
The first sensation was that of breath—not the shallow, rattling breath of death, nor the tormented wheeze of one gasping for air, but true breath. Deep. Steady. A sign of life.
And for the first time in an eternity, she felt warmth.
'Where… am I?'
Memories flooded her mind—not of endless torment or cycles of suffering, but of warmth, of kindness, of a time when she had believed in goodness. Something pure. Something… human.
She remembered being Sovereign Layla al-Zahira, Queen of the Eternal Crescent, ruler of a vast Middle Eastern empire that had commanded both fear and reverence. A woman of untouchable grace, cunning intellect, and yet… she had never truly held power. Her reign had been one of intrigue, of navigating treacherous courts filled with vipers in silk robes.
She had fought for her people, striving to protect them from the ever-looming forces of greed and war. She had built roads, strengthened alliances, educated women in sciences and arts—all in pursuit of a future where power was wielded wisely, not selfishly.
But even wisdom was no shield against betrayal.
And then…
She had died.
Not by war. Not by revolution. Not by a rival monarch's blade.
It had been poison.
A slow, creeping agony disguised as a gentle sleep. No blade to fight, no enemy to face—just the quiet betrayal of something unseen, something ingested, something meant to make her fade without a sound.
Her people never knew the truth. The court wept for their queen while the guilty raised their goblets in silent triumph.
Yet now, she was here.
And this body—
Her eyes snapped open. A new world greeted her.
The Celestial Continent.
A land of boundless qi, where the heavens dictated one's fate and only those who reached for the divine could escape mediocrity. This world was not ruled by kings and emperors but by sects, grand pillars of cultivation that dictated the very balance of existence.
Mountains stretched into the heavens, their peaks wreathed in clouds, standing like sentinels of eternity. Ancient rivers shimmered with ethereal energy, their waters carrying the whispers of the past. The land itself pulsed with qi, an omnipresent force woven into the very fabric of reality.
And above all, there were the Immortals.
Those who defied the heavens, who carved their names into eternity. They were not simply warriors, but scholars of power, philosophers of divinity, architects of fate.
She knew this world.
She had learned of it long ago, from a woman named Yasmina, a wandering scholar who had once graced her court. Yasmina had spoken of a land beyond the deserts and the seas, a place where warriors did not merely wield steel but bent the very fabric of reality to their will.
'Your world is bound by kings and borders,' Yasmina had once told her as they stood beneath the arched ceilings of the grand library. 'But in the Celestial Continent, the heavens themselves decree one's fate. There, a beggar may rise to the throne, and an emperor may be reduced to dust if they lack the strength to hold their power.'
Layla had listened intently, fascinated by tales of sects that ruled not with armies but with sheer might, of mountains that reached into eternity, and of rivers imbued with wisdom. 'And what of justice?' she had asked.
'Justice is but the will of the strong,' Yasmina had replied, her amber eyes filled with both reverence and sorrow. 'To seek fairness is to seek power first.'
Now, standing in a world she had once thought only myth, Layla realized the truth of those words.
A lump formed in her throat. 'Yasmina…' she whispered to the silence. 'I was a fool to doubt you.'
She had dismissed Yasmina's tales as romanticized exaggerations, the fantasies of a wandering scholar desperate to make foreign lands sound grander than they were. But Yasmina had spoken the truth, and Layla had never taken the time to tell her how much she valued her.
'If only I could see you again, just once,' she murmured, her voice thick with regret. 'If only I had one more chance…' But Yasmina was long gone, lost to time and the cruel hand of fate. Or was she?
A chilling thought slithered into her mind. What if this was not a different world, but the same one in another form? What if the empire she had ruled still stood, but history had merely shifted its course? Could it be possible? Could her own past be written somewhere in this world's history?
Her heart pounded. She had to know.
Here, strength was truth.
Power was the only absolute.
Yet despite all its grandeur, all its vast, unfathomable wonders, she smiled.
A soft, wistful smile. Not of amusement, nor excitement, but of understanding.
Because she had once believed in a better world.
And now? Now, she had a new life—one that she would dedicate to something greater than herself, to creating rather than ruling, to guiding rather than conquering.
She rose from the bed, her new body foreign yet familiar.
The sensation of qi thrummed beneath her skin, potent but untamed. And it terrified her.
Her breath caught in her throat. Power—real, tangible power—coursed through her veins, something she had never experienced in her previous life. She clenched her hands into fists, but the sensation did not dissipate. It coiled within her, an unfamiliar force pressing against her very being.
She staggered back, her heart pounding. This was beyond her understanding. In her world, power had been influence, words, and diplomacy. Here, it was something intrinsic, something woven into existence itself.
'What... what is this?' she murmured, panic creeping into her voice.
The knowledge surfaced—not from her own experiences, but from the lingering memories of the body's previous owner. A girl named Meilin. A disciple of the Silver Lotus Sect. A sect that, in its prime, had been a beacon of enlightenment, but now stood on the precipice of oblivion. It was weaker than what she had once wielded as a sovereign, yet it was hers. A foundation to build upon, a canvas upon which she would reshape destiny.
She walked to the mirror, and for the first time, she truly saw herself.
The reflection that gazed back was that of a young woman, perhaps sixteen at most. Her hair, long and ink-black, cascaded past her waist like a river of midnight. Her eyes—once filled with the golden fire of imperial decree—were now a deep crimson, as though the blood of an empire had been sealed within them. Her skin, pale as porcelain, bore no blemish, no imperfection.
She was flawless.
A beauty that could topple cities, that could reduce even the most steadfast warriors to kneeling worship.
Yet, behind that beauty, behind the delicate features and ethereal grace, there was something more.
Something resilient.
Something determined.
She stretched out a hand, feeling the flow of qi, testing the limits of her new form.
A rush of energy surged within her veins, untamed but potent.
This body… It was weak for now.
But that would change.
Her lips curved into a small, knowing smile. A world governed by power, ruled by cultivation?
She had once been the ruler of an empire, the unchallenged sovereign of a world without equals.
And now?
Now, she would make the most of this life.
But first, she needed to understand the world she had been reborn into. She needed knowledge.
Because knowledge, as always, was the foundation of all power.
And then she noticed it—the emblem on the sleeve of her robes.
A withered lotus, embroidered in silver thread.
The dying symbol of a sect on the verge of collapse.
The Silver Lotus Sect.
Once a respected name, now a crumbling relic of the past. A remnant of a golden age long since faded, its members dwindling, its resources strained, its enemies encroaching.
In this world, sects lived and died like shifting tides. Those without power were swallowed whole, their legacies erased, their lands devoured by the strong.
And she…
She had been reborn into ruin.
Her body was not alone.
A distant voice trembled through the air. 'Meilin…!'
A sob. A desperate gasp. Then arms—warm, trembling arms—wrapped around her, a sensation so foreign it sent a shock through her core.
She stiffened.
Another pair of hands grasped her shoulders, another tear-streaked face pressing close. 'Our child, our Meilin! She's awake!'
Layla didn't know how to react. Never, in her past life, had anyone touched her like this—not out of love, not out of relief. She had been a queen, a ruler adored by her people, but never held as if she mattered beyond her title.
'Why… are they crying for me?' The thought was foreign. In her world, power was survival, affection was a tool, and sincerity was a liability.
But here, in this dying sect, these people—her parents—were holding her as if she were their entire world.
Something deep inside her stirred, unfamiliar and terrifying.
But ruin was just another word for opportunity.
She would not seek domination, nor conquest, nor revenge.
She would rebuild.
The first step?
Reviving the Silver Lotus Sect.
And from there…
She would begin her ascension.
The murmurs around her were hesitant, laced with uncertainty. Her parents—their warmth was overwhelming, but the unfamiliarity gnawed at her. Could she afford to trust? No. But she could adapt.
As she lay there, eyes fluttering open, she began assessing. The room, the people, the emotions on their faces. Her mind, honed through years of ruling, dissected every detail as though preparing for war.
Her father—grief-stricken, but not weak. His hands trembled as he held hers, yet his grip was firm. A man who had seen too much loss.
Her mother—tears streaming, relief and exhaustion written in every line of her face. But there was nothing deceitful in her expression—only pure, overwhelming love.
Layla's breath hitched. This was different. Unconditional.
In her past life, affection had always been transactional. But now? Her mother's sobs were not for a lost heir or a failed alliance. They were for her, Meilin, the daughter they had thought lost.
Love, real love, was foreign to her.
Had they known something? Had they hidden something from her? No, not yet. Not enough information.
Her voice, measured and steady, broke through the air. 'How did I… survive?' she asked, tilting her head as if still disoriented. 'And the sect… how is the Silver Lotus Sect faring?'
The room fell silent for a moment before her father spoke, voice thick with worry. 'You've been in an unwakeable slumber for weeks, Meilin. We feared…' He swallowed hard. 'We feared we had lost you.'
A calculated pause. Then Layla—Meilin—nodded slowly, as if letting the realization sink in.
Processing. Analyzing. Every word, every hesitation.
'But I am here now,' she murmured, offering a small, reassuring smile. 'And I will not let our sect fall into ruin.'
Even as she comforted them, her mind was already working. This will take years to piece together. But I will learn everything.
When she next spoke, her voice was careful, calculated. 'The great empires beyond these lands… the ones far to the west. Who rules them now?'
Her father hesitated, exchanging glances with the others. 'The western lands are foreign to us, daughter,' he admitted. 'But we have heard of a great empire beyond the deserts, one that fell to turmoil some generations ago. Its name, however, is lost to time.'
Layla's breath hitched. Her empire? Lost to time? The weight of it settled over her like a heavy cloak, suffocating and final.
But she had one more question. A final test.
She inhaled deeply, voice even. 'Who rules the Celestial Dynasty now?'
The moment the words left her lips, the air in the room changed. The warmth fled. Her parents tensed, their hands trembling. Even the attending disciples went pale, their gazes darting to the door as if fearing eavesdroppers.
Her mother gasped, covering her mouth. Her father, usually composed, visibly shook.
'Never…' he whispered, gripping her hand so tightly it almost hurt. 'Never speak that name carelessly, Meilin.'
The silence stretched, suffocating.
And Layla knew.
The name she had uttered was not just known—it was feared.
Years had passed.
Far away, beyond the reach of the western empire and the sects of the east, a ruler sat upon a throne of cold jade, his face hidden in the flickering candlelight. The air was thick with the scent of incense, though it did little to mask the underlying stench of blood.
The ruler had survived.
Not by his own strength, nor by the will of fate, but by her.
In those final moments, he had felt himself slipping into the abyss, the poison working its way through his veins, his limbs numbing. He had braced for the sharp, inevitable impact against the marble floor—but it had never come. The softness beneath his head, the way his breath still lingered in his lungs long enough for his physicians to arrive, all of it was her doing.
'Layla...' he had thought in that moment, the weight of realization pressing down on him heavier than death itself. She saved me.
But why?
The thought haunted him still, years later. Every night he traced the fine silk of the pillow she had moved beneath him, the same one that had softened his fall in those final moments before the poison could steal his life entirely. It had been her last act, her final mercy, and he hated how much it haunted him. The air was thick with the scent of incense, though it did little to mask the underlying stench of blood.
Emperor Shen Jinhai had survived.
Or at least, that was what the world believed. But was this truly the same man who had once spoken of unity in the candlelight, who had admired Layla's defiance even as he refused to follow in her footsteps? Or had time, paranoia, and grief twisted him into something else? A shadow of the ruler he had once been?
His fingers traced the fine silk of the pillow he had once rested upon, the same one that had softened his fall in those final moments before the poison could steal his life entirely. It had been her last act, her final mercy, and he hated how much it haunted him.
'Layla...' he murmured, his voice almost reverent.
The courtiers around him dared not meet his gaze. The great hall was lined with kneeling figures—nobles, servants, officials—all who had been present that night. One by one, their heads bowed lower, waiting for their fates to be decided.
'Who among you,' he said softly, dangerously, 'knew of the poison before it touched my lips?'
No one spoke. The silence stretched, taut as a bowstring.
Then, with a flick of his wrist, justice—or paranoia—took its course.
He had become ruthless. Every shadow was a threat. Every whisper was treason. And yet, in the privacy of his chambers, he traced the embroidered pattern of that silk pillow, his fingers lingering as though it held a warmth long since lost.
He had loved her. Or perhaps, he had merely admired what he could never have. It no longer mattered. What mattered now was finding the truth.
And so, the bloodshed continued.
Yet, in the darkest hours of the night, as he sat alone, staring at the silk pillow she had placed beneath him, a flicker of doubt gnawed at his mind. Would she have looked at him now with disgust? Pity? Would she have called him a fool for chasing ghosts through rivers of blood?
Yet as the years passed, whispers of an unfinished creation from the lands of the west reached his ears.
Deep beneath the surface of a land untouched by war, hidden within labyrinthine tunnels of carved stone and metal, workers toiled under the dim glow of enchanted lanterns. Machinery, archaic yet ahead of its time, lay half-built, gears rusting from abandonment yet still waiting for completion.
This was the vision of a queen long buried by history.
'Our world moves on the backs of beasts and the will of men,' Yasmina had once said. 'But what if we could break free from such constraints? What if movement did not require suffering?'
The first engine, its blueprints painstakingly drawn by Layla's own hand, rested here. Unfinished. Forgotten. But not abandoned.
Standing before it was a tall muscular woman cloaked in dark silk, her expression hard, her eyes filled with unyielding determination and besides her was a scrawny young man who is barely her height named.
Zafira had not met Emery through war or revolution—no, she had stumbled upon him in the most mundane of circumstances, yet it had changed everything.
She had needed spices—yes, spices—not for herself, but for the men under her command who wouldn't stop whining about the bland food. And so, she had gone to the market, expecting a simple trade.
Instead, she had found him.
A scrawny foreigner, wearing spectacles and arguing—no, lecturing—a merchant over the principles of leverage. She had rolled her eyes, thinking him another fool who mistook words for power. But then she had listened.
And she had realized she had never met a man who spoke like him.
He had spoken of numbers and equations, of the way the stars moved instead of stood still. He claimed that water spiraled differently depending on which side of the world it flowed from. He had written books—books!—on something called gravity, on motion, on the very fabric of space.
She had thought he was mad. She had thought he was brilliant. And she had thought, more than anything, that she needed him.
'You're saying the stars don't just hang there? They… fall?' she had asked, utterly bewildered. 'That's ridiculous. Everyone knows the heavens are eternal.'
Emery had sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. 'No, they don't just hang. They are in motion, pulled by an unseen force. Everything that rises must fall—it's not magic, it's physics. You drop a stone, it falls. You shoot an arrow, it arcs. The stars follow the same rules, just on a much grander scale.'
Zafira had crossed her arms, unconvinced. 'Sounds like nonsense. How do you know they move? Have you been up there? Have you fallen from the sky yourself?'
Emery had given her a long, exhausted look before muttering, 'And yet, here you are, listening.'
Now, standing beside her in the underground halls, he was no longer an eccentric scholar talking about the stars. He was her engineer, the one who would take Layla's vision and turn it into something real. He was praising how amazing this engine looked and looking it up to down while murmuring to himself.
Even if he still insisted on saying the most ridiculous things.
Zafira watched him, arms crossed. 'You speak of her like a disciple worshiping his master.'
Emery didn't deny it. 'Because I am.'
She scoffed, tilting her head. 'And what exactly did she do to earn your devotion?'
Emery adjusted his spectacles, fingers tracing the rusted edges of the unfinished machine. 'I studied everything she left behind—her writings, her diagrams, even her failed attempts to implement sanitation systems in the western capitals. She changed the world once, and had she lived longer, she would have done it again.'
Zafira exhaled, her gaze darkening. 'Yasmina envisioned a world where suffering was no longer the cost of progress. Where men did not break their backs pulling carts, where travel was not dictated by the speed of a dying horse. She wanted to free people from the chains of labor, so they could pursue something greater.'
She stepped forward, placing a hand on the machine's rusted frame. 'Layla was the one who made it possible. She turned dreams into reality. Yasmina dreamed of progress; Layla built the means to achieve it.'
Emery chuckled, shaking his head. 'And now you want to turn it into a weapon.'
Zafira's voice was cold. 'Now I want to finish what they started.'
She turned to the gathered workers, her voice rising. 'This is not about war. This is about justice. What was stolen from them—what was stolen from us—will be repaid in full.'
She had inherited Yasmina's cause, but more than that, she has Layla's her fury.
'We do not build to live in the shadows,' Zafira al-Rahim's voice rang through the underground halls, her words sharp as tempered steel. 'We build so that our names are never erased. So that history does not forget what was stolen from us.'
The workers before her—engineers, scholars, rebels—listened with rapt attention. They had long since cast away their old allegiances, drawn to her by a cause greater than themselves.
'What they did to Layla… what they did to Yasmina…' Zafira's fingers curled into fists. 'We will return their suffering tenfold. The east has a ruler who does not deserve his throne, and the west is ruled by ghosts. We will shape the future with our own hands.'
She turned, facing the massive unfinished machine at the heart of their underground facility. The engine, decades ahead of its time, designed by Layla's own hand but left incomplete by her untimely death.
'We finish this, and the world will bow not to emperors, not to sects, but to us.'
''They will answer for what was done to you,' she whispered. Her name was Zafira al-Rahim,, and she would see the man responsible for their suffering burn.
Even if it meant completing the engine herself—and using it as the weapon to bring Jinhai to his knees.
Emery adjusted his spectacles, his fingers brushing against the cold steel of the unfinished engine. His mind raced, piecing together the fragmented blueprints, the calculations, the principles far ahead of their time. This was not a machine built for war.
Zafira's voice rang through the chamber, filled with fury and conviction, but he barely heard her. The more he studied Layla's work, the more something gnawed at him. The sheer efficiency, the ingenuity of design—Layla had not been crafting destruction.
'Zafira,' he finally spoke, his voice even, but laced with doubt. 'You claim this is a weapon, but Layla did not design it as one. If she wanted destruction, there are a hundred simpler ways she could have done it.'
Zafira's sharp gaze snapped to him. 'And what do you think she intended, Emery?'
He inhaled, his mind racing. 'I don't know yet. But I do know that this—' he gestured to the machine before him, '—was never meant to be a tool for vengeance. Layla wasn't building a future of war. She was building something else.'
Zafira scoffed, her fists tightening. 'You think I care what she intended? I care about what I can do with it now.'
Emery narrowed his eyes, realization dawning. 'So that's it? This isn't about Layla, or Yasmina's dream. This is about you. About revenge.'
Zafira didn't flinch, but something flickered in her gaze.
'You weren't there, Emery,' she whispered, voice dark with restrained fury. 'You didn't watch them erase her. You didn't hear how they rewrote history, how they called her a failure, how they made the world forget her name.'
The workers behind them listened in silence, the weight of her words settling over them. Some nodded in agreement, others shifted uneasily.
Emery started to doubt her words. Was that truly what had happened? He had read so many accounts, studied so many conflicting reports, but the truth had always been elusive.
History was written by the victors—but what if neither Layla nor Jinhai had truly fallen that night?
His mind raced. He had assumed Layla had perished, that Yasmina had been lost, but if Layla had time to act—to push a mere pillow beneath Jinhai's head—then she had time for more. What if she had prepared an antidote? What if she had accounted for treachery long before the poison had ever touched her lips?
And then there was Jinhai. The emperor should have died that night, yet he had lived. Why? He had been poisoned, just like Layla. If one had the means to counteract it, wouldn't the other?
His fingers curled slightly, his mind calculating probabilities. It made no sense for one to survive while the other perished unless… unless one of them had planned for both to live.
But which one? And why?
Poison is efficient, but not absolute.
Emery sighed, turning his gaze back to the engine. His fingers drummed against the cold steel, mind spinning through calculations, probabilities, and contingencies. Layla had seen further than any of them, her vision stretching beyond the limitations of war and vengeance. And now, that vision stood on the precipice of being repurposed for destruction.
But for what? Would this truly be justice?
Or would it be the next step in burying her true vision beneath the weight of history?
And so his mind sharpened, visualizing the mechanics of what had to be done. Gunpowder—a mix of potassium nitrate, sulfur, and charcoal. Ratio? 75:15:10, the optimal balance for combustion without catastrophic instability. He sketched out the process mentally, ensuring stability in every step. The barrels? Hardened steel, forged at precisely controlled temperatures to withstand the pressure of igniting powder. Rifling—subtle spiral grooves inside the barrel to stabilize projectiles. Ignition? Matchlock? Flintlock? No, too rudimentary. Something better, something reliable.
His fingers twitched, instinctively mapping the weapon's design. The barrel—long and cylindrical. The firing mechanism—spring-loaded, striking a percussion cap to ignite the charge. The projectile—a lead ball encased in copper for stability. A semi-automatic function? Impossible without industrial-grade machining. A repeating mechanism? Achievable.
His hand moved before he could stop himself. With practiced precision, he grabbed a piece of charcoal and began sketching on a worn wooden board. The room fell into silence as they watched, some in awe, others in sheer confusion. The foreigner, the scholar, the man who spoke of stars and gravity, was now drawing something none of them could quite comprehend.
Zafira narrowed her eyes, arms crossed. She didn't understand the intricacies of whatever he was doing, but the way his hands moved—deliberate, confident, like a child lost in his own world—unnerved her.
'This man speaks of theories no one else grasps, and now he moves as though building something from nothing,' she thought. 'Does he even see us anymore?'
He sketched rapidly, almost feverishly. First, the barrel, its dimensions meticulously measured. He scribbled rapid calculations beside it, noting spin rates and bore diameters. Then, the firing mechanism, each spring, each hammer carefully designed for efficiency. His lips moved slightly as if running through equations, his fingers twitching with the need to refine, to perfect. Then, the ammunition—conical, aerodynamic, ensuring range and lethality.
By the time he stepped back, brushing dust from his coat, the entire schematic had been laid bare. The murmurs grew louder. Even the most hardened rebels among them found themselves drawn in, uncertain but fascinated.
'If war is what you want,' Emery finally murmured, adjusting his glasses, 'then let's give you a war machine. But not one that will wipe out cities in a single blast. No. We need something efficient, practical, and reproducible. Something that will change the battlefield without turning the world to ash.'
He turned to the gathered engineers, his voice sharp, deliberate. 'We shift our focus. Forget large-scale destruction. Instead, we make something that can be produced rapidly—something that can be placed in the hands of every soldier, every fighter. A force multiplier.'
Zafira's brow furrowed. 'What are you suggesting?'
'Firearms.'
A ripple of murmurs spread through the room. Emery tapped the metal frame of the unfinished engine. 'This machine's greatest strength isn't destruction—it's production. We use it to mass-produce something smaller, something that will tip the scales of war without erasing entire nations.'
Zafira crossed her arms. 'And how exactly do you propose we make these… firearms?' she sounded confused but interested as she always has
'We need a stable propellant—gunpowder. A mixture of saltpeter, sulfur, and charcoal. Then we need steel, precisely forged for barrels, mechanisms that can handle repeated firing, a system of ignition—perhaps a wheel lock or flintlock mechanism. It's complex, but achievable. The engine can streamline the process, cut down inefficiencies. If we do this right, we create an army that doesn't need to rely on brute strength or cultivation alone. We give them power in their hands.'
The room was silent as Zafira considered his words. She was no fool—she knew that mass-producing weapons would fundamentally shift the balance of power. But Emery could see the conflict in her eyes. She wanted something grander, something catastrophic.
And that was exactly why he had to push this direction. He needed to control what they built.
She exhaled sharply. 'You think this is what Layla intended?'
Emery's fingers curled slightly against the engine. 'I think Layla wanted progress. I think she wanted change. And I think she understood that power doesn't always come from the loudest explosion—but from the quiet, relentless force of innovation.'
Zafira narrowed her eyes, but after a long pause, she nodded. 'Fine. We begin the research.'
Emery inclined his head. He had won this battle—but the war was far from over. He would need to find a way to shift their efforts even further, to ensure that Layla's legacy wasn't twisted beyond recognition.
But he needed to be smarter than Zafira. Than all of them. Layla saw further than any of them. And now, her creation stood on the edge of being repurposed for war.
Emery tapped his fingers against the cold steel of the engine, his mind spinning through every possible move. Zafira was blinded by fury, her resolve unshakable, but she wasn't stupid. She could be reasoned with—if she believed she was getting what she wanted.
He needed to buy time. Needed to shift the direction of this project without her realizing it.
'Fine,' he said finally, adjusting his spectacles. 'If you want a weapon, we will make a weapon. But we do it properly—testing, refinement, full control over its capabilities. If we rush this, we risk sabotaging ourselves before we ever strike. We take our time.'
Zafira eyed him, wary. 'And you, the scholar from the west, will oversee this?'
'Who else here understands Layla's blueprints like I do?' Emery countered. 'You want this to work, don't you? Then let me ensure it does.'
He watched as her jaw tensed, weighing his words. Then, finally, she nodded.
Emery exhaled silently. The first step was complete. Now, he just had to make sure the weapon they built would never be used the way Zafira intended.
As the workers dispersed, he remained behind, tracing his fingers over the edges of the unfinished engine. His mind drifted to Layla—what had she truly envisioned? What had she hidden beneath these layers of innovation?
Then, something caught his eye.
Beneath a set of rusted schematics, buried among old parchment, a single page stood out—delicate, aged, written in ink that had faded over time. A note, signed in Yasmina's handwriting.
Emery's breath hitched as he read the words silently to himself:
'The foundation of all things is movement, but the greatest power is not speed—it is time itself. If we succeed, we will not only change the world… but the very fabric of fate.'
His grip on the paper tightened.
Layla hadn't been designing a machine for war.
And as he tucked Yasmina's note away into his coat, he knew one thing for certain—this machine was never meant for war.
And neither was he.
She had been designing something far greater.