Murong sat under the dim glow of the lamp, carefully opening the embroidered box before her. Inside lay an old painting—a young woman in elegant Qing Dynasty attire, seated by a tranquil lake, a book in her hands. Petals had fallen onto her dress, creating a scene of timeless beauty. Yet, an inexplicable unease crept into Murong's heart. Why did the girl in the painting seem so familiar? She rubbed her temples, exhaustion from sleepless nights taking its toll. Pushing the thought aside, she locked the painting in her safe and collapsed onto her bed, falling into a deep slumber.
In her dream, the girl in the painting slowly walked toward her, tears glistening on her face. Murong instinctively reached out to comfort her, but before she could, a man appeared behind the girl—his features blurred, his presence ethereal, his loneliness almost tangible.
The next morning, Murong lazily lay in bed, her mind still filled with questions. Who were they? Before she could dwell further, her secure phone rang. It was a call from headquarters. Straightening up, she quickly pulled herself together and answered.
Murong, at twenty-five, was officially an art student at the University of Paris, working part-time at a museum to make ends meet. But only a select few knew her true identity—an intelligence officer for the Chinese government. Orphaned at a young age, she was secretly trained and had been engaged in counter-espionage missions before being sent to Europe at twenty-two. She had spent three years in the field, her latest assignment being the retrieval of looted Chinese artifacts. This time, she had returned home victorious, recovering eight valuable relics from the Yongzheng era—among them, the mysterious painting she had discovered the night before.
As she walked through the bustling streets, Murong inevitably drew attention. A woman with a 500% turn-around rate, her colleagues liked to joke. Her striking features, poised demeanor, and years of exposure to art had given her an air of noble elegance, mixed with the steely determination of a trained agent. Men admired her from a distance, yet few dared to approach. In her time abroad, whether facing charming romantics or stern officials, her sharp intellect and undeniable beauty had always been her greatest assets. But it was her smile—a carefully cultivated professional mask or a rare, genuine expression—that truly captivated. Her superior, Liu, once laughed, calling her a true national treasure.
Yet, amid the crowds, watching couples stroll hand in hand, a quiet loneliness settled over Murong's heart. How she longed for a family…
At a secure café, Liu briefed her on new orders. With the outbreak of SARS confirmed in Beijing, all travel was restricted. Given her expertise in Qing history and Manchu script, headquarters assigned her a temporary research task—documenting and analyzing the artifacts she had recovered. Even the field of cultural preservation wasn't safe from espionage, Liu sighed. Murong groaned internally at the thought of writing reports—despite her extensive training, historical documentation bored her to no end.
Back at her apartment, she sorted through her thoughts. Two central questions emerged: Was Emperor Yongzheng truly appointed by Kangxi, or did he seize the throne? And, more intriguingly, what was his personal life like? The latter curiosity stemmed from the painting—there was something unusual about it.
She reopened the portrait, studying it intently. Suddenly, a whisper brushed against her ear.
"Murong… Murong…"
She shot up, scanning the room. No one was there. Her pulse quickened as she walked toward the floor-length mirror. One glance, and her breath caught in her throat.
The girl in the painting—she was staring at herself.
Same features. Same face.
The only difference? The girl in the painting was her in traditional Qing attire.
A choked gasp escaped Murong's lips before her vision went dark.
—
When she regained consciousness, instinct kicked in. Assess the surroundings.
Ancient wooden furniture. A silk blanket wrapped around her. A delicate lantern flickered nearby. A young maid dozed beside the bed, head propped on her hand.
Was this a dream? No… it felt too real.
Footsteps approached. Murong shut her eyes, choosing to feign unconsciousness.
A woman's sorrowful voice broke the silence.
"Rong'er… My child, wake up and look at your mother. No matter what others say, all I want is for you to be safe."
The maid stirred, offering soft reassurances.
"Madam, the young miss has always been weak. This isn't the first time she's fainted. She always recovers."
A deep sigh.
"Xiaoyue, go and ask Master if Official Zhou can visit tomorrow."
The maid hesitated.
"Madam, last time I asked, the Second Madam scolded me. She said, 'What kind of precious body needs a doctor every other day?' I… I don't dare."
The woman's voice hardened.
"I'll go myself."
Murong's mind raced. Stay calm. Gather intel. Whatever was happening, she needed to adapt.
A warm hand gently caressed her cheek. The woman's voice trembled.
"Rong'er… if I could, I'd take your illness upon myself. I never fought for favor, never cared for status. All I ever wanted was to protect you. You are my heart, my everything…"
She continued, her voice filled with love and sorrow.
"Didn't you love sour date cakes? I made some for you. Wake up and have a bite, won't you?"
Murong's stomach growled. I love sour date cakes too…
"Rong'er, let me sing for you. Please, just get better."
A warmth Murong had never known before filled her heart.
For the first time in her life, someone truly cared.
Tears welled in her eyes. She couldn't resist.
Slowly, she opened them.
A beautiful woman in her early thirties gasped in delight.
"Rong'er! You're awake! Oh, thank the heavens!"
The woman pulled her into a tight embrace, her tears falling onto Murong's shoulder.
Murong let herself sink into the warmth.
"Mother…" she whispered.
—
By the next day, Murong's sharp mind had pieced together the details.
She had time-traveled to the Qing Dynasty.
Her father, General Sabusu of the Manchu Bordered Yellow Banner, was a rising political figure. Her mother, Lady Uya, came from an esteemed lineage but had fallen out of favor due to years of infertility. Though she had finally given birth to Murong, the existence of two sons from the Second Wife and another son and daughter from the Third Wife meant their position in the household remained fragile.
The original Murong had been a sickly child. Frail, often unconscious, frequently under medical care.
Murong sighed. Is this my past life? What terrible luck.
Yet, despite everything, she now had a mother.
No longer just an agent, a lone warrior in a world of secrets.
For the first time, she felt loved.
And so, Murong made a choice.
She would survive.
And in doing so, she would uncover the secrets of this world—starting with the girl in the painting.