After Switching Bodies with My Girlfriend's Rival, Will She Still Love Me?

The alley reeked of damp stone and spilled wine, but Ye Ling had grown accustomed to worse. He pressed Yue Ruier against the rough wall, one hand pinning her wrist above her head, the other holding a thin, wicked-looking dagger to the curve of her throat. Her breath came quick, shallow, and her painted lips trembled—whether from fear or fury, he couldn’t tell. Probably both.

“I asked you a question,” he said, his voice low and flat. “How do I get into the ancient teleportation array?”

Yue Ruier let out a brittle laugh. “You think I’d tell you? Kill me, then. The city guards will find your corpse before dawn.”

“Maybe.” Ye Ling pressed the blade a fraction closer. A bead of blood welled up along the steel. “But you and I both know that would be inconvenient for you. Your clients in the Floating Jade Pavilion don’t like it when their favorite flower misses her appointments. Word spreads. Business suffers.” He leaned in, his tone dropping to something almost intimate. “And I’m sure the madam would be very interested to learn who’s been slipping you information about the palace’s patrol schedules.”

Yue Ruier’s eyes widened, a flash of genuine alarm breaking through her defiance. He had her. He’d spent the last three days tailing her, watching her trade whispers for silver with a eunuch from the inner court. She wasn’t just a courtesan; she was a spider in a web of secrets.

“Fine,” she hissed, the word scraping out of her throat. “The array. Only the royal family can use it. Direct bloodline. The enchantment recognizes their qi signature. Anyone else who steps inside gets turned to ash before the first glyph lights up.”

Ye Ling didn’t move the knife. “There has to be a way. You’re not telling me this to discourage me. You’re telling me because it’s a problem you think I can’t solve.”

She smiled then, slow and venomous. “Clever boy. The only other person who uses it regularly is the princess. Yueqing. The emperor’s youngest. She travels to the central city of Youzhou once a month for body refinement training. She has her own private access chamber in the eastern wing of the palace. Guards change at the third watch. She’s arrogant, lazy, and hates being woken early.” Yue Ruier tilted her chin, exposing more of her neck to the blade in a gesture that was almost invitation. “But even if you got past the guards, you still can’t fool the array. You’d need her blood, her breath, her very soul on your skin.”

Ye Ling released her wrist and stepped back, sheathing the dagger. “That’s all I needed.”

Yue Ruier rubbed her wrist, her eyes narrowing. “You’re not actually planning to— no. You’re insane. You’d have to become her.”

He didn’t answer. He turned and walked out of the alley, leaving her standing there in the lamplight, a smear of red on her throat.

Back in his rented room above a teahouse, Ye Ling sat cross-legged on a worn mat and closed his eyes. The Chaos Spirit Pearl rested in his dantian, a sphere of swirling nebula that hummed with stolen power. He’d found it in the wreckage of a collapsed temple, and it had saved his life more times than he could count. It could mimic any qi signature it had ever absorbed, reshape his aura to match another cultivator’s. He’d used it to impersonate a sect elder, a bandit chief, even a corpse once.

But never a woman. Never a princess.

He recalled the pearl’s memory. When he’d first bound it, it had drunk in a trace of a female cultivator’s energy—someone he’d fought beside in a temporary alliance. He hadn’t thought much of it then. But now… that trace could be stretched, shaped, amplified. He could alter his bone structure, soften his jaw, redistribute his flesh. The pearl could do that. It would be agony for a few hours, and the transformation would be temporary unless he fed it more power to sustain it, but it was possible.

Ye Ling opened his eyes and stared at his own hands—calloused, scarred, undeniably male. He thought of his girlfriend back in the world he’d lost. Her smile. The way she’d tuck her hair behind her ear when she was nervous. He’d do anything to get back to her. Anything.

This? This was just a means. A disguise. A mask.

He pressed his palm to his chest and whispered the activation incantation. The Chaos Spirit Pearl flared to life, and a fire that was not fire began to burn through every nerve in his body. His bones creaked, his muscles twisted, his skin crawled as if a thousand ants were burrowing beneath it. He bit down on his lip until he tasted copper. The room spun.

When the pain finally subsided, he opened his eyes again. He lifted a hand. It was smaller. Slender. The fingers tapered to neat, unpainted nails. He touched his throat—smooth, no Adam’s apple. He brought his hands to his chest and felt the unfamiliar weight there. His breath hitched.

He stumbled to the cracked bronze mirror on the wall and stared.

Princess Yueqing stared back.

No. Not the princess exactly. The face was hers—the same arched brows, the same petulant mouth, the same sharp chin. But the eyes were different. They held a cold calculation that the real princess had never possessed. Ye Ling smiled at the reflection, and the reflection smiled back, a predator wearing a silken mask.

He had three hours until the third watch. Time to become the princess in truth.

The Chaos Spirit Pearl pulsed in Ye Ling’s palm, a cold, oily weight that seemed to breathe against his skin. He stood in the shadow of a crumbling stone archway on the outskirts of the imperial city, the last dregs of moonlight filtering through the canopy of ancient willows. Around him, the air shimmered with residual mana from the teleportation array he’d activated moments before—a one-way ticket to Youzhou, if he played this right. But first, he needed to buy the ticket. And to buy the ticket, he needed to be the princess.

He closed his eyes, forcing his focus inward. The memory of Yue Ruier’s face seared behind his lids—that arrogant smirk, the way her jade hairpin caught the lantern light, the precise curve of her waist as she’d turned to flick a insult at him three days ago. He’d only met her twice, but her image was burned into his mind like a brand. She was his template. She didn’t need to know.

The Chaos Spirit Pearl hummed. A vibration crawled up his arm, through his shoulder, and settled at the base of his skull. Heat bloomed in his chest, then spread like wildfire through every vessel. He gasped, knees buckling as bones realigned, muscles reshaped, skin stretched and tightened. It wasn’t pain—more like the sensation of being folded into a smaller, softer box. His shoulders narrowed. His jaw thinned. His hands, once calloused from sword practice, smoothed into pale, slender fingers tipped with nails painted the color of plum blossoms.

He fell forward onto his palms, and the ground felt different—the gravel sharper, the cold more biting. His clothes hung loose, then tightened as the pearl finished its work, shrinking the fabric to match his new form. He lifted a hand. It trembled. Not from fear.

From curiosity.

He stared at the hand as if it belonged to someone else. Delicate veins traced a faint blue network beneath porcelain skin. The fingers were long, elegant, the kind meant to pluck a pipa’s strings or lift a wine cup to painted lips. His mind screamed that this was Yue Ruier—the courtesan who’d spat at his feet, who’d called him a gutter rat. But his body didn’t care. His body hummed with a strange, alien pleasure.

He scrambled to his feet—and stumbled. The center of gravity was wrong, lower and curvier. He caught himself against the stone archway, his palm pressing into rough granite. The contact sent a jolt through his nerves, sharp and electric. He sucked in a breath. His chest rose, and he felt the weight there—two modest mounds bound by silk, soft and sensitive against the friction of the fabric. He looked down. A loose, embroidered robe draped over a figure that curved in ways his old body never had. The neckline fell low, revealing the hollow of his throat, the faint shadow of a collarbone.

His mouth went dry.

He should stop. He needed to move, to find the princess, to execute the plan. But his hands moved of their own accord. One palm slid up his side, over the silk, and he felt the warmth of his own skin through the thin layer. The fabric whispered against his fingers. He pressed harder, tracing the dip of his waist, the flare of his hip. The sensation was indescribable—a velvet warmth that spread from his fingertips to his groin, pooling there like honey. He bit his lip. A soft, involuntary sound escaped his throat.

*That wasn’t my voice.*

It was higher, sweeter, with a husky edge that made his stomach clench. He pressed his thighs together, and the friction sent another shudder through him. The Chaos Spirit Pearl throbbed against his chest, tucked beneath the robe, as if urging him on. He drew a shaky breath and let his hand wander higher, over his ribs, to the curve of his breast. The silk was thin enough that he felt every nerve ending ignite. He cupped the weight, squeezed gently, and a jolt of pleasure shot through him like lightning. His knees buckled.

*Damn it.*

He gasped, leaning against the archway, his forehead pressing into the cold stone. His breathing came in ragged bursts. The pleasure was overwhelming—not just physical, but emotional. It felt like discovery, like trespassing in a sacred space. And beneath it all, a dark, shameful guilt gnawed at his gut. He thought of his girlfriend. Her face flickered in his mind—soft, trusting, waiting for him back in the world he’d left. What would she think if she saw him now? Running his hands over a stranger’s body, moaning like a pleasure seeker in a brothel?

He shoved the thought away. He didn’t have the luxury of guilt. He had a princess to impersonate and an ancient teleportation array to ride.

He forced himself upright, adjusted the robe, and took a step. The stride felt different—hips swaying, steps lighter. He almost tripped again. He focused, recalibrated, and took another step. Then another. By the fourth, he found a rhythm. He was walking as Yue Ruier walked, with that practiced, seductive sway that drew eyes like moths to flame.

But something was wrong. He could feel it now, deep in his dantian. The cultivation base he’d spent years building—the meridians that hummed with concentrated qi—felt muted, like a bell wrapped in cloth. He stopped, closed his eyes, and channeled a thread of internal energy. It sputtered, weak and sluggish. The suppression was real. The Chaos Spirit Pearl had changed not just his appearance but his cultivation pathway. He grit his teeth. *Of course. Nothing comes free.*

Still, he wasn’t helpless. He flexed his arms, felt the same raw strength coiled in these slender limbs. His physical base—the bone density, the muscle memory, the agility—remained intact. He could still break a man’s jaw with a single punch, if needed. But qi-based techniques would be unreliable. He’d have to fight smart, not hard.

Which brought him back to the memory-reading technique.

There was a cultivator in Luozhou City, a recluse who specialized in soul-scribing arts. Rumor said he could extract memories from a living mind without damaging the host. If Ye Ling could learn that technique—or at least force the man to teach him—he’d have a way to absorb Princess Yueqing’s identity without raising suspicion. No awkward questions about her past. No slips in protocol. He’d become her, fully and seamlessly.

He glanced toward the teleportation array engraved in the courtyard ahead—a circle of runes set into white marble, glowing faintly in the predawn dark. The guards were lax, their shift ending soon. He could slip past them, enter the array, and emerge in Youzhou before anyone noticed. But first, he had to cross the city. And in the imperial city of Yue, a beautiful woman walking alone at this hour attracted attention.

He pulled the robe’s hood up, shadowing his face, and moved along the alley toward the eastern gate. The cobblestones were slick with dew. His new shoes—delicate silk slippers—offered little traction. He cursed under his breath, the curse sounding like a purr in this voice.

Halfway to the gate, a voice cut through the silence.

“Yue Ruier? What are you doing out here?”

He froze. The voice was deep, mocking, and unmistakably familiar. Zhao Wuji stepped out from the shadow of a tavern, a wine flask dangling from one hand. His embroidered robes marked him as nobility, and the sneer on his face made plain his contempt. He’d crossed paths with Ye Ling days ago, when Ye ling had stood between him and the real Yue Ruier. Now, he looked at Ye ling with the same predatory hunger.

“The brothel’s in the other direction, girl,” Zhao Wuji said, stepping closer. His breath reeked of cheap liquor. “Or did you come looking for me?”

Ye Ling’s fists clenched. The urge to punch him was almost overwhelming. But he was a courtesan now, and courtesans didn’t break noble jaws. He forced a smile—Yue Ruier’s practiced, dangerous smile—and dipped his head.

“My lord misjudges,” he said, keeping his voice low and smooth. “I seek only the eastern gate. A family matter calls me home.”

Zhao Wuji laughed. “At this hour? With no escort?” He reached out, fingers brushing the hood. “Let me see that pretty face.”

Ye Ling stepped back. The movement was faster than Zhao Wuji expected, and his hand missed. He scowled.

“Running, are you?”

“Merely in a hurry, my lord.” Ye Ling’s heart pounded, but his voice stayed steady. “I would not wish to impose.”

He turned and walked away, forcing a leisurely pace. Behind him, Zhao Wuji’s footsteps echoed. Then stopped. Ye Ling didn’t look back. He reached the eastern gate, slipped past the drowsy guards with a murmured excuse about a sick mother, and stepped into the empty road beyond.

The teleportation array was close now. He could feel its hum in the marrow of his bones. But his skin still tingled from the contact of his own hands, and the ghost of that pleasure lingered like a promise. He shook his head, trying to clear it.

*Focus. You’re Ye Ling. You’re a man. This is just a mask.*

But when he looked down at his slender fingers, he wasn’t sure he believed it anymore.

The swirling vortex of the ring world spat Ye Ling out onto a cobblestone street, and he stumbled, catching himself against a weathered wooden pillar. The air here was different—thicker, carrying the mingled scents of spices, smoke, and river water. Luozhou City. He had made it.

But as he straightened, he became acutely aware of the stares. A group of merchants across the street had stopped mid-conversation, their eyes fixed on him with undisguised curiosity. A pair of old women clutching baskets of vegetables whispered behind their hands, their gazes traveling from his face down to his boots and back up again.

Ye Ling looked down at himself. The men's robes he had scavenged from the ring world hung awkwardly on his transformed body. The shoulders were too broad, the chest pulled tight in places that made his cheeks burn, the hem dragging on the ground despite his best efforts to tie it higher. He had been in such a hurry to leave that he hadn't considered the practicalities of his new form.

"Look at that... is that a woman in a man's clothes?" a young vendor called out to his companion, not bothering to lower his voice.

"Or a man who's lost his way?" the other replied with a snicker.

Ye Ling's jaw tightened. He could feel the heat creeping up his neck, spreading across his cheeks. Embarrassment. A sensation he had not often experienced in his old life, but one that seemed to come far too easily now. He tugged at the collar of the robe, trying to make it sit more naturally, but the fabric only shifted in ways that drew more attention to his feminine silhouette.

He began to walk, keeping his head down, his eyes fixed on the uneven stones beneath his feet. The whispers followed him like a trailing wind, snippets of conversation floating past his ears.

"Such a pretty face, too. What a shame."

"Do you think she's a runaway? From some noble's estate?"

"Those clothes... they're not even her size. Did she steal them?"

Ye Ling quickened his pace, turning down a narrower street lined with fabric shops and tailor stalls. The architecture here was different from the imperial city—buildings rose two and three stories high, their upper floors leaning inward as if they were trying to gossip with one another across the street. Colorful banners hung from awnings, advertising silks from distant provinces, embroidery services, and ready-made garments.

He needed new clothes. That much was obvious. But as he passed a window displaying a delicate blue dress with silver threadwork, he hesitated. The thought of wearing such a garment sent a shiver through him—part revulsion, part something else he didn't want to name. He was still Ye Ling. He was still a man. He just happened to be wearing a woman's face for the sake of his mission.

But the stares continued. A child pointed at him from his mother's arms. A pair of young scholars openly laughed as they passed, one of them making a crude gesture that Ye Ling pretended not to see.

"Miss! Miss, please wait!"

A hand grasped his sleeve, and Ye Ling spun around, his instincts screaming danger. But the person before him was not a threat—at least, not in any obvious way. She was a woman in her mid-twenties, dressed in a vibrant green robe with gold-threaded flowers at the cuffs. Her face was round and pleasant, with a smile that seemed to occupy more than its fair share of space.

"You must be freezing in those rags," the woman said, her voice warm and familiar as if they were old friends. "Come, come, this way. I have just the thing for you."

Before Ye Ling could protest, she had linked her arm through his and was pulling him toward a shop with a gilded sign that read "Jade Lotus Boutique." The interior was a riot of color—bolts of fabric stacked to the ceiling, dresses hanging on wooden forms, accessories glittering in glass cases.

"I don't have money," Ye Ling said flatly, trying to extricate himself from her grip. "And I'm not interested."

The woman laughed, a sound like wind chimes. "Money? Who said anything about money? With a face like yours, you could walk into any shop in Luozhou and leave dressed like a princess. The owners would fight for the privilege of having you model their wares."

She released his arm and began pulling garments from the racks, holding them up against Ye Ling's frame with practiced efficiency. "Too pale. Too plain. Ah, this one—no, the shoulders would need adjusting. But this..."

She held up a gown of deep crimson silk, its surface catching the light and shimmering like captured fire. The neckline was cut low, the waist cinched, the skirt flowing into layers that would brush the ground. It was beautiful. It was also the most feminine thing Ye Ling had ever seen up close.

"I'm not wearing that," he said, his voice harder than intended.

The woman's smile did not waver. She simply tilted her head, studying him with eyes that seemed to see far more than they should. "You know," she said, "clothes are not about who you are. They are about who you need to be. Right now, you are a beautiful woman wearing a dead man's robes. Everyone who sees you knows you do not belong. But if you wear this..." She draped the crimson gown over a chair and selected a pale lavender dress instead, softer, more modest. "Then you become someone. You become a lady of Luozhou, traveling to visit relatives, perhaps. Or a merchant's daughter, out to see the city. Whatever story you wish to tell."

Ye Ling stared at the lavender dress. The fabric looked soft, almost liquid in the way it fell from her hands. He thought about Princess Yueqing. About the ancient teleportation array. About the Chaos Spirit Pearl still humming faintly in his dantian, ready to change his shape again if he needed it.

"I don't need a story," he said quietly. "I just need to blend in."

The woman smiled, a knowing curve to her lips. "Then let me help you blend in." She pressed the lavender dress into his hands, then turned to select accessories—a simple jade hairpin, a pair of pearl earrings, a sheer shawl the color of morning mist. "The fitting room is in the back. Take your time."

Ye Ling stood there, the fabric soft and cool against his fingers. He could feel the weight of the shopkeeper's gaze, patient and waiting. He could still hear the echoes of laughter from the street, the whispers that had followed him like shadows.

With a heavy sigh, he walked toward the back room.

The dress fit better than he expected. It clung to his curves in a way that felt wrong and right all at once, the lavender complementing the pale warmth of his skin. The hairpin—a simple branch of carved jade—held his hair in a loose knot at the nape of his neck, exposing the graceful line of his throat. When he looked at his reflection in the shop's polished bronze mirror, he saw a stranger staring back. A beautiful stranger. A woman who could walk through Luozhou without drawing suspicious stares.

The shopkeeper clapped her hands together in delight when he emerged. "Perfect. Simply perfect. Now you look like you belong."

Ye Ling met his own eyes in the mirror. The woman there smiled back at him, and for a moment, he did not know if that smile belonged to Yue Ruier, or to himself, or to someone new entirely.

"Thank you," he heard himself say, and the voice that emerged was soft, melodic, betraying nothing of the war raging inside him.

The shop Ye Ling entered was nothing like the crude stalls lining the outer streets. Crystal displays floated in midair, each piece radiating its own soft light, and the air smelled of rare herbs and fragrant oils. Silks of impossible colors draped from ceiling to floor, catching the magical lamps and throwing rainbows across polished jade tiles.

The woman who had pulled him inside was already clapping her hands, summoning attendants from behind silk screens. "Bring out the Frostmoon set," she commanded, her voice carrying the practiced authority of someone who knew exactly how much coin flowed through these halls. "And the Crimson Peak collection as well."

Ye Ling opened his mouth to protest, but the woman pressed a finger to his lips. "Shh, little sister. You came to me for help, did you not? Trust this older sister to know what suits you."

The attendants returned carrying garment racks that hummed with stored spiritual energy. Ye Ling's breath caught despite himself. The robes they presented seemed woven from liquid starlight, each thread pulsing with its own inner luminescence. Silver embroidery traced patterns of phoenixes in flight across bodices that shimmered between deep blue and purple depending on the angle. Skirts cascaded in layers of translucent fabric, each layer a different shade of twilight.

"This one," the woman said, lifting a robe that seemed to hold captured moonlight, "is made from Frostmoon Silk, harvested only from spirit silkworms raised in the northern ice fields. It regulates body temperature naturally and will never stain, no matter what filth you encounter." She smiled knowingly. "Useful for a woman who walks dangerous paths."

Ye Ling's fingers brushed the fabric. It felt like touching clouds, cool and impossibly soft. "How much?"

"Eighty thousand high-grade spirit stones, but for you, I'll include the matching inner robe at no extra charge."

Eighty thousand. Ye Ling's mind raced. That was nearly half his remaining wealth. But then he looked at his reflection in a nearby crystal—at Yue Ruier's face, at the body he now wore, at the mission that depended on passing as a noblewoman. He couldn't walk into Princess Yueqing's world wearing the rough fabrics of commoners.

"I'll take it."

The woman's eyes curved with satisfaction. "An excellent choice. Now, for accessories..."

What followed was an education Ye Ling had never expected. The woman—she finally introduced herself as Madam Feng—guided him through layers of undergarments designed to shape and enhance the female form. Silk bindings that lifted. Padded inserts that curved hips and rounded shoulders. Shoes with elevated soles that forced a mincing, swaying walk.

"No, no," Madam Feng chided, catching Ye Ling's wrist as he reached for a simple jade hairpin. "A woman of your beauty cannot diminish herself with such plain things. This one—" she lifted a hairpin of crystallized fire, flame trapped eternally within gemstone, "—this one announces your arrival before you even speak."

"How much?"

"Fifteen thousand. But it matches the Frostmoon set perfectly, and I'll give you the earrings at cost."

Ye Ling's hand trembled as he handed over the spirit stones. Outside this shop, in the real world, he had never spent more than necessary on anything. Practicality had been his guide, efficiency his creed. But here, surrounded by beauty that could be bought and worn, something shifted inside him.

Madam Feng led him to a private chamber behind beaded curtains. Mirrors lined every wall, reflecting his image from countless angles. She sat him on a cushioned stool and began her work.

"First, the base." Her fingers moved with practiced grace, applying creams and powders that made his skin glow. "You have good bone structure, but we must perfect the illusion. Men always notice the small details—a rough patch here, an uneven tone there. They may not know what's wrong, but they'll sense something amiss."

Ye Ling sat frozen, watching a stranger take form in the mirrors. Yue Ruier's features already possessed a natural beauty, but under Madam Feng's hands, they became something else entirely. Something devastating.

"The eyes," Madam Feng murmured, tracing kohl along his lash line. "Men worship at the altar of beautiful eyes. Yours should promise pleasure while hiding every thought. Never let them see your plans, little sister. That's how we survive."

We. The word struck Ye Ling deeply. We, as in women. As if he had already crossed some invisible line, had become part of a sisterhood he had never asked to join.

"And finally, the lips." A brush of crimson, the color of ripe berries, painted across his mouth. "Part them slightly. Yes, like that. Now you are ready."

Madam Feng stepped back, and Ye Ling rose to face the mirrors.

The woman who stared back was breathtaking. The Frostmoon robes clung to curves that Madam Feng had enhanced with strategic padding, creating an hourglass silhouette that seemed almost unreal. The fire hairpin blazed among dark tresses arranged in an elaborate cascade of curls and braids. Kohl-rimmed eyes promised secrets, and red lips curved with a knowing smile that Ye Ling had not consciously chosen.

He touched his face. The reflection touched hers.

Beautiful. Unbearably, impossibly beautiful. The kind of beauty that poets wrote about, that empires fell for, that men killed and died for.

Ye Ling's stomach churned with something that might have been excitement or nausea or both. This body—Yue Ruier's body—had always been lovely, but now it was elevated to artistry. Now it was a weapon.

"Thank you," he heard himself say, and his voice came out softer than intended, carrying the melodic quality Madam Feng had coached into him.

"A pleasure doing business." Madam Feng counted the spirit stones with greedy fingers. "Should you need anything else—cosmetics, perfumes, undergarments of a more... intimate nature—you know where to find me."

Ye Ling nodded, unable to tear his gaze from the mirror. He turned left, then right, watching fabric flow and shimmer. The weight of the robes felt natural now, the elevated shoes no longer awkward. Even his walk had changed, hips swaying in a motion that seemed innate.

But beneath the beauty, beneath the silk and paint and borrowed flesh, Ye Ling still existed. A man who had loved a woman. A man who had sacrificed his body for power. A man who now looked at his reflection and saw a stranger he desperately wanted to become.

"Princess Yueqing," he whispered to his mirror image, testing the name on painted lips. "I'm coming for you."

The morning sun cast long shadows across the cobblestone streets of the imperial city as Ye Ling stepped out of the rented inn, his transformed body wrapped in a flowing silk robe the color of autumn leaves. The fabric clung to curves that were not his just three weeks ago—curves that had once belonged to Yue Ruier, the courtesan whose face now smiled back at him from every polished bronze mirror.

He had chosen this form with purpose. Yue Ruier was known, feared, and desired in equal measure. Men in the capital would remember her face, and women would envy it. But more importantly, no one would suspect a man hiding beneath that infamous beauty.

The moment his heeled boots touched the street, heads turned.

A fruit vendor froze mid-transaction, an apple slipping from his fingers. Two merchants arguing over a bolt of silk fell silent, their mouths hanging open. A young nobleman on horseback nearly lost his seat, his eyes tracing the curve of Ye Ling's hip beneath the robe.

Ye Ling's lips curled into a knowing smile. *This power*, he thought, *this is what it means to be a weapon*. His girlfriend back in the modern world had never understood why he read those cultivation novels, why he fantasized about worlds where a single glance could topple empires. Now he lived it.

But guilt pricked at the edges of his satisfaction. *I'm doing this for us*, he reminded himself. *To get home. She would understand*.

The market square sprawled before him like a living creature, its many stalls breathing in the rhythm of haggling voices and clinking coins. Ye Ling wove through the crowd with practiced grace, his hips swaying just enough to draw eyes but not enough to seem deliberate. He had learned the walk in three days—Yue Ruier's ghost still lived in these bones, and her muscle memory had been a surprisingly willing teacher.

He needed a memory-reading technique. Princess Yueqing would be using the ancient teleportation array in five days, and he had to know everything about her—her mannerisms, her secrets, the cadence of her voice when she gave orders to her maids. Books in this world were sparse, but rumors spoke of a hermit Taoist who sold manuals in the eastern corner of the market, just past the spice sellers.

The scent of cinnamon and star anise gave way to the musty smell of old paper. A sagging awning shaded a cart piled with volumes, their spines cracked and titles faded. Behind the cart sat an old man with a wispy beard and eyes that seemed to have seen too much and forgotten too little.

"Looking for something, miss?" The old Taoist's voice was like gravel rolling downhill. His gaze traveled over Ye Ling's form with a lecherous gleam that made Ye Ling's stomach turn—but he kept his expression pleasant.

"A few things," Ye Ling said, his voice coming out in Yue Ruier's honeyed tones. He gestured at the books. "I'm looking for... specialized texts. Techniques of the mind."

The old man's eyebrows rose. "Mental cultivation? Rare taste for a lady of your... profession." He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "But I've got something better. Illustrations that would make a eunuch blush."

He reached under the cart and pulled out a thin pamphlet, its cover decorated with crude drawings of entwined bodies. Ye Ling couldn't help but laugh—a genuine laugh that escaped before he could stop it. The sound was light and musical, nothing like his original voice.

"I said mind techniques, not body techniques," Ye Ling said, waving a hand. "But your enthusiasm is noted."

The old man squinted at him, clearly disappointed. "You're not that sort of customer? With a face like that, walking the streets alone..." He shook his head. "A shame. But fine, fine. Mind techniques, you say. What kind? Memory enhancement? Telepathy? Mind-reading?"

Ye Ling's heart skipped. "Mind-reading. Do you have it?"

"Not on display." The old man tapped his nose. "But I know a man who knows a man. These things are delicate, miss. The imperial censors have their eyes out for anything that could threaten the palace. You understand."

Ye Ling leaned in, letting his robe slip just slightly off one shoulder—a calculated move he hated himself for enjoying. "I'm willing to pay. Generously."

The old man's eyes traced the exposed skin. "What would a woman like you need with mind-reading? Planning to seduce a prince and steal his secrets?"

"Something like that." Ye Ling's smile was ice wrapped in silk. "Can you help me or not?"

The old man chewed his lip for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Come back at dusk. I'll have something for you. But bring gold—good gold, not those copper tokens they're minting now. And come alone."

Ye Ling straightened, pulling his robe back into place. "Dusk it is."

He turned to leave, but the old man's voice stopped him.

"Say, miss—you wouldn't happen to know a woman named Yue Ruier, would you? I heard she disappeared a few weeks ago. Some say she ran off with a merchant. Others say she was killed by a jealous lover." The old man's eyes were sharp now, all pretense of lechery gone. "You look just like her."

Ye Ling's blood ran cold for a fraction of a second, but his body responded before his mind could panic. He let out a tinkling laugh and waved a hand. "I get that all the time. We must be cousins. I never met her, though—I'm from the southern provinces. Just arrived last week."

"Ah. Southern provinces." The old man nodded, but his eyes said he didn't believe a word. "Well, if you hear anything of her, let me know. There's a reward from a certain nobleman who's quite... invested in finding her."

*Zhao Wuji*, Ye Ling thought. The nobleman who held a grudge against him from the original body's days. He had probably posted rewards everywhere for the courtesan who humiliated him.

"I'll keep my ears open," Ye Ling said, and walked away before the old man could ask more questions.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of market noise and stolen glances. Ye Ling bought a silk scarf to cover his hair, ate a bowl of noodle soup from a street vendor, and memorized the layout of the teleportation array plaza. He would need a clear escape route once the switch was made.

As the sun began its descent toward the western walls, he made his way back to the book stall. The old Taoist was waiting, a leather-bound volume resting on his knee.

"I found it," the old man said, holding up the book. "But it's not cheap. And it's incomplete—I have half of it. The other half is with a contact in the city who wants to meet you in person."

Ye Ling took the book and flipped through its pages. The script was ancient, filled with diagrams of the human skull and lines of chi connecting to the brain's centers. It looked genuine—or at least genuine enough to start.

"How much for this half?"

"Fifty gold taels."

Ye Ling's eye twitched. That was nearly all of the money he had stolen from Yue Ruier's private stash. But time was running out.

"Forty."

"Forty-five."

"Done."

He counted out the gold coins—heavy, gleaming discs that clinked against each other like promises—and handed them over. The old man's eyes widened, clearly expecting more haggling.

"Bold woman," the old man murmured, pocketing the gold. "Meet my contact at the Lotus Pavilion in three days. Ask for Elder Jiang. He'll have the rest."

Ye Ling tucked the book into his robe, feeling its weight against his hip. Three days. That gave him time to study this half and prepare for the next step.

He walked back through the market as dusk painted the sky in shades of amber and violet. Men's eyes still followed him, but now he paid them no mind. He was already thinking ahead—to the Lotus Pavilion, to Elder Jiang, to the memory-reading technique that would let him wear Princess Yueqing's face like a mask.

But as he passed a mirror in a shop window, he caught his reflection—Yue Ruier's face, flushed with the excitement of the hunt, eyes bright with cunning. For a moment, he saw not a man in disguise, but a woman of power and beauty.

*Who am I becoming?* he wondered, and the reflection offered no answer.

The old Taoist’s shop was buried deep in a crooked alley, its wooden sign so weathered the characters were barely legible. Dust motes danced in the slivers of afternoon light that pierced through cracked paper windows, settling on shelves crammed with jars of dried herbs and stacks of yellowed scrolls. Ye Ling stood near the counter, arms crossed, watching the old man rummage through a chest in the corner. The air smelled of camphor and stale incense.

“Here we are,” the Taoist muttered, lifting a stack of thin books bound with frayed string. He set them on the table with a soft thud, wiping dust off the covers with his sleeve. “Ancient texts from the late Tianyun period. Collected them myself during a trip to the southern ruins.”

Ye Ling stepped closer, scanning the titles. Most were on alchemy or formation diagrams—useful, but not what he needed. His eyes lingered on a book near the bottom, its spine cracked and missing half its label. “What about that one?”

The Taoist pulled it out and handed it over. The cover was made of some dark, grainy leather, and the characters had been painted in faded vermilion: *Soul Capture Art: A Treatise on Memory Retrieval by the Azure Cloud Sage.*

Ye Ling’s heart gave a small, sharp knock against his ribs. He flipped it open, skimming the first page. The script was dense, but the gist was clear—a technique to pluck memories from a living mind, viewing them like scenes on water. Perfect for learning a maid’s habits, her mannerisms, her relationships. If he could read the thoughts of Princess Yueqing’s handmaiden, he could mimic her flawlessly.

“This art,” he said, keeping his voice neutral. “It works on mortal cultivators?”

The old Taoist scratched his chin. “Soul Capture requires a strong spiritual foundation, but yes. It works on anyone with a living soul. Though I hear the backlash can be… unpleasant if the subject resists. Headaches, nosebleeds—sometimes worse.”

“How much?”

The Taoist named a price in spirit stones. Ye Ling haggled it down by half, then added a jar of medicinal pellets as a token. He tucked the book into his sleeve and stepped back out into the street, the weight of the text a comfort against his thigh.

The imperial city of Yue Country was busy in the late afternoon. Merchants hawked silks and roasted chestnuts, children chased a ball made of rags, and a pair of eunuchs in palace livery argued with a fishmonger over the price of carp. Ye Ling moved through the crowd, his borrowed body—the face of Yue Ruier—drawing stares. Men paused mid-sentence to watch him pass. He held his head higher, letting the fabric of his robes brush against his thighs, and hated the part of him that enjoyed it.

Then he turned a corner and everything went cold.

Zhao Wuji stood at the mouth of a narrow lane, flanked by four burly attendants. One of them had a woman pinned against the wall—a young servant girl with a split lip and tears streaming down her face. Zhao Wuji was holding something up, a jade bracelet, dangling it in front of her nose like a treat for a dog.

“You dropped this,” he said, his voice slick with mock concern. “I’m only returning it. Why make such a fuss?”

The girl sobbed, pressing herself against the bricks. “Please, young master—it’s my lady’s—she’ll beat me if I don’t bring it back—”

“Then come and take it.” Zhao Wuji waved the bracelet in lazy circles. “I don’t bite. Not unless you want me to.”

His attendants laughed, a low, ugly sound. The girl’s face crumpled, and she slid to her knees, begging.

Ye Ling stood frozen at the edge of the lane. His hands were trembling, and he didn’t know if it was rage or fear. Every instinct screamed at him to walk away—he was vulnerable, disguised as Yue Ruier, one wrong move and his entire plan would collapse. But the memory of the original Yue Ruier’s humiliation burned in his chest, the way Zhao Wuji had struck her that night in the alley. The way he’d laughed afterward, wiping blood from his knuckles.

*Not my fight,* he told himself. *I’m not her. I’m not anyone’s savior.*

But the servant girl was shaking now, her shoulders heaving, and Zhao Wuji was leaning down to grab her wrist, and the rot of it—the casual cruelty, the enjoyment of power—made Ye Ling’s stomach turn.

He took a step forward.

Then stopped.

A hand closed around his elbow—gentle but firm. Ye Ling spun, ready to shove, and found himself staring at a young man in plain gray robes. The stranger had a quiet face, unremarkable except for his eyes, which were sharp and watchful. He shook his head once, a small, deliberate motion.

“Not here,” the man murmured, barely audible over the noise of the street. “He has four guards. You have a technique you haven’t even practiced yet. Walk away.”

Ye Ling’s jaw tightened. “You saw that?”

“Everyone sees it. No one acts.” The man released his elbow. “I’m Chi Zichen. We met in the ring world, though you were… different then.”

Ye Ling blinked, and recognition slotted into place. The quiet cultivator who’d stood beside him after the beast emerged. The one who’d watched without asking questions. “You know who I am.”

“I know you’re someone who shouldn’t be here.” Chi Zichen’s gaze flicked toward Zhao Wuji, who was still tormenting the girl. “If you interfere now, you’ll draw attention. His family has connections to the palace. Is that worth it?”

Ye Ling looked at the servant girl. At Zhao Wuji’s sneer. At the jade bracelet swinging back and forth.

“No,” he said, the word tasting like ash. He turned his back and walked away, Chi Zichen falling into step beside him. The sounds of the girl’s pleading faded behind them, replaced by the ordinary hum of the market.

Ye Ling’s hands stayed clenched inside his sleeves. The book on the Soul Capture Art pressed against his ribs like a stone.

*One step at a time,* he told himself. *Finish the mission. Then deal with the wolves.*

But the image of the weeping girl stayed with him, sharp as a shard of glass, all the way back to his borrowed room.

The morning sun cast long shadows across the bustling market street of the imperial city. Ye Ling adjusted the light veil over his face—a precaution, since Yue Ruier’s features were well known in this quarter. The silk felt strange against his skin, and the weight of the elaborate hairdo tugged at his scalp. He had been wandering for nearly an hour, mapping the routes to the ancient teleportation array and noting the guards’ patrol patterns. So far, no one had given him a second glance.

Then he heard the boots.

Heavy, arrogant strides, accompanied by the jingle of expensive talismans. Ye Ling’s instincts screamed before his eyes confirmed. He turned slightly, saw the embroidered robe, the sneer that had haunted his memories since the day he had stepped between Zhao Wuji and the real Yue Ruier.

*Damn it.*

Zhao Wuji had stopped three paces away, flanked by two burly attendants. His eyes traveled up and down Ye Ling’s disguised form with a slow, insulting appreciation that made Ye Ling’s stomach churn. Then recognition flickered—not of the soul inside, but of the face.

“Isn’t this the little songbird who caused such a fuss last month?” Zhao Wuji’s voice dripped with false sweetness. “I recall you had a rather loud-mouthed protector. What was his name? Ye Ling, yes. That insolent commoner.”

Ye Ling’s jaw tightened beneath the veil. He forced his shoulders to relax, his posture to soften. Yue Ruier would demur. Yue Ruier would smile and deflect.

“Young Master Zhao is mistaken. I merely perform at the pavilion.” He pitched his voice an octave higher, adding a tremor of fear. “I wouldn’t dare cause trouble for someone of your stature.”

Zhao Wuji stepped closer. The attendants formed a loose semicircle, blocking the flow of pedestrians. Several merchants averted their eyes. No one would intervene.

“You have a familiar look about you,” Zhao Wuji said, tilting his head. “I can’t place it, but something in the eyes. Almost like that bastard who humiliated me.” He laughed, but it held no humor. “But you’re just a woman. Weak. Helpless.” He reached out, fingertips brushing the edge of Ye Ling’s veil. “Perhaps I should remind you of your place.”

Ye Ling’s right hand twitched. The Chaos Spirit Pearl pulsed within his dantian, and for a moment he considered shedding the disguise, meeting Zhao Wuji as himself—no, as his former self. But that would destroy the plan. Princess Yueqing’s teleportation passage opened in three days. He could not afford exposure.

“Young Master is too kind,” Ye Ling said, stepping back smoothly. The movement caused Zhao Wuji’s hand to miss. “I was just about to purchase some silk for the pavilion. Perhaps we can continue this conversation another time?”

“Another time?” Zhao Wuji’s eyes narrowed. “I think now is perfect. I’ve been seeking a private... conversation with you ever since that incident. Your defender isn’t here to save you now.” He grabbed Ye Ling’s wrist—a grip meant to bruise.

Pain shot up Ye Ling’s arm. His cultivation was sealed within the female form, but his instincts remained. He could break this grasp. He could snap Zhao Wuji’s fingers. He could—

No.

He let his body go limp, allowed his face to crumple into a mask of feminine fright. “Please, Young Master, you’re hurting me. If you wish to speak, let’s find somewhere less crowded. My master will worry if I don’t return soon, but...” He lowered his eyes, letting his lashes flutter. “I wouldn’t want to offend you.”

The change was immediate. Zhao Wuji’s grip loosened, his sneer shifting into a leer. “Clever girl. You learn fast.” He released her wrist and instead offered his arm. “There’s a tea house around the corner. Private rooms. We can discuss your... cooperation.”

Ye Ling’s skin crawled. He took Zhao Wuji’s arm, forcing his fingers to remain light, his steps to match the shorter stride. The attendants followed at a courteous distance, but their eyes never left him.

As they walked, Ye Ling’s mind raced. He could not go to a private room. Once inside, he might have to kill Zhao Wuji to escape, and that would bring the city guard down on him. But refusal would arouse suspicion. A courtesan who rejected a noble’s invitation without reason was either suicidal or hiding something.

The tea house appeared ahead, its red lacquer pillars gleaming. Zhao Wuji’s grip on his elbow tightened proprietarily.

“You know,” Zhao Wuji said, leaning close, his breath hot against Ye Ling’s ear, “I’ve wondered what that Ye Ling saw in you. A common entertainer. But now I understand. There’s something about your eyes. A fire.” His hand slid down to the small of Ye Ling’s back. “I intend to enjoy extinguishing it.”

Ye Ling’s vision blurred with rage. He thought of his girlfriend, of her smile, of the promise he had made to return. He thought of Yue Ruier, whose face he now wore, and the shame she would feel if she knew. He thought of the Chaos Spirit Pearl, of the pleasure that had begun to creep into his transformed body, betraying him.

And then he saw his chance.

A street performer had set up a small crowd ahead, juggling fire. One of the flames arced too high, catching the edge of a canopy. The crowd gasped, scrambled back. In the sudden commotion, Ye Ling twisted his wrist free, ducked under a merchant’s cart, and vanished into the press of bodies.

“After her!” Zhao Wuji roared.

But Ye Ling was already three alleys away, slipping through a gap between buildings, his heart pounding beneath the suffocating silk. He pressed his back against a damp wall, breathing hard. His hands trembled—with fury, with fear, with the strange exhilaration of escape.

He looked down at his slender fingers, at the painted nails, the delicate sleeves. This body had almost trapped him. Zhao Wuji’s touch had been a violation, but worse was the part of him that had noted how easily his disguise had fooled the man, how naturally the tears had come, how convincing the fear.

*I am Ye Ling,* he told himself. *I am a man. I am doing this to save her.*

But as he adjusted the veil and smoothed the rumpled dress, he wondered how long he could keep believing that.

The summons came in the late afternoon, delivered by a liveried servant who bowed low before Ye Ling—still wearing Yue Ruier’s face—and pressed a jade slip into her hand. The message was brief, written in elegant script: “Zhao Wuji requests the honor of Yue Ruier’s company at the Pavilion of Drifting Fragrance this evening. Matters of mutual interest to discuss.”

Ye Ling’s fingers tightened around the slip. Mutual interest. That was Zhao Wuji’s way of saying he had something to hold over her head. The noble scion had not forgotten the humiliation in the market square, when Ye Ling—in his original male form—had stepped between him and Yue Ruier. Now, with Ye Ling trapped in this woman’s body and the real Yue Ruier nowhere to be found, Zhao Wuji smelled blood.

She composed her features into a cold smile for the servant. “Inform Lord Zhao that I have prior engagements. Perhaps another time.”

The servant did not move. His eyes flickered nervously. “My lord anticipated that you might say as much. He bade me deliver a second message.”

He produced a small wooden box from his sleeve. When Ye Ling opened it, her breath caught. Inside lay a jade hairpin—Yue Ruier’s hairpin, the one she had worn the night they first met. The message was unmistakable: Zhao Wuji had the real Yue Ruier, or at least knew where she was.

Ye Ling’s mind raced. She had to play along. A refusal now would mean danger for the woman whose identity she had stolen—and, more importantly, ruin for her own plan to access the ancient teleportation array. Princess Yueqing’s monthly departure was only four days away. She could not afford complications.

“Tell your master I will attend,” she said, her voice tight.

The servant bowed and withdrew.

As soon as the door closed, Ye Ling let out a long breath and pressed her palms against the table. Her reflection in the bronze mirror stared back at her—Yue Ruier’s full lips, delicate brows, those seductive eyes that promised pleasure and pain in equal measure. The body she inhabited thrilled at the thought of a banquet, of wine and music and attention. But her own mind was cold with calculation.

Zhao Wuji was no fool. He would test her, probe for weaknesses. She had learned to move and speak like Yue Ruier, but she lacked the courtesan’s intimate knowledge of the inner circles of Yue Country’s nobility. One wrong word, one gesture out of place, and suspicion would fall on her.

There was only one solution: she needed to control the conversation from the start, to weave a web of charm and distraction so thick that Zhao Wuji would forget to ask difficult questions.

She retrieved a hidden scroll from her sleeve—a technique she had purchased from an old cultivator in the ring world, at no small cost. Soul-ensnaring magic. Not the kind that dominated wills or erased memories, but a subtle art: the ability to make a listener hang on every word, to forget what they should not remember, to feel a vague, pleasant confusion that loosened their tongue and clouded their judgment.

Ye Ling unrolled the parchment and began to study.

The instructions were dense, filled with diagrams of qi circulation through the mind’s eye and throat chakra. She traced the lines with her finger, feeling the unfamiliar pathways in this female body. The techniques were meant for a woman’s voice—the scroll specifically warned that male practitioners would find the effect greatly diminished. Another irony of her transformation.

She practiced in whispers until her throat grew raw, modulating pitch, adding breathy undertones, pausing at exactly the right moments. The reflection in the mirror seemed to shift, becoming more hypnotic, more compelling. Even she felt a pull toward those eyes, that voice.

The sun dipped below the rooftops. Time to go.

Ye Ling changed into the finest robe in Yue Ruier’s wardrobe—crimson silk embroidered with golden lotuses, cut low at the neckline to reveal the smooth curve of her shoulders. She applied rouge to her lips and a touch of kohl to her eyes, then pinned her hair with the hairpin Zhao Wuji had returned. Let him think he held the upper hand.

The Pavilion of Drifting Fragrance was a three-story structure in the eastern quarter of the imperial city, its eaves curved like crescent moons and its windows glowing with lantern light. Music drifted from within—a pipa, a flute, the delicate clink of wine cups. Servants guided Ye Ling through the main hall, past tables of merchants and minor nobles who turned to stare, past the envy of other courtesans and the leers of drunk patrons.

Zhao Wuji had reserved the entire top floor. He sat alone at a low table laden with delicacies: steamed fish in ginger, braised duck with plum sauce, fresh lychees piled on a bed of ice. Two attendants stood behind him, silent and watchful.

He rose as Ye Ling entered, a smile spreading across his handsome but cruel face. “Yue Ruier. I was beginning to think you would disappoint me.”

“I would never dream of disappointing Lord Zhao,” Ye Ling said, lowering her eyes demurely. She let her voice carry the faintest trace of that new technique—a velvet quality that seemed to linger in the air. “Your invitation was… compelling.”

He gestured for her to sit across from him. She obeyed, arranging her robes with practiced grace. The attendants poured wine and retreated to the shadows.

Zhao Wuji studied her over the rim of his cup. “You look well. Better than the last time I saw you, when that brute Ye Ling was acting as your shield. Tell me, where is he now? I’ve heard he vanished rather suddenly.”

Ye Ling’s heart hammered, but she kept her face serene. She took a sip of wine to buy time, then set the cup down with a soft clink. “Lord Ye had matters to attend to. He is a busy man. We have not spoken since that day.”

“A pity.” Zhao Wuji’s smile did not reach his eyes. “I had hoped to settle accounts with him. He disrespected me in front of the entire market.”

“I am certain he regrets his actions,” Ye Ling said smoothly. “Perhaps you will find solace in more pleasant company tonight.” She let her gaze travel slowly across his face, then down to his hands, then back up. The soul-ensnaring technique threaded through her words like honey. “Tell me, Lord Zhao, what matters did you wish to discuss? I confess I am curious.”

He leaned back, clearly pleased by her attention. “Straight to business. I like that. Very well.” He snapped his fingers, and one of the attendants placed a leather pouch on the table. It clinked with the sound of coins. “I have an offer. You are the most sought-after courtesan in the imperial city, and I need… information. About the palace. About Princess Yueqing’s movements.”

Ye Ling’s pulse quickened. This was dangerous—and unexpectedly useful. She tilted her head. “The princess? Why would you think I know anything of her schedule?”

“Because you have eyes and ears in places I don’t. And because I am willing to pay handsomely for what you can learn.” He pushed the pouch toward her. “This is but a deposit. There will be more when you deliver.”

She considered the coins, then lifted her gaze to meet his. The soul-ensnaring magic coiled behind her words, subtle but insistent. “And if I refuse?”

Zhao Wuji’s expression hardened. The mask of charm slipped, revealing the predator beneath. “Then I will find the real Yue Ruier and make her wish she had never been born. You wear her face now, but I know you are not her. I suspected it the moment you walked in. The real Yue Ruier would have been afraid. You are not afraid. You are planning something.”

He was too sharp. Ye Ling forced a light laugh, letting the technique pour out in full force. “You give me too much credit, Lord Zhao. I am but a woman trying to survive. If you wish for information, I will acquire it. What does it matter to me?” She let her voice drop to a whisper, intimate, conspiratorial. “Between us, I care nothing for the princess. If you want to know when she leaves the palace, I will find out. For a price.”

He blinked, and she saw the confusion flicker in his eyes—the soul-ensnaring taking hold. Good.

“Then we have an agreement,” he said slowly, as if remembering why he had called her there. “You will report to me within three days.”

“Three days,” she agreed, and raised her cup. “To mutual profit.”

He clinked his cup against hers. The wine was sweet, but bitter on her tongue.

Ye Ling spent the rest of the evening deflecting his probing questions, steering the conversation toward flattery and trivial gossip. The soul-ensnaring technique worked its quiet magic; by the end, Zhao Wuji was flushed with wine and barely remembered what he had asked. She excused herself as the moon climbed high, pleading exhaustion from a “long day of preparations.”

Back in Yue Ruier’s chambers, she locked the door and pressed her forehead against the cool wood. The encounter had been too close. Zhao Wuji’s suspicion would only grow. She had bought three days, but that was not enough.

She opened the soul-ensnaring scroll again and traced the characters with trembling fingers. The technique was incomplete—there were deeper levels, ways to bind a will completely, to make a man her puppet. But the scroll warned of backlash, of losing oneself in the power. A warning she chose to ignore.

For Princess Yueqing’s teleportation. For survival. For the sliver of hope that she could still return to her own body and to her girlfriend.

Ye Ling began to chant the incantation, the words foreign and sweet on her tongue, her female voice rising and falling in rhythms that seemed to come from somewhere older than language. The candle flames flickered. Shadows writhed on the walls.

She would master this magic. She had no choice.