Yufei was many things—vain, cruel, aggressively lavender—but she wasn't stupid.
The moment her rescheduled consummation date reached her hands, her smile turned razor-thin. While she couldn't prove it, she suspected.
Oh, she suspected me.
The narrowed eyes. The smug little tilt of her chin. The "accidental" comment she made during tea with the Queen:
"Isn't it odd how some consorts always seem to benefit from… scheduling errors?"
Subtle? No. Effective? Unfortunately, yes.
Even if she couldn't accuse me outright, she'd planted the seed. The court, already buzzing from my supposed divine status, took the bait. By the end of the week, the King made an announcement:
"In light of recent revelations, Consort Li shall now begin formal cultivation training under palace supervision."
Which sounded noble and supportive until the next part:
"Her training will be overseen by the Masters of Jingxin Hall under the Central Monastic Bureau."
Translation: I was being quietly removed from Wei Wuxian's influence—and pulled further out of Ming Yu's reach.
"You can't be serious," Ming Yu snapped when he heard. His voice was calm. Too calm.
"Orders from the top," Wei Wuxian muttered, rubbing his forehead. "Even I can't block it. They're trying to keep you under observation."
Observation. Right. Either that, or they were trying to break me.
Because the training?
It was pure torture.
Every morning before dawn, I was dragged to a temple courtyard that reeked of wet stone, stale incense, and spiritual delusion. No breakfast. No shoes. No dignity.
Just me, the cold, and an ever-rotating team of monks who looked at me like I was both a divine relic and an annoying administrative burden.
The routine?
Sit in an ice basin for an hour—almost naked to the knees—until the water "recognized me." I couldn't feel my legs. I'm still not sure they've forgiven me.
Choke down potions brewed from cloudberries, lotus root, and probably regret. Bitter enough to burn the inside of my throat and make my vision blur. Once I blacked out for three seconds. They called it progress.
Calligraphy practice. Underwater. With a "blessed" swan-feather brush that disintegrated halfway through the second stroke. My instructor said it was a metaphor. I said it was garbage.
Breath exercises designed to "call the moisture in the air." I sat there for hours, hyperventilating while a bald man in a cloud robe stood behind me muttering, "Water flows where the will bends… relax your thighs, Consort Li. The spirit cannot rise through stiff hips." I almost drowned him in his own tea.
And then there was the sacred water bowl test. If the water rippled during meditation, it meant I was connected to the element. It rippled once. Because I sneezed. They counted it. They bowed. They said I was progressing.
I told them to kiss the back of my spiritual journey.
They told me I was "emotionally clouded by worldly attachment."
And maybe I was. Maybe I am. But after a week of this? I wasn't closer to being a goddess. I was just cold. Tired. And one chant away from committing minor monk-related violence.
By the end of the second week, I wasn't just tired.
I was unraveling.
My body ached constantly. My eyes burned in the mornings. I couldn't remember the last time I laughed, or the last time I felt like myself.
The monks said I was "resisting the call of the water." I said I was resisting the urge to throw myself into it and stay there.
Every night, after whatever fresh humiliation the day had thrown at me, I'd collapse onto the mattress like a corpse in silk.
And every night, Ming Yu would come.
He never knocked. He never asked. He just slipped in after the guards changed shifts, his robes quiet, his expression unreadable. And then he'd climb in behind me. Wrap his arms around me. Pull me into the curve of his chest and hold me.
Sometimes he was trembling. Sometimes he was angry—his jaw tight, breath clipped like he wanted to burn the palace down just to warm me. But mostly, he was quiet.
He'd brush my hair back with one hand. Rest his forehead against the back of my neck. Press his fingers into my ribs like he could protect what was left of me from falling apart.
"I hate this," he said once, voice raw.
I didn't answer.
Because I hated it too.
The worst part? I wasn't even failing spectacularly.
I was failing quietly.
No magic. No power. No divine awakening. Just a girl who came from the wrong world, trying to survive in one that didn't want her.
And then one morning, I didn't wake up.I heard the bell. Felt the cold draft of the morning air. But I couldn't move. My body refused. My lips were cracked. My skin was clammy. My breath came shallow and wrong.
I was sick. Fevered. Wrung out like silk left in the winter wind.
The training stopped.
No announcement. No apology. Just silence. The monks who once hovered over me with talismans and cold bowls vanished overnight—summoned back to the main temple by royal decree. "To regroup," they said. "To seek more effective methods."
Translation: they didn't know what the hell to do with me.
And frankly? I was too sick to care.
For the first time in weeks, I wasn't being dragged to a stone courtyard at sunrise or force-fed boiled roots that tasted like regret. I wasn't chanting. I wasn't meditating. I wasn't sitting in a freezing basin praying for spiritual awakening.
When I opened my eyes—Xiaohua was there. Sitting beside me, hair tied in a rushed little knot, sleeves rolled up, eyes red and furious.
"You scared me," she said softly, tucking the blanket tighter around my shoulders. "You scared all of us."
"I scare people all the time," I rasped.
She sniffed. "Not like this." Then she pushed a porcelain bowl into my hands. I tried to argue. She ignored me. "Lotus and rock sugar," she said. "It's all you're allowed to complain about today."
I took a sip.
It was warm. Gentle. The kind of taste that made your chest ache, because someone had made it with care and you weren't used to that anymore.
She brushed my hair back with her fingers, and for a moment, I thought of my sister. How she used to do the same when I was sick—sitting by my bed in our cramped apartment, feeding me congee and fussing like I might shatter if I so much as coughed too hard. The same quiet kindness. The same warmth that felt like home.
"You're still burning a little," she murmured. "But it's not as bad as yesterday."
"Great," I whispered. "Maybe tomorrow I can levitate."
She didn't laugh. She just pressed a cloth to my forehead and whispered, "Don't let them break you."
I stared at the ceiling. The silk canopy blurred above me. My fingers curled around the edge of the blanket.
"I think they already tried."
It was the first afternoon I'd been able to sit up without collapsing. The sunlight was warm on my blanket, the fever had broken, and for once, I didn't feel like I was dreaming in sweat and salt.
Xiaohua brought over a bowl of ginseng chicken soup and practically shoved it into my hands like it was the elixir of life.
"Drink all of it," she said, fluffing my pillow. "You're still pale."
"I'm always pale," I muttered, but I took the bowl anyway. The smell was rich, comforting.
Then the door creaked open. Yuling entered, poised and elegant in her new consort robes—light silk in pale orchid, waist cinched, hair pinned with jade.
"Mei Lin," she said, walking in awkwardly. "You look—less dead."
"And you're officially royal." I offered a tired smile. "Look at you—flawless, smug, glowing."
She sat at the edge of the bed with practiced grace. "I wanted to visit sooner, but the inner court has been crawling with eyes. I brought gossip, by the way. Apparently, you cursed at a monk."
"I said he could kiss my worldly emotion," I muttered.
"Same thing."
Xiaohua returned with a fresh cup of barley tea and handed it to Yuling. "Here, it's warm. Your maid said you haven't eaten since morning."
Yuling accepted the cup with a nod. "Thank you."
Then she brought it to her lips—paused—and blinked. Her nose wrinkled. She held it further away, sniffed again—then recoiled, quickly setting it down.
"Ugh."
Yuling sat beside the bed, looking like she was deeply regretting every decision that brought her to this moment. She took a sip of the barley water, grimaced—then slapped a hand over her mouth.
My eyes narrowed.
"…Did you just gag?"
She gave me a sheepish look. "It's just the taste. I think it's the barley."
"It's the same barley you've had your whole life."
"Maybe it's gone bad."
Xiaohua leaned forward and sniffed. "We cooked it this morning. It smells fine."
Yuling looked increasingly green. She pushed the cup away and breathed through her nose like she was trying to out-stubborn her own stomach.
Something clicked in my brain.
My eyes widened.
"Yuling," I said slowly, like I was defusing a bomb, "when was your last monthly cycle?"
She blinked. "Huh?"
I stared at her.
She stared back.
And then I saw it.
The panic.
She looked away, started counting on her fingers, then froze. Her eyes snapped back to mine.
"No," she whispered.
"Oh yes," I said, voice rising.
Xiaohua gasped. "Wait—are you…?"
"Yeah, well, congratulations," I said, trying to sit up. "You just became the plot twist of the year."
"I'll get a physician!" Xiaohua yelped, already halfway to the door.
"No!" I barked.
Both of them froze.
I put my soup down with shaking hands and sat straighter, even though my body hated me for it.
"Absolutely not. No random palace physician," I barked, sitting up so fast, my chest hurt. Xiaohua blinked. "But—she needs to be examined."
"Have either of you not watched a historical drama?" I snapped, eyes wide, pointing a spoon at them like it was a sword.
Yuling looked around the room. "…A what?"
"I'm serious," I said, gesturing like I was about to teach a university lecture. "You trust the wrong palace physician and next thing you know, someone's mysteriously infertile, or drinking tonics for vitality that turn out to be poison. The baby's gone, and the mother's left sobbing in slow motion under the plum blossoms."
Xiaohua's brows drew together. "You're doing the weird words again."
"They're not weird words," I said. "This is the common story of every tragic concubine character ever. It always starts with: 'The royal physician has been summoned.'"
They both stared at me.
Yuling finally asked, "Is this… one of the Mei Lin things?"
"It's absolutely a Mei Lin thing," I said. "And you should listen, because I've lived through at least fifty fictional timelines where this exact setup ends in emotional devastation and vengeful reincarnation."
"…So we don't call the physician?" Xiaohua said slowly.
"Correct," I nodded. "We don't call anyone until we get word to Wei Wuxian. He'll know which healer isn't owned by the Queen, Yufei, or the collective scheming willpower of the Wang family."
Yuling clutched her stomach. "You think they'd actually try something?"
I stared at her. She sighed. "Right. What am I saying. Of course they would."
"Exactly," I muttered. "We are in season two, and this is a classic setup. Pregnant consort, divided loyalties, a dangerous inheritance timeline…"
"You're losing us again," Xiaohua said gently.
I held up a finger. "Doesn't matter. The point is: no scrolls. No whispers. No suspicious tea. We smuggle the news to Wei Wuxian, and until then—not a soul finds out."
Xiaohua sighed, already turning toward the door. "I'll go see which guard is most easily bribed."
Yuling pressed her hands over her face. "I cannot believe I'm trusting my unborn child to a woman who narrates her life like a play."
"You're welcome," I said, sipping my soup like it was victory wine.