The red veil was heavy over her head. Her wedding gown shimmered in the candlelight—layers of silk and gold embroidery trailing behind her like a noblewoman's final offering.

Shen Lianhua sat in the bridal chamber, motionless. Around her, servants whispered and giggled, scattering rose petals and lighting incense. The smell was sweet. Too sweet.

But Lianhua waited.

For him.

For her husband.

The man who had kissed her palm in the garden three days ago and whispered, "You are the one I fought a thousand battles to marry."

The door creaked open.

General Wei Xuanzhi stepped in, tall and broad-shouldered, his armor replaced with ceremonial robes. His smile was perfect. Practiced.

“The bride is stunning,” he said.

She stood and bowed, hands clasped. “The groom honors me.”

He poured the wedding wine himself—two cups bound together with a red thread of fate. He lifted one. She lifted the other.

“To many happy years,” he said.

They drank.

The wine was warm.

Then it was fire.

Then it was ice.

Lianhua’s fingers trembled. Her breath caught.

Something was wrong.

She staggered back, the room spinning, the floor rising like a wave.

“Xuanzhi… something…”

He caught her as she fell—but there was no fear in his eyes.

Only relief.

“Sleep, Lianhua,” he said gently. “You’ve served your purpose.”

The red veil slipped from her head as she crashed to the floor.

Above her, a woman appeared.

Zhou Mei.

Dressed in white. Smiling like a new bride. Her voice was syrup.

“Don’t be upset, Sister Lianhua. You were always too noble to survive this world.”

The poison tightened her throat. Her vision dimmed. Rage burned hotter than the toxin.

You planned this.

The marriage. The wine. The betrayal.

Her hand reached out… and fell.

And everything went black.

But death was not the end.

Lianhua awoke to the weight of silk again. Red again.

But not the wedding veil.

Her old training robes. Her body—unscarred, unbroken. Her hands—small again. She gasped and looked around wildly.

The mirror showed a young face. Her face.

Eighteen.

The door slammed open.

A familiar voice—one she hadn’t heard in years.

“Lianhua? You’re late for your sword lesson again.”

She turned.

Li Shenzhao.

The Crown Prince.

Alive. Young. Serious.

And staring at her like she was still the girl he once knew.

This time, she thought, I won’t die for love.

I’ll use it to destroy everything that killed me.