Chapter 465: Second Time

And she was currently sobbing delicately into the Prince’s chest.

"Oh, here we go," Transmigrator Ji’an sneered, rolling her eyes as she walked. "Generic White Lotus Concubine Number Four. Let me guess, she has a chronic cough and manipulates everyone by playing the victim?"

"I cannot bear it, Yichen," the White Lotus wept softly, clinging to the Prince’s robes. "She is the official consort. I am merely a commoner you took pity upon. She has the General’s backing. She will surely poison me out of jealousy."

"Do not weep, my fragile lotus," the Prince scowled, his face twisting with profound annoyance directed at his absent wife. "I only married Lin Ji’an to secure the southern armies. She is a boring, rigid woman who lacks your delicate spirit. You are the only one I truly love. I will ensure she never touches you."

The original Ji’an, hiding behind the pillar, shattered.

She slumped to the ground, covering her mouth to muffle her heartbroken sobs. She had been used.

She was nothing but a political pawn in a loveless marriage, trapped in a palace with a husband who despised her and a concubine plotting her downfall.

"I am going to deep-fry his royal jewels," Transmigrator Ji’an hissed, her Body Fusion core humming with kinetic fury. "I am going to take that White Lotus, batter her in tempura flour, and throw her into a volcano."

The tragedy of the Second Timeline deepened.

The original Ji’an grew despondent.

She was isolated in her luxurious, gilded cage.

The White Lotus concubine systematically orchestrated a campaign of rumors, framing Ji’an for poisoning attempts, pushing her further into the Prince’s disfavor.

But then, the scroll offered a brief glimpse of the outside world.

The vision shifted to the grand, sweeping steps of the Imperial Altar.

Standing at the apex of the altar, draped in elaborate white and silver ceremonial robes, was Xie Wangchen.

He was older now.

He was not a wild, feral disciple, but was the State Preceptor.

The highest-ranking, most terrifying orthodox authority in the Azure Empire. His absolute-zero aura was refined, condensed, and utterly lethal.

His silver hair flowed like a river of moonlight, and his ruby eyes were cold, dead, and empty.

"The State Preceptor!" the ghostly voices in the vision whispered in awe and terror. "He is untouchable! He communes with the Heavens!"

Transmigrator Ji’an watched Wangchen with a heavy heart.

Because of the soul-binding ritual, Wangchen’s soul was pulling him toward Ji’an. But in this timeline, she was married to the Second Prince.

She was locked in the inner palace, behind imperial wards that even the State Preceptor could not casually breach without declaring treason.

The vision showed Wangchen standing on a high balcony of the Altar, staring out across the capital, his ruby eyes locked on the distant, gilded roofs of the Second Prince’s estate unconsciously, not knowing what in that place pulled his soul so much.

He looked so miserable.

The frost crept over the stone railing under his hands.

He was bound by fate to a woman he could not reach, a woman who didn’t even know he existed, slowly dying in a cage he was politically forbidden from opening.

’He’s just standing there, failing to save me again,’ Ji’an realized, the tragedy twisting the knife in her gut. ’He has all that power, and he can’t do a damn thing because of the plot armor of the Royal Family.’

The climax of the Second Timeline approached with brutal, unforgiving speed.

The original Ji’an, utterly broken, framed for a crime she didn’t commit, and facing execution by her own husband, finally decided to fight back.

She planned an escape.

The vision shifted to a dark, stormy night. The rain was coming down in sheets.

The original Ji’an was wearing a simple, dark cloak, sneaking through the labyrinthine alleys of the capital, clutching a small bag of stolen spirit stones.

She was panting, terrified, and running for her life.

She turned a corner into a blind alley.

Standing at the end of the alley, leaning casually against the brick wall, spinning a single, gleaming black dagger in his hand, was a young man.

He wore a dark, hooded cloak.

He had a bright, coy, incredibly playful smile on his face.

Mo Wuchen. The Assassin Lord.

Transmigrator Ji’an, walking the dark corridor, let out a roar of recognition.

"YOU SNAKE!" Ji’an screamed, pointing her spatula at the peripheral vision. "I KNEW IT! I KNEW I HATED YOU FOR A REASON!"

In the vision, Mo Wuchen pushed off the wall, offering a charming, deeply reassuring smile.

He didn’t look like a killer. He looked like a rogue with a heart of gold.

"Lady Lin," the phantom Mo Wuchen smiled, offering her a hand. "You look like a woman in need of a untraceable exit strategy. The Prince’s guards are two streets away. Come with me. I have a carriage waiting at the city gates."

The original Ji’an, desperate, terrified, and grasping at straws, believed him.

She took his hand, weeping with gratitude.

"Thank you," she sobbed, following him into the deeper shadows of the alley. "I thought I was going to die here. Thank you."

Mo Wuchen led her deeper into the darkness.

"It is my pleasure, milady," Wuchen smiled brightly, spinning the black dagger with terrifying, fluid grace. "Though, I must confess, I lied about the carriage."

The original Ji’an stopped.

She looked up, confusion written across her tear-stained face.

Wuchen’s bright, playful smile didn’t fade. It simply grew wider, revealing a cold void behind his eyes.

"The Second Prince’s concubine pays incredibly well," Wuchen whispered, his voice light and cheerful. "She wanted to make sure you never made it back to the General’s Estate. Nothing personal, Lady Lin. It’s just business."

Before the original Ji’an could even scream, before she could turn to run, Mo Wuchen moved with a blur of lethal speed.

The black dagger flashed in the rain.

He drove the blade cleanly, precisely, and instantly directly into her heart.

The original Ji’an gasped, her eyes going wide with shock and agony. She collapsed to the wet cobblestones, her blood mixing with the cold rain, pooling around her body.

Wuchen wiped the blade on his cloak, humming a cheerful little tune, and casually walked away into the storm, leaving her to die alone in the gutter.

Ji’an watched the murder with an expression of pure fury.

’That’s twice,’ she thought, her core humming so loudly it vibrated her bones. ’That’s two lifetimes. Two different flavors of trash men. Two different betrayals.’

The vision offered one final epilogue to the Second Timeline.

Hours after the murder, the temperature in the alley plummeted to zero. The rain froze mid-air, hanging like suspended diamonds.

Xie Wangchen, the State Preceptor, arrived.

He was too late.

The Ice Demon dropped to his knees in the bloody, frozen puddle.

He pulled the lifeless, cold body of the original Ji’an into his pristine white robes, staining them instantly with her blood.

He didn’t scream. He didn’t roar.

He simply buried his face in her wet, dark hair, rocking her back and forth, a hollow, broken, shattered sound escaping his throat. It was the sound of a soul dying.

The Red Thread connecting them pulsed with a dark light, transmitting the totality of her death directly into his core.

The Second Timeline faded into blackness.

Ji’an stood in the dark Corridor of the Eclipse, her chest heaving, her knuckles aching from gripping her spatula so tightly.

The darkness swirled around her, feeding on the despair.

"You die every time," the voices whispered from the void, sounding like the White Lotus concubine. "You are doomed. You cannot break the cycle. Just sit down, surrender, and let the darkness take you."

Ji’an closed her eyes.

She took a slow, deep breath, inhaling the stale, dusty air of the void.

She opened her eyes.

They were not filled with despair.

They were filled with the terrifying, indomitable rage of a Head Chef who had just been handed seventeen different tickets for burnt, unacceptable garbage.

"I am not sitting down," Ji’an stated, her voice dropping into a lethal, quiet register.

She began to walk.

Not a slow, cautious march.

A heavy, rapid stride.

"I married a trash bag who loved a sneezing white lotus. I got shanked in an alley by a cheerful psychopath. And my idiot husband was magically bound to me by our doomed mothers."