A sliver of moonlight crept through the cracked wooden shutters, brushing against the straw mattress where Shen Lan lay, eyes wide open.
Sleep had long abandoned him—not from the discomfort of the servant's quarters, nor the cold night breeze seeping through the stone walls—but because he no longer belonged to this world. Not truly.
In another life, he had stood atop mountains that scraped the sky. His name alone could still armies, his enemies prostrated themselves before him not out of reverence, but terror. The world had called him Fog Emperor—a sovereign cloaked in shadow and wisdom, whose schemes ran deeper than oceans.
But empires fall. And even emperors bleed.
He had been betrayed by those closest to him—cut down by blades he had once raised high. In his dying breath, he did not scream. He smiled. For death… was only a delay.
Now, three hundred years later, he returned.
Not as a god, nor as a warrior reborn in glory.
But as a servant.
The body he now inhabited was frail, seventeen years old, and bore the name of "Shen Lan"—a stable boy for the minor Zhao family. To the world, he was beneath notice. To Shen Lan… it was perfect.
What better place to hide a dagger than among shadows?
For three days, he remained silent. He watched, listened, and remembered. The servants who schemed, the stewards who stole, the noble children who struck with words and whips—every detail tucked into the corners of his mind.
He did not act. Not yet.
But on the fourth night, as the estate slept beneath a sky of broken stars, something stirred.
A creak on wooden floorboards. Footsteps too quiet for a guard.
Shen Lan rose.
He didn't grab a weapon. He didn't make a sound. He simply moved.
In the hall outside, he saw them—two figures cloaked in secrecy. One, a masked killer; the other, Huang, the steward's assistant. The same man who had once kicked Shen Lan for "breathing too loudly." Now he whispered of silver and blood, of a girl to be silenced before dawn.
Lady Zhao Min.
The only heir left to the Zhao clan. A girl too kind for the world she lived in.
They moved. Shen Lan followed. Barefoot. Silent.
He reached her room just seconds after the assassin slipped inside. The girl slept beneath silk sheets, unaware of the death looming over her. The killer raised his blade.
And Shen Lan acted.
A thrown incense holder shattered against the far wall. The assassin turned—too late. Shen Lan was already there, eyes calm, hands moving like the memory of a storm.
The fight was swift. Brutal.
The assassin was skilled.
Shen Lan was lethal.
In thirty breaths, it was over. A neck snapped. A dagger clattered.
Lady Min stirred in her sleep, unaware of the life she almost lost.
And Shen Lan… was already gone.
Back to the shadows. Back to silence.
He would not be thanked. He did not want to be.
Because the eyes of a servant never sleep.
And the Fog Emperor had only just begun to open his.