Agonizing pain sliced across her neck.
Yan Shuixin's consciousness was dragged from the depths of darkness by the searing sting. Instinctively, her hand flew to her throat—only to trigger another jolt of pain that forced a sharp gasp from her lips.
The moment she inhaled, the stench in the air hit her like a blow—rot, mold, blood, and decay mixed into something so foul, it made her stomach lurch. She choked, nearly vomiting.
She tried to move—her limbs felt like lead. After several failed attempts, she finally managed to sit up, her back scraping against the cold, damp wall behind her.
Her surroundings slowly came into focus.
Three walls. Bare, stone, damp. The fourth wasn't a wall at all, but iron—thick black bars spaced so closely they might as well have been solid. They stretched all the way to the ceiling, cold and silent like the jaws of a beast.
Beyond them, only darkness.
A narrow corridor loomed outside, shrouded in shadows. No sound. No movement. Only silence—and that kind of oppressive, suffocating silence that belonged to the dead.
A small window near the ceiling let in a shaft of pale light. Barely enough to see. Just enough to make the horror real.
Her heart squeezed painfully in her chest.
This wasn't a room.
It was a prison cell.
Panic thundered in her blood. Her eyes darted across the room, and then her mind slammed into a realization so hard she nearly gasped aloud.
She had seen this before.
This very scene—these bars, this stench, this despair—it was straight from the pages of a novel she'd once devoured like a guilty pleasure: "From the Dungeon to the Court".
A novel of scandal and seduction. A grim fantasy set in the crumbling empire of Fengxiang, where Prince Jin schemed to claim the throne by building a secret prison. A death trap. One hidden deep in the mountains, where political enemies and innocent victims were thrown in alike.
Every day, people died.
Torture, starvation, executions—this prison had become a bloodstained playground for bored nobles, who bet money on how many prisoners would survive the week.
The female lead, Xia Chuxue, had been a noble lady kidnapped and thrown into this place. And yet—because she was the heroine—she thrived. Survived. Seduced her way through the prison, then out of it, and straight into the hearts of royal men.
The plot was absurd. The writing, garbage.
But she'd read every chapter.
And now…
Now she was in it.
She'd clicked open a long-overdue update just yesterday. She'd cursed the author aloud—then tripped, smashed headfirst into her phone… and passed right through it.
The next thing she knew, she was waking up here.
And before she could even start piecing the madness together, a cold, murderous gaze cut through the air and pinned her in place.
She turned slowly.
In the darkest corner of the cell, someone lay on the ground.
A man.
He wore ancient-style prison garb, shredded and stained. His hair was long, matted, tangled in blood and filth. His frame—tall, over six feet—looked skeletal beneath the filthy white cloth.
But it was his face that made her breath catch.
The right half—sharp-jawed, strong-nosed, beautiful.
The left—ruined.
Twisted scars slashed down from his brow to his chin, grotesque in the dim light. A dead, artificial eye stared blankly from a disfigured socket.
And lower…
His left leg was gone. The pants leg tied off in a crude knot just above the knee.
Her heart stopped.
She knew this man.
Prince An. Xiao Yeheng.The crippled, discarded character who had once been a prince of the empire—then exiled, broken, and buried alive by the plot.
And she? She was the cannon fodder bride forced to marry him.
The one who died.
She had transmigrated into her.
The realization struck her like lightning. Her heart thundered in her ears, but she forced herself to stay still. To breathe. Because the man in front of her was looking at her like a predator sizing up prey.
And the temperature in the cell seemed to drop with every second.
His single, undamaged eye gleamed cold and hollow.
A voice, low and edged with steel, cut through the silence.
"Stare at me again, and I'll gouge your eyes out."
She immediately averted her gaze.
Tried to ignore the reeking yellow stain on the stone beneath him—the waste sticking to his pants, the filth around his body.
She didn't even have time to ask gently:Your Highness, did you soil yourself? Must be uncomfortable…
Her stomach growled. Loud. Ugly.
She pressed a hand to her belly—sunken and empty. This body hadn't eaten in days.
Wait—there was food. In the book, there was always a bowl of rice and water left after the prison wedding scene.
She searched the room and found them near the iron bars, next to two nearly melted red candles.
Her breath caught.
This was it.
This was the wedding scene.
In the book, Prince An had already been imprisoned for over a month. His leg—amputated. The cause was never explained. The prison doctor had been murdered the night before. His wounds were untreated.
Then the guards decided to entertain themselves.
They dragged in Yan Shuixin—daughter of the Minister of Rites—and forced her to marry a man half-dead.
That original Yan Shuixin? She'd fainted from the shock and cried for days.
They shoved the two together, mocked their wedding with candles, and tossed in a bowl of spoiled rice and urine for good measure.
Then the guards waited outside, eager to watch them consummate the marriage.
But he couldn't. And she wouldn't.
One guard demanded she seduce him. When she refused, he snapped her neck under his boot.
She died.
And now, the new Yan Shuixin had taken her place.
Her stomach growled again.
She glanced at the food—but remembered: Prince An hadn't eaten in three days. No water. No food. No strength.
And in the book, six months from now, the emperor would return to rescue him. Only a handful of prisoners would survive. And he—the once-broken prince—would be the one to decide their fate.
She remembered the scene.
"Dig a pit," he said coldly. "Bury them all."
His so-called bride—Yan Shuixin—was tossed in with the rest.
No. Not this time.
This time, she would survive.
She would take care of him. Feed him. Comfort him. Become useful.
And maybe—just maybe—he'd let her live.
With a soft breath, she stood and picked up the bowl of rice.
Walked to his side.
"Your Highness," she said gently, "Please, eat something."
He stared at her as if she were filth. Was she mocking him? This cripple, this waste of a man, who here remembered that he was once a prince?
There were no utensils. She reached in with her fingers, picked up a sticky clump of rice, and offered it. "Just a little?"
He slapped her hand away.
"Leave." His voice was ice.
She blinked, then said calmly,"I would… but I can't walk far."
Wasn't this how ancient wives spoke?
The rice smelled wrong. She sniffed it—rotten.
"It's spoiled. You can't eat this."
Her gaze dropped to his leg. Pus, yellow and thick, oozed from the stump.
The cloth tied around it was soaked again.
"If you eat this and get sick… you'll die faster," she murmured, setting the bowl aside.
Then she picked up the second bowl. Her stomach turned.
Urine. A bowl of urine.
"This… isn't water," she whispered in disbelief. "This is piss!"
Those filthy guards. That was their idea of a wedding gift. Her hands trembled with rage.
Prince An lay still, expressionless.
As if… he was used to it.
She sat beside him again and whispered,"I'll find a way. I'll get food. Water. I'll take care of you."
He turned to her, cold and suspicious.
"Why curry favor with me? What do you want?"
She smiled and pointed to the candles. "We're husband and wife now, aren't we? We've bowed to heaven and earth—even if the place is unusual. Taking care of you…is only right."
His eye gleamed with mockery.
Let him sneer. She didn't need his trust. Not yet.
She only needed one thing—
For him to remember her kindness… when it came time to choose who lived.