The brush scratched against the thick parchment, leaving a dark, decisive line as Lian’er finished her frightened whispers.
The maid sat trembling on the stool across from Rulan, her knees practically knocking together.
Rulan didn’t look up immediately.
Her eyes swept over the crude diagram she had drawn.
She wasn’t stupid.
She knew Lian’er’s information was filtered through servant gossip, half-truths, and exaggerated palace rumors.
But in her experience, even distorted scout reports were better than walking into an unmapped kill zone.
Stripping away the theatrical palace drama, Rulan reduced the entire Great Liang court into raw, functional power dynamics.
“So,” Rulan said softly, her thumb tracing the rim of her cold tea cup.
“The court isn’t just divided. It’s a tripod.”
“A… a tripod, Your Highness?” Lian’er asked, her voice squeaking.
“Three main legs keeping the whole thing from collapsing,” Rulan muttered, tapping the brush handle against three distinct clusters on her map.
First, the Emperor’s side—not a true faction, but a coalition of opportunists and imperial guards whose power existed solely because Xie Zhenyuan held the throne.
Second, the Conservative Faction, led by old aristocrats like Grand Scholar Meng, who wanted lower land taxes, protected noble privileges, and an emperor who signed whatever they put in front of him.
And third, Governor Lin’s network.
“Explain Governor Lin again,” Rulan commanded, her tone sharpening.
“Specifically, why my brother cares so much about him coming back to the capital.”
Lian’er swallowed hard, leaning in slightly as if the walls themselves had ears.
“Governor Lin isn’t an elder scholar like Grand Scholar Meng, Your Highness. But he holds the south. He controls the canals, the toll gates, and the grain barges that feed the northern provinces… including the capital.”
Rulan’s eyes narrowed into cold, calculating slits.
Grain.
In the apocalypse, whoever owned the hydro-farms owned the settlement.
Guns were loud, but starvation was absolute.
“If Governor Lin decides a canal needs ‘maintenance’ during harvest season,” Rulan said, “the imperial granaries run low.”
“Prices skyrocket in three days, Your Highness,” Lian’er whispered, pale.
“The city’s lower wards rioted two years ago during the winter drought for that very reason.”
‘So Governor Lin isn’t just an influential official’, Rulan thought, drawing a massive, heavy box around his name.
‘He holds a knife directly to the capital’s throat.
That’s why my brother wants to use me at the banquet.
He wants a wild dog to bite Lin’s heels before Lin can formalize a tax alliance with Grand Scholar Meng.’
“What about the Gu family?” Rulan asked, shifting her brush to another corner.
“You said they have military ties?”
“Yes, Your Highness. General Gu commands the capital’s outer garrison, and several Gu sons serve in the Ministry of War.” Lian’er hesitated, her eyes darting to Rulan’s face.
“Which… which is why Lady Gu’s family was so furious when…”
“When I pushed her into the lotus pond,” Rulan finished flatly.
“…And threw her shoes into the trees, yes.”
Rulan stared at the parchment.
“I pushed the daughter of a military-connected family into a muddy pond because her dress matched mine.”
Lian’er gave a microscopic, terrified nod.
“I was an idiot,” Rulan said without a trace of shame.
Lian’er blinked, nearly choking on her own breath.
Hearing the notoriously arrogant Fourth Princess casually call herself an idiot was more shocking than any insult she had ever hurled.
“Wait,” Rulan tapped her chin with the back of the brush.
“If the Gu family holds military leverage, why didn’t they retaliate? Why didn’t General Gu demand my head, or at least arrange a ‘tragic accident’ for me on the road?”
“Because of His Majesty,” Lian’er explained softly.
“The Emperor made it clear that any slight against you was a slight against the Crown. The Gu family is powerful, but they couldn’t risk open treason over a ruined dress.”
Rulan leaned back, staring at her map with a sobering realization.
The original Xie Rulan hadn’t survived on her own merits.
She had survived because she was wrapped in a thick, terrifying blanket of imperial protection.
‘Now that blanket has holes in it’, Rulan thought.
‘And my brother is starting to notice I’m not the same brainless weapon he built.’
She leaned forward, placing both hands flat on the desk.
The casual, bored air vanished entirely, replaced by the lethal focus of a veteran soldier assessing a trap.
“Lian’er.”
“Y-yes, Your Highness?”
“Look at this map. Look at the scholars, the grain lords, the military generals, the humiliated noble houses.” Rulan’s grey eyes locked onto the maid.
“Now answer me this.”
She let the silence stretch until the air in the room felt heavy and suffocating.
“Who benefits if I die?”
Lian’er went deathly pale.
“Y-Your Highness! Please do not speak of such—”
“I am not asking who hates me,” Rulan cut her off coldly.
“Hate is emotional. Hate makes people stupid. I am asking about profit. Who gains if Xie Rulan stops breathing?”
Lian’er’s lips trembled as she looked at the scary, unfamiliar light in her mistress’s eyes.
“If… if you were to pass, Your Highness… the Emperor loses his most unpredictable distraction. The old families regain their stolen property and lost honor. The ministers who suffered under your tantrums can breathe freely.”
She swallowed hard, her voice dropping to an almost imperceptible whisper.
“And… if someone killed you and framed another faction, it could force the Emperor into an open war with a major family, creating chaos for a third party to exploit.”
Rulan sat in quiet contemplation.
There wasn’t one obvious enemy lurking in the dark.
There were dozens.
She wasn’t just standing in a political minefield; she was sitting on a keg of gunpowder while wearing a dress made of matches.
“So my existence is a massive inconvenience to almost everyone,” Rulan remarked dryly.
She pulled a fresh slip of parchment toward herself.
“Now. Let’s talk about Physician Zhao.”
Lian’er gasped quietly.
“The Imperial Physician? What of him?”
“I don’t need you to panic,” Rulan said, her brush poised.
“Who appointed Zhao to my residence?”
“I… I do not know, Your Highness. He was assigned by the Imperial Medical Bureau three years ago.”
“Who holds administrative authority over the Medical Bureau?”
“Minister Jiang of the Ministry of Rites oversees official appointments there,” Lian’er offered, her mind racing to keep up.
“And Minister Jiang’s sister is married into Marquis Song’s house…”
Rulan began drawing a secondary web.
Physician Zhao → Medical Bureau → Minister Jiang → Conservative Faction.
She stared at the chain.
It looked clean.
It looked like a direct pipeline for slow-acting poison meant to keep the Emperor’s wild sister sick, weak, and eventually dead.
And yet, Rulan picked up her brush and drew a thick, black cross over the line connecting Zhao to the Conservatives.
No.
Too obvious.
In her past life, if an abandoned supply crate sat right in the middle of an open road, it was rigged with tripwires.
In political warfare, a trail that clean was usually laid down by whoever actually pulled the trigger, meant to frame someone else.
Jumping to conclusions without solid proof got scouts killed.
“Let’s look closer to home,” Rulan said, turning her sharp gaze toward the quiet, sunlit hallway outside her bedchamber.
“Who delivers my medicine?”
Lian’er blinked, thrown off by the shift.
“The medicine? Well… Physician Zhao prepares the herbs in the medical hall. A medical servant transports the bowl to our outer gates. A palace eunuch receives it. Then one of the maids brings it to your bedchamber.”
“The four senior maids, the six lower cleaning servants, the eunuchs who handle the braziers…” Lian’er trailed off.
The maid’s face slowly drained of color as the brutal math clicked in her head.
To poison the Princess, you didn’t need a grand conspiracy involving high ministers or the Emperor’s decree.
You didn’t even need Physician Zhao to break his oath.
You just needed to pay off a low-ranking servant, threaten a maid’s family, or slip a single powder into a tray while the guard turned his back.
Rulan’s eyes narrowed into slits.
Her own residence—the place that was supposed to be her safehouse—was a sieve.
She didn’t know her own staff.
She knew they feared her, but she didn’t know who had served her the longest, who was hired recently, who was sending letters outside the estate, or who touched her food.
For a survivalist who used to check her perimeter tripwires three times a night, this was completely unacceptable.
“Lian’er,” Rulan said, her voice dropping into a low, dangerous register.
“Y-yes, Your Highness?”
“We aren’t announcing an investigation. If whoever is poisoning me realizes I know, they’ll either destroy the evidence or switch to a faster blade.”
“U-Understood!”
“I want a list,” Rulan commanded, leaning in.
“Every servant, eunuch, cook, and guard assigned to this manor.”
“A list?”
“Names. Specific duties. How long they’ve worked here. Who recommended them for their post. And most importantly—which noble houses their family members work for.”
Lian’er bowed her head quickly.
“I… I will pull the registers from the household steward immediately, Your Highness. I will say you are looking to discipline inefficient servants before the banquet.”
“Good,” Rulan said.
“Keep it quiet. Dismissed.”
Once Lian’er gathered her courage and scurried out of the room, pulling the heavy wooden doors shut behind her, the chamber lapsed into absolute silence.
Rulan sat alone at the table, surrounded by the remnants of her food and the massive, sprawling court map she had drawn.
She looked at the web of names.
Grand Scholar Meng.
Governor Lin.
The Gu family.
The Ministry of Revenue.
The Medical Bureau.
Almost every major line of power, grain, military, and money had some vector connecting directly back to her.
Xie Rulan hadn’t just been a spoiled brat; she had been a walking political hazard.
And now, Rulan was sitting right in the center of the crosshairs, trying to figure out who was pulling the string.
She let out a long, weary breath and leaned her head back against the rosewood chair.
“Ten years surviving the end of the world,” she muttered to the quiet ceiling.
“Rad-storms, starvation, feral raiders…”
She reached out, picked up a cold piece of melon, and took a bite.
“…And somehow I ended up in a place where everyone is trying to kill each other with paperwork.”
She began rolling up the main parchment, intending to hide it beneath the loose floorboard under her bed.
But as her eyes scanned the secondary stack of daily duty logs Lian’er had left behind on the edge of the desk—records of who had carried her food and medicine over the past month—something caught her eye.
It was a small, routine shift record.
Among the various names of maids and eunuchs who rotated through her inner quarters, one specific maid’s name appeared with unnatural regularity on the exact days Rulan’s memory recalled severe stomach cramps and sudden bouts of vertigo.
Xiao Cui.
Not enough to execute someone.
Not enough to prove a high-level conspiracy.
Just enough to mean it wasn’t a coincidence.
Rulan picked up her brush, dipped the tip into the remaining black ink, and drew a slow, heavy circle around the name.
Her lips curved into a cold, sharp line.
“Interesting.”