Chapter 5

Lin Yuze sat in the crowded high-speed train carriage, the landscape of northern China blurring past the windows in a streak of green fields and modern high-rises. It was mid-afternoon, June 2026, and he was finally heading home to Chengdu after wrapping up his university affairs in Beijing. The novel *Shadows of the Dragon Throne* rested open on his lap, his backpack tucked beside him with snacks and a half-drunk bottle of iced tea. The carriage hummed with quiet conversations and the occasional announcement over the speakers.

He had been reading steadily since departure, the story’s grip tightening with every page. His expression grew darker as he reached the climax of the current chapter. “No... come on,” he whispered fiercely, fingers gripping the edges of the book.

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**Within the Novel – Chapter 5: The Silent Fall**

The Cold Palace had become a tomb of living despair. Weeks dragged into months after Su Jingyu’s unjust demotion. The once-gentle consort, whose only crime had been his existence and his family’s loyalty, withered under the relentless assault of neglect, illness, and calculated cruelty. Food deliveries grew scarce and spoiled—deliberately delayed or contaminated by those loyal to Noble Consort Zhao. Medicines were withheld under orders that “Consort Su’s condition is exaggerated.” Xiao Lan fought valiantly, begging in the outer courts and trading her own meager possessions for a few herbs, but it was never enough.

Su Jingyu lay on the hard wooden bed, his body consumed by high fever. The hidden damages from months of veiled punishments had eroded his frail constitution beyond repair. No charcoal braziers warmed the damp halls. Leaking roofs dripped during rain, soaking his thin blankets. His once-refined features were now gaunt and hollow, lips cracked, dark eyes dimmed with exhaustion. Yet even in delirium, he murmured words of loyalty.

“Father... Mother... I have not shamed the Su family... The Emperor... he must know...”

Xiao Lan knelt beside him, wiping his forehead with a ragged cloth. “Your Highness, please hold on. This servant has sent another letter... someone must listen...”

In the imperial study, Emperor Ji Yuxuan reviewed the latest military reports. General Su Feng’s forces had achieved another decisive victory on the border, loyalty unwavering despite the family’s disgrace. A strange restlessness plagued the Emperor lately. Reports from the Cold Palace mentioned Consort Su’s deteriorating health. He had dismissed them before as ploys, but the memory of that kind youth from years ago—the one who had caught his eye with quiet compassion—refused to fade.

That night, a urgent message arrived. Noble Consort Zhao’s pregnancy progressed smoothly, but the Emperor found himself distracted. Against his own better judgment, he ordered a discreet inquiry. The reply came too late.

In the Cold Palace, Su Jingyu’s breathing grew shallow. The fever raged unchecked. No food had arrived for two days. Xiao Lan’s desperate cries echoed off the barren walls as she held her master’s burning hand.

“Your Highness... don’t leave this servant...”

Su Jingyu’s lips moved faintly. A weak smile touched his face—the same gentle expression that had once defined him. “Xiao Lan... thank you... Tell my family... I remained loyal...”

His chest rose once, twice, then stilled. The gentle consort passed quietly in the dead of night, another victim of palace intrigue and imperial suspicion. No grand funeral. No justice. Just silence in the desolate hall.

Emperor Ji Yuxuan received the news at dawn. For the first time in years, the unflappable ruler froze. The report detailed the lack of food, medicine, and basic care. Secret guards confirmed the extent of Noble Consort Zhao’s machinations and the harem’s complicity. No rebellion. No poison from Su Jingyu. Only a gentle soul ground down by doubt and jealousy.

The Emperor stood abruptly, his chair clattering to the floor. A profound regret—sharp and unfamiliar—pierced his chest. He had liked the young consort. More than he had allowed himself to admit. That single glimpse years ago, the quiet dignity, the sincere loyalty... He had kept him at a distance out of calculated politics, ignoring the suffering until it was irreversible.

“Summon the physicians. No... it is too late.” Ji Yuxuan’s voice was hoarse. His hand clenched into a fist. For the first time, the Emperor who prided himself on control felt the sting of irreversible loss. The Cold Palace claimed its victim, and with it, a piece of the Emperor’s guarded heart.

Noble Consort Zhao’s triumph turned to unease as rumors of the Emperor’s darkened mood spread. The Su family received the devastating news. General Su Feng aged years in a single day. Madam Ye Xinyue’s sword shattered against a training post in grief and rage. Ye Qingrou and her son hid their satisfaction poorly.

The palace mourned in whispers. A kind light had been extinguished.

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Lin Yuze’s face twisted in fury as he reached the final lines. The train announcement for the next station barely registered.

“What the actual fuck?!” he exploded in a harsh whisper, drawing a few curious glances from nearby passengers. “He dies? Just like that? Starved and sick in that freezing dump while the Emperor finally realizes he ‘really liked’ him? After ignoring everything? This is bullshit! That smug, suspicious, overreacting asshole of an Emperor—fuck you and your stupid chess games! Su Jingyu deserved better, you cold-hearted prick!”

Anger surged through him. He slammed the book shut, cursing under his breath in a string of frustrated modern profanity. “If I were there, I’d tell that Emperor exactly where he can shove his throne—”

The world tilted suddenly. A wave of dizziness hit Yuze like a freight train. The carriage lights flickered. His vision blurred. The novel slipped from his hands onto the seat as darkness swallowed him.

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When Lin Yuze opened his eyes again, the world had changed.

He lay on a hard, damp wooden bed that smelled of mildew and old incense. Cold air seeped through cracks in the walls, carrying the scent of wet earth and overgrown weeds. His body felt weak, feverish, and painfully thin. Rough, historical-style robes clung to his frame—threadbare and inadequate against the chill.

“What... the hell?” Yuze sat up slowly, wincing at the aches that radiated through unfamiliar limbs. His hands—slender, pale, not quite his own—trembled as he raised them to his face. He touched smooth skin, delicate features that matched the descriptions in the novel.

His eyes darted left and right frantically. Ancient wooden architecture surrounded him: cracked lattice windows, a simple low table with a chipped teacup, flickering oil lamps instead of electric lights. Outside, through a broken shutter, he glimpsed overgrown weeds, dilapidated red walls, and the distant silhouette of grand palace structures under moonlight. No train. No modern seats. No 2026.

“Kidnapping? Is this some kind of prank? Hidden camera show?” He stood unsteadily, nearly collapsing as dizziness hit. “Hey! Whoever kidnapped me, this is illegal! I was on the train going home! Let me out!”

Panic rose. He checked every corner of the desolate hall—the Cold Palace, exactly as described. No sign of modern technology. No phone. No backpack. Only a frightened young maid rushing in at the sound of his voice.

“Your Highness! You’re awake! This servant thought... after last night...” Xiao Lan’s eyes widened in shock and relief, tears forming. She knelt quickly. “The fever broke? Praise the heavens!”

Yuze stared at her. Traditional hanfu-style clothing. The way she spoke—formal, deferential, archaic. His heart hammered.

“Wait... this isn’t real. I was reading the novel on the train. Did I... die? Train accident? Is this the afterlife? Or...” The realization crashed over him like cold water. Transmigration. He had cursed at the book in rage, and now he was *here*. As Su Jingyu. In the Cold Palace. After the character’s death.

He stumbled back, sliding down against the damp wall. “No way. This is impossible. I transmigrated? Into this trash novel where the Emperor is a paranoid idiot and everyone suffers? Su Jingyu died—wait, does that mean I’m in his body right after death? Or before? Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Xiao Lan looked alarmed at his modern cursing and confused ramblings. “Your Highness? Are you alright? Should this servant call for the physician?”

Yuze—now in Su Jingyu’s body—pressed his hands to his temples. The memories of the original owner flickered at the edges of his mind: the chess game, the forced marriage, the humiliations, the hidden punishments, the false accusation at the banquet, the slow decline. And the Emperor’s belated regret.

He laughed bitterly, the sound echoing in the empty hall. “I was just complaining about you all on the train... and now I’m stuck here? Great. Just great.”

The shock settled deep. Outside, the wind howled through the Cold Palace. Inside, a modern university student’s soul now inhabited the body of a doomed historical consort.

The story had claimed him.

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Lin Yuze (Su Jingyu) spent the next hours in a haze of panic and assessment. He explored the limited space of the Cold Palace chambers, touching every historical artifact—the oil lamps, the threadbare blankets, the simple wooden furnishings—as if they might vanish. Xiao Lan hovered worriedly, clearly confused by her master’s sudden “strange manner of speech” and bursts of modern slang mixed with bewildered questions.

“Did I really die on the train? Heart attack from anger at that stupid Emperor? Or is this some system thing? Hello? Any cheat system? Golden finger?” He muttered to the air, receiving only confused stares from Xiao Lan.

Memories continued to integrate. The original Su Jingyu had indeed passed, but the transmigration had pulled Yuze into the body at the moment of death—or perhaps a second chance. His modern knowledge, engineering background, and 2026 perspective now resided in this fragile, abused form.

The weight of the situation sank in. He was in a dangerous palace full of scheming consorts, a suspicious Emperor who had just regretted his death, and a family facing potential ruin. Noble Consort Zhao’s pregnancy and influence loomed large.

“Alright,” Yuze whispered, steeling himself despite the lingering fever and weakness. “If I’m here, I’m not dying again like the original. Time to change this crappy plot.”

But first, survival. And figuring out how to navigate this historical nightmare he had cursed himself into.

The Cold Palace, once a tomb, now held a new soul ready to fight.

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