Her body convulsed as her dantian finally collapsed, the unfathomable amount of qi surging in her golden core and shattering it with her organs. A final surge of power ripped through her frame, tearing her apart from within.

A huge resonance came as the powerful surge of qi shattered her form with a final tragic cry that escaped her lips.

And then-silence.

From her ruined body, only a single tear fell. A lone drop of grief, of love, of betrayal. It slipped down her bloodied cheek as her form dissolved into nothingness.

That lone teardrop crystallized midair, shimmering with an otherworldly glow, as though heaven itself mourned her and her deep love, and the sorrow and pain that followed.

It landed in the outstretched palm of the immortal god like man, delicate and translucent-her last gift, her last curse.

The only remaining part of her.

The immortal like man stood upon the cliff, gazing at the jewel of sorrow resting in his hand. The crystallized teardrop pulsed faintly with her essence, fragile yet eternal.

As the storm calmed down, the assassins all moved away with a wave of the man's hand.

He stood alone, his long hair billowing, the strands searching for their counterpart yet failing to find it. He suddenly spurted out a mouthful of blood staining his robes scarlet. His blood staining the crystallized teardrop which pulsed faintly in his palms.

Unable to hold back the cry in his throat anymore, the tall and mighty man collapsed on his knees as his first tears since he was ever born spilled from his forever frozen eyes.

Her life was gone. Her love was broken. And yet, a piece of Cassandra remained-forever trapped in his grasp. A piece of her sorrow and hatred which was borne from love.

Rowan Empire

In the sprawling luxurious estate of House Bolton.

A splitting headache tore Cassandra Feng from the abyss of dreams, one of hers in a loop of escaping and the pain of her body exploding as her golden core shattered, the other a strange one filled with strangers.

Dreams that weren't hers-faces she had never seen, voices that weren't her own, places she had never walked, an entirely strange world she was unfamiliar with. She gasped awake with a cry, body soaked with sweats and heart pounding as though it still remembered being torn apart.

Her vision sharpened, and she froze as she sensed the presence of others around her.

Four women stood around her bed like silent sentinels, clad in black suits, their presence radiating cold intimidation. Their stillness was unnatural, their gazes sharp enough to cut. The kind of pressure that would crush any ordinary girl into obedience.

Cassandra's throat tightened. Where was she? Who were they?

One of them stepped forward, her voice like a blade of ice.

"Young Miss, First Madame ordered that you are to remain confined to your quarters until the Eldest Young Master returns."

Without another word, the four women turned in mechanical unison and left, the door slamming shut with a finality that reverberated through Cassandra's chest. A heavy bolt scraped into place, locking her away.

She was a prisoner.

She sat up abruptly, her body trembling-not from fear, but from the sudden, searing flood of memories not her own. Images, names, sensations-foreign and invasive-crashed into her skull, the searing pain nearly tearing away her consciousness.

She clutched her head, rolling onto the bed as a strangled cry tore from her lips.

When the storm receded, she lay gasping, pale and clammy, her chest heaving as though she'd clawed her way back from death. Slowly, she turned her head.

The mirror placed beside the bed reflected everything.

Her reflection stared back at her-an exquisite young girl with delicate features, her long black hair spilling like silk over a fragile frame that was not Cassandra's.

Her stomach dropped.

"Aaaaaaahhhhhh!"

The scream ripped through her throat, piercing and raw. But outside the door, the guards didn't even flinch. To them, this was routine. Their "Youngest Miss" often wailed whenever locked inside by the First Madame.

But this wasn't routine for Cassandra.

She stumbled from the bed and lunged toward the mirror, gripping its sides with bloodless knuckles. Wide, disbelieving eyes stared back at her from a stranger's face. Her breath came ragged, too fast, too shallow.

What the hell happened?!

Her memories clawed their way forward-blood, assassins, betrayal. Her Master's hand striking her dantian, the explosion of qi, her body ripping apart from within.

She had died!

She remembered dying.

So why... why was she alive, trapped in the body of a girl she had never known, in a family she had never belonged to?

Waking up and finding herself trapped inside the body of a seventeen-year-old girl-Cassandra Bolton, the youngest daughter of the infamous Bolton Family, and inheriting the memories of original Cassandra Bolton.

What in the world is happening?

Is this her brain concocting hallucinations before her last breath out of sheer will to survive?

For a few hours, Cassandra Feng decided to do anything to wake up to reality.

Like banging her head, pinching herself, slapping herself, pouring the cold water over her head. And with a heavy mind realized that she was already dead. Or her original body was already dead. Only her soul or consciousness remained and now she was inhabiting the body of a girl who died after being drowned by her step siblings.

Through the strange flood of memories that weren't hers, she realized with mounting disbelief who these people were. The Boltons-rulers of the underworld, their name whispered like a curse in the Rowan Empire. A clan of villains who fed on blood and fear, cloaked in elegance but rotting with cruelty. And she... she had reincarnated into the body of their weak and bullied youngest miss.

Her breath caught In her throat. Did she... turn into an evil ghost? After dying so wretchedly, did her soul crawl into the body of a stranger?

The thought was absurd. Insane. Completely unscientific. Yet here she was, alive inside a body that was not hers, surrounded by memories that tasted of smoke, blood, and crime.

Cassandra Feng's mind reeled. I escaped one dungeon only to wake up in hell itself.

Her chest tightened, the bitterness suffocating. Even death offered her no release. What kind of twisted fate was this? What rotten luck chained her to misery across lives?

Rage, grief, and disbelief coiled in her chest until her delicate new frame shook. Her beautiful borrowed face distorted into something almost feral as her aura turned sharp and bloodthirsty, vengeful enough to chill the air.

A raw scream tore out of her throat as she hurled her fist at the marble floor. The sound cracked like thunder. A thin spider-web fissure appeared beneath her knuckles... yet the ground held firm.

She froze, staring.

What the hell?!

In her old body, that punch would have shattered stone like glass. But here-barely a scratch.

Cold realization struck like lightning.

This wasn't her body. Not her strength. Not her qi. There wasn't even a flicker of energy flowing through her veins.

"No..." she whispered, trembling, horror widening her eyes.

She had gone from being a tempered blade, a great cultivator unmatched among her peers to now a commoner- to a fragile porcelain egg that could crack at the slightest touch.

The indignation clawed through her veins, setting her blood alight. How could she, Cassandra Feng, once feared across continents, now be forced to crawl in such a weak, powerless shell?

Her fists clenched, nails digging into her palms as a violent rage rose within her. She wanted to tear this cursed fate apart, to smash someone's smug face into the floor that dared defy her strength.

But all she could do was seethe. Seethe, and resign herself to the cruel irony of being alive-yet stripped of everything that once made her formidable.

She had not escaped death. She had been sentenced to a worse fate.

Cassandra Feng realized with urgency that she was now in the body of the weak, bullied and helpless Cassandra Bolton, and if she wanted to survive in this strange new world, she would have to wear that mask convincingly.

Unfortunately, Cassandra Bolton was not just anyone. She was the infamous youngest daughter of House Bolton-grounded, despised, and loathed by none other than her own mother. And watched by many eyes.

She was no longer Cassandra Feng. She has become Cassandra Bolton.

First Madame Karmilla Visent Bolton, the mighty and dignified first wife of Ragnos Renatus Bolton, held the household in an iron grip. Her word was law, and her presence could silence even the most ruthless underworld killers. To the outside world, she was the untouchable queen of House Bolton. To Cassandra Bolton, she was a towering shadow that pressed down with suffocating authority.

But instead of warmth or protection, First Madame reserved for her daughter only disdain and disgust. Her unconditional love was poured into her son-the Eldest Young Master-leaving Cassandra as little more than a shameful burden in her eyes.

And shame was exactly what had ignited her fury this time. Cassandra Bolton had gone to fight the Ninth Young Miss, Jessica Bolton, daughter of Third Madame-her mother's most bitter rival-and not only lost but been beaten and tossed into a pond like a stray dog. The humiliation cut deeper than the bruises, and for Karmilla, her daughter's disgrace was intolerable.

Now locked away in confinement, Cassandra sat on the bed, her face pale but her mind racing. The words of the guard echoed in her ears:

"...until the Eldest Young Master returns..."

Her stomach sank. The Eldest Young Master-her so-called brother, the only person tied to her by blood. From Cassandra Bolton's inherited memories, she knew him well enough to shiver. He was a cruel, heartless man who carried the authority of House Bolton as easily as one carried a dagger. He never spared his only sister a glance, let alone kindness. To him, she was just an embarrassment that even his mother disdained.

"When will my villainous big brother return?" Cassandra murmured with a heavy sigh, irritation pooling in her chest.

Two days passed by since Cassandra Feng awoke inside the frail body of Cassandra Bolton. She had sworn-sworn with blood and fury-to lock away her past, to bury the betrayal, the heartbreak, the unforgettable cruelty of her Master who had shattered her dantian and her life with one merciless strike. She told herself it was nothing but a nightmare, a phantom stitched from pain, one she would never drag into this new existence.

A past she would forget and erase as she started her new life given by fate.

But forgetting was a lie she told herself.

Every moment, every breath reminded her of what she had lost. The way her weak fists trembled when she clenched them, the helplessness of her fragile body, the fever simmering through her veins-it all pulled her mind back to what she once was: a blade sharpened by blood and discipline, not this pitiful porcelain doll in a viper's nest.

Living in the Bolton House was no different from being caged in a pit of serpents and wild beasts. One wrong move, one careless glance, and fangs would sink into her throat.

And still... she could not forget.

The man whom she gave her heart and soul to.

The man who put an end to her life with his own hands.

It had been two days since she was locked inside her room without food, or water. Her body burned with fever, her lips cracked, and her stomach twisted with hunger. She could only drink the water from the sink in the bathroom to quench her parched and burning throat.

Not even a servant came to check. From Cassandra Bolton's inherited memories, this neglect was nothing new-her mother, Karmilla Visent Bolton, loathed her very existence, reserving all her love for her precious son.

The fever grew worse. Her body shook with chills though fire coursed beneath her skin. She tried to drag herself to the window, but her limbs were lead, her vision spinning.

Never, not even when hunted by assassins or abandoned in blood-soaked battlefields, had she been reduced to this wretched state. Not after her Master rescued her and brought her back to the Sect with him.

And then, the thought slipped from her hazy mind-Master would never have let her...

Her heart clenched. Her lips bled as she bit down hard. No. She would not think of him. She would not think of the betrayal.

That life was dead.

They don't owe each other anything anymore.

She was Cassandra Bolton now.

And yet, no matter how fiercely she tried to lock it away, her memories clawed at her like chains dragging her deeper into despair.

Her fevered thoughts were broken by the sudden slam of her door.

The sound echoed like thunder in her skull.

Footsteps. Slow, deliberate, heavy with intent, closing in on her bed.

Her instincts screamed danger. Her body tried to rise, but it betrayed her-too weak, too frail, too broken to defend itself.

She could only weakly slip her hands underneath her pillow and clutch the dagger hidden underneath to protect herself.

The room seemed to grow darker, colder, shadows stretching unnaturally across the walls. Cassandra's blurry gaze fixed on the advancing figure, a silhouette swallowing the dim light.

The footsteps halted by her bedside. Cassandra's fever-clouded eyes struggled to focus, and when her vision steadied, she froze.

It was him.

Theodore Bolton.

Eldest son of House Bolton.

The undisputed Crown Prince of the long standing Bolton dynasty.

The Blood Prince of the underworld.

Her villainous big brother.

From Cassandra Bolton's inherited memories, he was a man of shadows-cruel, ruthless, untouchable. He had never spared his only sister more than a glance in their seventeen years of blood-bound relation. A stranger in the skin of family.

But now, as his gaze fell upon her burning, shivering figure, something shifted in the air.

Theodore Bolton's eyes, icy blue, cold and sharp as honed steel, lingered too long on her face-on the beads of sweat rolling down her temples, on the lips bitten bloody in defiance. His jaw tightened as though he were holding back words-or perhaps an emotion-that had no place here.

It was not pity. It was not care. It was something far more complex, far more dangerous.

A flicker of disdain crossed his expression, gone so quickly it might have been imagined. And yet beneath it lay a strange undercurrent... almost like recognition.

But recognition of what?

His fingers twitched at his side, as if suppressing the urge to reach out-to strangle her or to steady her, even he seemed uncertain.

Among the countless siblings born from his father's four wives, the frail figure lying fever-stricken before him was the only one who shared his 'blood' in full-their bond tied by the 'same mother'. And yet, even that truth had never stirred much warmth in him.

But, that also turned to be one of his mother's secret. And why she despise her only daughter.

Oh, Mother. I really am your son, Theodore Bolton mused as he looked down upon his so called little sister.