Revenge of the Phoenix Beauty

The scent of blood filled the air.

Hua Qingyan knelt on the execution platform, her once-elegant robes stained with dirt and crimson. The weight of the iron chains around her wrists and ankles anchored her in place, their bite a cruel reminder of her downfall. She no longer felt the pain; only a numbing cold spread through her limbs, a prelude to death.

The crowd below whispered in hushed voices, but their words carried to her ears with startling clarity.

"A traitor's daughter."

"She deserves this fate."

"The Second Prince was right to cast her aside."

Qingyan lifted her head, her once-bright eyes now dull with exhaustion. Above the sea of faces, high above the execution grounds, stood Wei Chen.

Dressed in pristine white mourning robes, his expression was solemn, filled with mock grief, as if he regretted this outcome. But she knew better.

This was his masterpiece.

He had orchestrated every step—the rise, the betrayal, the destruction. He had stolen her family's power, framed them as traitors, and cast them aside. And now, he was watching her final moment with the same false sorrow he had worn the day he betrayed her.

Beside him, draped in resplendent silks, stood Lady Li, the woman he had truly loved all along. The woman for whom he had discarded Qingyan. Her gentle hands rested on his arm, a victorious smile barely hidden beneath her lowered gaze.

Qingyan clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms. This was the fate of a foolish woman blinded by love.

She had believed in Wei Chen's words, had thought herself irreplaceable in his heart. She had been a fool.

When the imperial decree was read aloud, sentencing her to death, she did not cry. She did not beg. She only smiled.

A smile that carried the weight of a curse.

"You think this is the end?" Her voice, though hoarse, rang clear in the silent execution ground. Her gaze locked onto Wei Chen's, her bloodied lips curling in bitter amusement. "I will return, Wei Chen. I will drag you and everyone who betrayed me into hell."

The executioner raised his blade.

For a moment, the world seemed to slow. The crowd held its breath. The wind carried the distant toll of a temple bell.

The last thing she saw was Wei Chen's impassive face.

Then—darkness.

Rebirth at Thirteen

A sharp gasp tore from Hua Qingyan's lips as she bolted upright in bed.

Her chest heaved, her breath coming in ragged, panicked pants. Her body was drenched in cold sweat, but there was no pain—no blood pooling beneath her, no iron chains biting into her skin.

Warmth.

Her fingers trembled as she reached for her face. Soft, unblemished skin.

Her hands—small, delicate, unscarred.

This isn't right.

She turned her head frantically, her gaze sweeping over the dimly lit room. And then—her heart stopped.

The familiar sandalwood scent. The intricate silk curtains embroidered with peonies. The writing desk by the window, stacked with books.

This was her childhood room.

Her breath hitched.

She threw off the silk covers and stumbled to the bronze mirror standing near the bed. The reflection staring back at her was not the broken woman who had suffered years of imprisonment, betrayal, and execution.

It was a young girl—thirteen years old.

Her vision blurred as her legs gave way, sending her collapsing to the floor.

Impossible.

She stared at her trembling hands, her mind struggling to make sense of reality. Was this a dream? A cruel illusion?

A choked sound left her lips as memories flooded her mind.

Her father. Her brothers. They were still alive.

They had not been falsely accused, had not been executed under false charges of treason. They could still be saved.

A single tear slid down her cheek.

She clenched her fists, her expression shifting from shock to something darker—colder.

This time, she would not be a naïve girl waiting to be crushed under the weight of betrayal.

This time, she would be the one pulling the strings.

A slow, dangerous smile curled on her lips.

Hua Qingyan had returned.