MY PRINCE HUSBAND HAS SEVEN WIVES AND I AM HIS FAVOURITE!

The arrow came from the left.

No one saw it coming.

It slipped through the noise and chaos like a phantom. A single, silent shot, moving too fast to track.

Zhao Yan didn’t even realize it was headed for him—until it was already too late.

He was still staring down at Pei Rong’s fallen body. The weight of the empire felt like it was finally lifting from his shoulders. And then—

A soundless impact.

His body jerked.

His breath hitched, the air caught in his throat like a stone.

He looked down.

There, jutting out from his chest, was the black-fletched shaft of an arrow. Its iron tip buried deep, right over his heart. The white of his robes soaked instantly in red, the color spreading too quickly to be anything but bad.

For a second, everything else disappeared.

No sounds. No swords. No war cries. No crumbling chaos.

Just the hollow thump of his own heartbeat slipping away.

And pain. Slow. Sharp. Sinking.

His knees gave first. The world tilted. His vision wavered.

He reached for the arrow, but his arm was too slow. It felt like he was underwater—dragged down by weight he couldn’t shake.

His sword dropped.

He staggered.

The power that had filled his limbs only moments ago was gone. It vanished in an instant, like it had never been there at all.

His eyes darted around, desperate to find one thing—one person.

And then he saw her.

Hua Jing.

She stood in the distance. Frozen. Her face pale. Her mouth open in a silent scream.

He saw the moment it hit her.

The terror.

The disbelief.

Then she ran.

He wanted to call out her name. Tell her not to cry. That he would be fine.

But his lips wouldn’t move.

His voice didn’t come.

He dropped to the ground, crumbling like a broken statue, the arrow still lodged in his chest.

And then she was there.

Falling to her knees beside him. Pulling him into her arms, as if she could stop the blood with sheer force of will.

Her hands trembled.

"Zhao Yan," she said—maybe shouted. He couldn’t tell.

Her tears hit his face, hot and frantic. He could feel them, even now, even as his body numbed.

He tried to lift his arm. To wipe those tears away.

But it didn’t move.

Nothing did.

He blinked once.

Twice.

Her face swam above him. Blurry. Beautiful. Afraid.

And then—

Everything faded.

The color. The warmth. The sound.

It all dimmed.

Until all that was left was darkness.

....

When Zhao Yan’s eyes opened, the world was gone.

Not the grand hall.

Not the cheering soldiers.

Not Hua Jing.

Not even the pain.

Only silence.

And darkness.

Thick, absolute, all-consuming darkness.

He blinked several times, hoping it was just blood in his eyes. Hoping it was the veil of unconsciousness lifting slowly. But nothing changed. There was no color here. No shade or shape. Only black—so dense it felt alive.

The air was cold. Damp.

It tasted like stone and stillness, like a cave sealed for centuries.

He sat up, chest heaving, but the breath didn’t fill his lungs right. It was like he was breathing in water. Thin. Distant.

And beneath him, the ground was uneven, slick. It squelched slightly when he moved, like wet soil, or worse.

He placed a trembling hand over his chest.

His fingers stopped.

His breath caught.

There was a hole.

A gaping, cavernous hole.

Right over his heart.

He looked down, and his entire body went cold.

The flesh was torn open—not bleeding, but empty. There was nothing beneath the skin. Just a void. He could see through it. A hollow darkness inside of him, as if the arrow hadn’t just pierced his body, but carved something vital out of his soul. 𝚏𝕣𝐞𝗲𝐰𝕖𝐛𝐧𝕠𝕧𝚎𝚕.𝐜𝚘𝗺

He jerked his hand away in horror.

Stumbled back.

Fell.

The echo of his fall bounced in all directions like a chorus of ghosts.

His heart—was it still there?

Why wasn’t he dead?

Why wasn’t he alive?

His mind raced for answers, but the more he thought, the heavier the dark became. It wasn’t just around him—it pressed in on him, crawling over his skin like unseen fingers.

He stood quickly, brushing his palms on his robes—though they were already soaked in shadow.

Where was he?

What kind of place was this?

And—where was she?

Where was Hua Jing?

He tried to call her name, but his voice didn’t rise. It came out as smoke, evaporating as soon as it left his lips.

He clutched at the air.

There was no sound. No breeze. No pulse.

Just that dripping.

Somewhere far away, water trickled in rhythm.

Steady. Distant. Almost mocking.

His throat tightened.

He had to get out of here.

He had to find her.

Then—

A sound.

Not the dripping.

A voice.

Faint.

So faint it might have been imagined.

But it repeated.

A whisper.

A name.

He froze.

It wasn’t "Zhao Yan."

But it was familiar.

Uncomfortably familiar.

The sound wrapped around him like a thread, pulling. Drawing him in.

Then he saw it.

A light.

Small. Dim. Cold like moonlight behind a foggy window.

It hovered far ahead, like the mouth of a cave, but thinner, narrower, barely there.

He took a step.

The earth groaned beneath his feet.

He took another.

Still the light didn’t grow.

He began walking faster.

The light remained still.

No closer.

Always just out of reach.

He started to run.

His boots splashed across shallow puddles that weren’t there a moment ago. The trickle of water grew louder.

He ran harder.

Faster.

He could hear the name again. Almost clearer.

But not yet.

The light pulsed once. A heartbeat.

He chased it.

Every breath burned.

His legs screamed.

The hole in his chest felt wider.

Colder.

But he didn’t stop.

He had to reach that light.

He had to reach that voice.

It was the only thing real.

The only thing anchoring him to anything.

The voice rose again.

Calling.

Clearer.

Firmer.

And with every step, the light seemed to open more, like a slit tearing through the void.

He reached out toward it, arm trembling, sweat—or maybe mist—dripping down his brow.

The voice pierced the black.

This time, unmistakable.

Not Zhao Yan.

Not a title.

Not a prince.

Then he heard it, clear and whole.

"Fu Jing Rong!"