Shi Yao's eyes fluttered open.
The familiar glow of the morning sun streamed through the window, painting golden streaks across the wooden floor. His fingers curled instinctively against the smooth fabric of his blanket—his blanket.
His heart steadied. He was home.
He sat up, glancing around. The same old desk, the scattered books, the faint smell of ink lingering in the air.
Shi Yao exhaled, a quiet chuckle escaping his lips.
"What a dream."
His thoughts drifted back—the palace, the fixers, the eerie fog, the suffocating incense. Li Yuan's sharp words, the shifting walls, the golden ball.
And that strange, pulsating light.
Too vivid. Too real.
But dreams had a way of blurring lines, twisting memory with illusion, making him question where his subconscious ended and reality began.
"It felt real…" Shi Yao murmured, running a hand through his hair.
The remnants of exhaustion clung to him, as if he had lived through days rather than mere hours of sleep.
Shi Yao descended the stairs, the floor beneath his feet grounding him in the mundane familiarity of his home. The scent of breakfast drifted in the air—warm, inviting.
As he stepped into the kitchen, he saw his aunt sitting at the table, a gentle smile curving her lips.
"Morning, Shi Yao," she greeted, motioning toward the spread of food before him. "I made breakfast. Eat up."
Shi Yao blinked.
His aunt had cooked?
He hesitated only briefly before sliding into his chair, picking up his chopsticks. The food was delicious, flavourful in a way that melted through his lingering exhaustion.
Maybe it really was just a dream.
He ate slowly, savouring the quiet hum of the morning. His aunt watched him with an unnaturally serene expression, sipping tea as she idly flipped through a newspaper.
Then—it hit him.
His aunt never cooked.
In fact, she probably didn't even know how to switch on the toaster, let alone prepare a full meal.
Shi Yao's chopsticks halted midway. A cold sensation prickled at the back of his mind, creeping into his senses.
Something was wrong.
His gaze flickered toward the window.
Outside, a pulsating glow shimmered faintly beyond the glass—its rhythm steady, unnatural.
Shi Yao's heartbeat stilled.
This wasn't real.
Shi Yao forced himself to breathe evenly, keeping his expression neutral as his aunt continued sipping tea across from him.
The glow beyond the window pulsated, rhythmic, unnatural—yet no one else seemed to notice.
Something was deeply wrong.
Shi Yao casually set down his chopsticks, his gaze flickering over the breakfast spread—perfectly prepared, precisely arranged. Too flawless.
His fingers tightened against his knee. This wasn't real.
But if it wasn't—where was he?
"Aunt," he began slowly, watching her reaction. "Did you make all this by yourself?"
Her smile remained warm, unchanging. "Of course. It's important to eat well, Shi Yao."
The words were fluid, effortless—too practiced.
He felt his pulse quicken. Had she even heard him? Or had she just responded automatically?
Outside, the glow sharpened, flickering twice, then three times, as though waiting—watching.
A deep unease settled in his stomach.
"I think I'll step outside for a moment," Shi Yao murmured, pushing his chair back.
His aunt's hand shot out, resting lightly on his wrist, stopping him.
"You don't need to go outside."
Shi Yao stilled.
Something about her tone—it wasn't commanding, nor forceful.
It was simply certain. Absolute.
The glow flared.
And suddenly, his surroundings warped—just for a fraction of a second, like the edges of reality shivering under pressure.
Shi Yao inhaled sharply. The dream was collapsing.
And whatever was watching him was no longer hiding.