Shi Yao's eyes fluttered open.
His body felt heavier than usual, like he had been holding his breath for too long. His surroundings were quiet, eerily still, yet familiar.
He was in Concubine Wen's palace, resting against a cushioned seat. The air was cooler than before, the incense from earlier seemingly gone.
The other fixers were scattered around the chamber, slowly regaining their senses. No one spoke of the collapse. No one looked concerned.
Shi Yao frowned. Did they not remember?
The suffocating incense, the dizziness, the unnatural glow—the dream collapsing around them.
And yet, here they were, acting as if nothing had happened.
Li Yuan stood a few feet away, arms crossed, watching him with an unreadable expression. Shi Yao met his gaze—a flicker of understanding passed between them.
Li Yuan remembered.
Shi Yao exhaled slowly, steadying his thoughts. Something wasn't right.
The details felt off—too perfectly aligned, too seamless. Everything had reset.
Shi Yao glanced at the scriptures on the walls—some of the characters had shifted.
The candles—they burned too still, their flames frozen in unnatural steadiness.
Then, he caught sight of his hand.
His fingers curled slightly against the surface beneath him, but—he couldn't feel it.
A chill crawled up his spine. This wasn't real.
He wasn't awake.
He was still inside the dream.
Shi Yao remained seated, his breaths controlled, his pulse steady—but his mind was racing.
The space around him had reset too perfectly—every detail lined up in eerie precision, as if reality had been reconstructed to deceive him.
Li Yuan hadn't moved, still watching him, his gaze sharp—he knew too.
Shi Yao's fingers curled against his seat again, testing what he had sensed earlier—the lack of sensation, the missing weight of touch.
A fabricated world, an illusion stitched together seamlessly.
Then, without warning—the candles wavered.
A subtle flicker, almost unnoticeable.