Queen of the Blind
This story has concluded. You are invited to read "Master, Please Come Into My Bowl." She is blind, but her heart sees clearly. Dressed in immaculate red, untouched by the dust of the world, she commands a soul-summoning art powerful enough to upend the realm. Yet the world? She holds it neither in her eyes nor in her heart. All she desires is a quiet life, to find a secluded forest and live out her days in leisure and peace. But fate is seldom merciful, and her path is not her own to choose. He appears to be a frivolous youth, but beneath the surface, he is an emperor crowned in his youth. With a single folding fan, he commands endless grace; with a single enchanting smile, he weaves unspoken tenderness. But what does it matter? In her eyes and heart, he is nothing; she meets the world with tranquil indifference, content to drift with the current. So, he weaves his net with meticulous care, drawing her step by step into his plans. —Xue’er, you are worthy to stand shoulder to shoulder with the empire. Crimson as blood, cold as snow; a heart without attachment, a beauty unrivaled.
Queen of the Blind
A crimson frost blanketed the land, desolation stretching as far as the eye could see. The red blossoms had withered, and the setting sun cast no shadow. Once resplendent, the solemn palace now lay in ruins, grandeur faded into bleakness and disorder.
In the main hall’s garden, the noble and elegant consorts of the inner palace, their faces painted and adorned, now trembled with fear. In this moment, they were nothing more than captives awaiting their fate, huddled together and weeping quietly, their former dignity nowhere to be found.
A gentle autumn wind swept through the courtyard, stirring the fallen leaves as if mourning the bitterness of a fallen nation.
“Mother, why must we kneel here?” The innocent voice of a child mingled with the sounds of crying. A four-year-old girl nestled shyly into the embrace of a young woman dressed in red. Her hair was styled in two adorable buns, and she wore a scarlet brocade jacket. Her eyes sparkled with the light of innocence.
A pair of hands, pale as jade, rested atop the child’s head, the sleeve’s crimson hue making them seem even more fragile and delicate. She soothed the little one with a touch gentler than a feather.
“It’s because those who have passed need us to honor them,” the young woman replied, her voice soft yet laced with a subtle mockery. Yet, her lips curled in a faint, unreadable indifference.
Human beings are so small—like dust in the wind, fading away with the passage of time, leaving no trace behind.
At that moment, the steady sound of footsteps approached. All those knee
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