I transmigrated into the stand-in for the tyrant’s dearly departed first love.
The history books said she died from a deadly poison that made blood pour from every orifice, and her body was wrapped in a straw mat and thrown into a mass grave.
But when I transmigrated, she was lying on the dragon bed, still breathing.
The tyrant gripped me by the throat and sneered, “Since you’re not quite dead, you’ll serve me tonight.”
I frantically searched through the history books for a way to save myself, but he caught sight of the writing on the page:
“Three years after the new emperor ascends the throne, he poisons his wife, Lady Shen.”
His eyes suddenly turned wild. “How do you know my name?”
The future emperor written about there wasn’t him at all.
