Early in the morning, the grand old villa looked like something out of a dream—birds chirping, flowers in full bloom, sunlight spilling everywhere like warm paint on a canvas.

But inside that same place, buried deep in its corridors, hid a room so dim and cold it felt more like a haunted house than part of a luxurious estate. The air reeked of rotting flesh, thick and sour enough to make anyone gag.

In that icy bedroom, on a gorgeous princess-style bed that absolutely didn’t fit the scene, lay a girl who looked nothing like someone who should belong there. A sharp stench clung to her—days without bathing mixed with the smell of festering wounds. Aside from her long, waterfall-like hair that somehow still kept its beauty, every inch of her bare skin was exposed to the air.

Her arms, legs, torso, even her face—every part of her was covered in decayed flesh and swollen blisters oozing yellow pus.

This miserable figure was Seraphina Phoenix, the eldest daughter of the legendary Phoenix Clan, heir to a family so rich and mysterious that people whispered about them like myths. She once possessed a face so stunning it stole breath, and skin as flawless and smooth as fine jade.

Now, no one could even bring themselves to look at her. Servants refused to step near her door, let alone inside.

All of this—every pain, every wound—came from the very person she’d adored and respected her whole life: her own mother, the clan’s acting leader, Pearl Ashford.

At Pearl Ashford’s command, someone had poured boiling water—hot enough to peel skin instantly—onto Seraphina. Then they’d refused her any treatment. In barely ten days, her entire body had decayed into this horrifying state.

Lying there, completely unable to move, she felt like a corpse waiting to rot through. Every second was torture—a mix of burning pain and crawling itch, like a million ants gnawing at her wounds nonstop.

She knew exactly what would happen in two days: once her face was ruined beyond recognition, her mother would force surgeons to reshape her into the image of her twin sister, Lillian Phoenix.

After Seraphina agreed to let Lillian take her place in the clan—and helped her secure that position—Pearl would lock her away in the basement. And once she had no more use? She’d be erased from the world, quietly and brutally.

How did she know all this?

Because she’d lived it once already.

She had been reborn.

The thought twisted Seraphina’s lips into a bitter smile. Her once-bright eyes were now empty and dull, filled with shadows. She stared blankly at the ceiling as a single tear slipped down her cheek.

Why was fate so cruel?

Why did the heavens insist on treating her like this?

She and Lillian were twins, born on the same day. She was smarter, better behaved, her looks far more striking…

Yet their mother adored Lillian. Favored her. Protected her.

And for that sister, Pearl Ashford didn’t hesitate to destroy her own daughter.

Why bring her back to life only to dump her into this half-dead, half-rotten body?

Like this—weak, disgusting, completely useless in a fight—how was she supposed to avenge the ocean of blood from her last life?

Was fate seriously planning to let her watch herself go through the same nightmare again, to be reshaped into her sister’s face, turned into her mother’s puppet, and used as Lillian Phoenix’s stepping stone?

No. Not this time.

She’d rather die again than be Pearl Ashford’s puppet and repeat that hell.

Thinking about her previous life—the way her fate was hijacked, her father’s tragic death, her cousin the Medical Sage losing both hands—Seraphina Phoenix ignored the tearing pain of her festering skin and forced her ruined body to roll off the bed.

But her strength failed her. She crashed to the floor hard.

With a sickening thud, her head hit the ground first. Then her pus-soaked, rotting body followed, slamming down like a heap of spoiled meat.

A chunk of decayed flesh scraped off her forehead; bright red mixed with a dark, ugly purple seeped out, running down her face already covered in blisters and rotten flesh.

Right now, she looked less like a person and more like some bloody, grotesque ghost dragged out of a nightmare.

Her once-stunning peach blossom eyes were dyed red with blood. Everything in front of her was a hazy scarlet blur.

But even like this, she refused to close her eyes. She clenched her teeth and forced her gaze through the blood haze, locking onto the bottom drawer of the nightstand.

Inside that drawer… was a limited-edition cartoon lighter—something she’d worked two whole months during summer break to buy, a birthday gift she’d planned for her foolish father.

Before she turned five, her father had been tall, handsome, wise, and gentle. After that… his memory slipped for no reason, and within a year he regressed to the mind of a five-year-old child, stumbling around filthy every day like a beggar.

The thought made Seraphina grit her teeth so hard they almost cracked. Dragging her rotting, pus-covered body, she crawled toward the nightstand with everything she had, ignoring the agony.

The pain made her whole body tremble like she might die any second. Cold sweat drenched her, mixing with the pus smeared across the floor as she dragged herself forward inch by inch.

By the time she was about to black out, her fingers finally brushed the nightstand. She yanked open the bottom drawer.

Her vision was still nothing but blood-red fog, but her blistered, decayed fingers found the lighter instantly—like her body remembered even if her eyes couldn’t.

Seraphina’s mangled hand closed around it. Her cracked lips lifted in a smile—half despair, half relief.

Out of strength, she slumped against the nightstand for a moment, breathing shallowly. Then, with trembling, rotted hands, she gathered what little life force she had left, yanked the thin blanket off the bed, pulled it over herself, and without a second of hesitation…

Flicked the lighter and set the blanket on fire.

She would rather die than let that nightmare play out all over again.

If she was gone, no one could shove her back into that puppet role, and Lillian Phoenix would have no way to steal her identity in broad daylight. Without her as the scapegoat, even Pearl Ashford couldn’t keep the whole Phoenix Clan under her thumb.

Orange flames burst out in an instant, heat rolling over her like a wave, swallowing Seraphina Phoenix right into the heart of the fire.

She slowly shut her eyes, letting the blaze wrap around her. Just as she braced herself for the flames to devour her, a clear, bell‑like voice suddenly echoed inside her mind.

“Phoenix reborn, rising from the ashes.”

“Tears of the Phoenix now bound to your soul. Realm of Tears has acknowledged you as its master. Tears of the Phoenix can heal or destroy—it can cure any illness, or it can take a life. Whether it becomes a miracle or a poison depends entirely on your mood. The Realm of Tears allows you to plant and harvest spiritual herbs. How often you can use Tears of the Phoenix and the Realm of Tears depends on the level of your emotional resonance.”