Xu Qingyan's eyes opened slowly. Her vision was blurry at first. She took a deep, shaky breath. "I'm alive," she thought. Then came the next thought: "Where am I?"
She was lying on her back on a soft bed. It felt too gentle—very different from the hard ground she used to sleep on.
Her body felt heavy, but not because of pain. It was more like waking up after sleeping for a long time. Her arms and legs moved slowly, like they were still waking up.
She raised her left hand. It trembled a little. Her eyes widened.
The skin was smooth and pale. There were no scars, no burns, no blood. Her nails were clean. Her fingers looked healthy. It was her hand, but it didn't look like the one she remembered.
She took a deep breath and raised her right hand—the one that had been destroyed in the arena.
It was there.
Whole.
Perfect.
She moved the fingers. They worked. There was no pain. The skin looked just like her left hand—smooth and unmarked. She turned her hands again and again, checking every part.
Then she felt something on her cheek. She touched it. It was hair—long and soft. She pulled some of it in front of her eyes. It was dark blue, like deep water. It shimmered in the light.
She touched her face with shaking fingers. She expected scars. But her skin was smooth. She pushed harder, as if trying to find them, but they were gone. Her lips, nose, and forehead were all healed.
Her breathing got faster. She didn't understand what had happened.
"Where is this?" she whispered. "Who healed me?"
She sat up slowly. Her arms were weak, and the bed made a small sound under her.
She put her legs over the side of the bed. Her feet touched a wooden floor. It was warm.
She looked around. The room was small but clean and pretty. The wooden walls were smooth and polished. A window with white curtains let in the morning light.
Outside, trees were moving gently in the wind. The leaves shone gold in the sun.
There was a small table in one corner. It held a pitcher of water, a cup, and a folded cloth. A chair with a blue cushion sat next to it.
Then she saw the mirror across the room.
Her heart started beating faster. She had to look. She had to see.
She stood up slowly. Her legs were weak, but she could stand. She wore a simple white dress. It was soft and covered her body from her neck to her ankles. It didn't have sleeves, so her arms were bare.
She walked to the mirror and stopped. She didn't move at first. Then, slowly, she looked up.
She froze.
The woman in the mirror looked new. Her skin was smooth and pale. Her cheekbones and jaw were clear and sharp. Her lips were full. Her nose looked fine. Her face had no scars.
Her eyes—still the same cold gray-blue—were framed by clean skin and long lashes.
Her hair was long and dark blue, soft and shiny. It fell over her shoulders like waves.
She touched her hair, then her face again. Still no scar. No pain.
She touched her arm, the one that had been gone. It felt strong and whole. It was real. It was hers.
She lifted the dress a little and looked at her legs. Smooth. Clean. No cuts, no burns. She let the dress fall again and stared at the mirror.
A tear ran down her cheek. Then another. And another. Her lips shook, and a small sound escaped her mouth. She tried to hold it in, but she couldn't.
She cried.
She dropped to her knees. Her dress spread around her as she cried into her hands. Her shoulders shook. Her fingers grabbed her hair as she lowered her head.
"I'm… I'm alive," she whispered.
She didn't know how long she sat like that. Slowly, her breathing calmed down. Her crying stopped. She wiped her face with the back of her hand. Her eyes were red, and her face was wet with tears.
She looked at the mirror again. Her reflection was still there. A small smile appeared on her lips. It felt strange, but good. She touched her face again, and the smile grew.
"This is me," she whispered. "This is me now."
She stood up again. Her legs were steadier now. She smoothed the dress with her hands.
The curtains moved a little in the wind. She walked over and opened them. Morning light filled the room.
Outside was a beautiful garden. There were many flowers in red, yellow, and purple. A stone path led to a small fountain. Water sparkled in the sun. The sky was clear and blue.
She pressed her hand to the window glass. It was cool.
"Where am I?" she asked again.
She turned back to the room. The table caught her eye. She walked over to it. The pitcher was full of water. It moved a little. The white cloth was clean. The cup was empty.
She picked up the cloth and opened it. It felt soft and smelled like herbs. She wiped her face, then put it back down.
Her stomach growled. She was hungry. She looked at the door—a simple wooden one with a silver handle.
She walked to it, grabbed the handle, and opened it. Warm air came in.
Xu Qingyan stepped outside.