The cold stone of his cot felt like an extension of Long Hu's fragmented mind. He lay there, trembling, the vivid, horrifying image of Xianxia's laughing face, so close, so intimate, burning behind his eyelids. The scent of incense, the rustle of silk – these were not fragments of *this* life. They were echoes of a past he couldn't recall, yet now found so terrifyingly familiar.
He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the vision away. The fear was primal, unreasoning. It wasn't just the fear of a weak man before a powerful woman; it was the fear of a past self, an arrogance he dimly sensed but couldn't grasp, colliding with the undeniable power that could crush him. And the Empress… her knowing gaze. She knew. She *saw*.
Meanwhile, in her vast, starlit study, Empress Xianxia paced. The familiar rhythm of her footsteps, usually a source of calm, now grated against her frayed nerves. The Heart of the Azure Dragon pulsed with newfound stability, a testament to his unique gift. But the memory flash in his eyes… that raw, naked terror mixed with something she refused to name. Recognition.
Her game, initially a simple, gratifying act of prolonged humiliation, was quickly twisting into a complicated knot. She had intended to make the arrogant Harem Lord grovel. She had not accounted for him being reborn innocent, nor for the peculiar brilliance of his 'broken' soul. And she certainly had not accounted for the sudden, unsettling resurgence of *her* own suppressed memories triggered by his proximity, his vulnerability.
*No. This is merely strategy,* she told herself, her voice a cold whisper in the silent room. *He is a unique resource. His memories returning simply add another layer to the data. I must control it. Observe.*
She decided against further direct spiritual tasks for a few days. Instead, she had Master Tian assign Long Hu to organize the palace's ancient, neglected historical archives. A tedious, physically demanding task, perfect for a powerless apprentice. But also one that put him within the palace's less spiritually active, more 'human' sections – a place where she could observe him without the overwhelming aura of her cultivation chamber.
Long Hu spent the next few days in a cavernous, dust-laden hall filled with teetering stacks of scrolls and crumbling tablets. The task was mind-numbingly dull, yet the constant physical exertion oddly soothed his restless mind. He meticulously cleaned, sorted, and cataloged, his unique intuition still humming faintly, guiding him to subtle distinctions in the materials, the faint energies lingering in ancient inks.
One afternoon, Xianxia arrived, not in her full regalia, but in simple, elegant scholar's robes. She moved through the archives like a silent shadow, feigning interest in a distant scroll while her peripheral vision tracked Long Hu. He was covered in dust, a streak of grime across his cheek, yet there was a peculiar grace in his movements, a focus that belied his humble task.
She watched as he carefully handled a brittle, silk-bound chronicle. His fingers, now calloused, brushed over the faded calligraphy. Suddenly, he froze. His brow furrowed, a faint tremor running through him. A memory.
This time, it wasn't a flash of intimacy, but a raw, agonizing surge of power. He saw himself, impossibly strong, surrounded by legions, crushing worlds. And then, a dark, overwhelming force, a betrayal from within, a blinding light, and the sensation of his own cultivation base shattering. The image was chaotic, terrifying, culminating in the feeling of being utterly *hollowed out*.
He swayed, clutching the ancient chronicle, his knuckles white. The power. The terrifying, visceral loss. It wasn't just a vision; it felt like a phantom limb, a gaping wound where his strength once was. He looked up, his eyes wide and disoriented, directly at Xianxia.
Her breath hitched. The fear in his eyes was still there, but now it was mixed with a horrifying flicker of that lost, immense power. He wasn't just remembering; he was *feeling* the echoes of his past might. Her facade almost broke. A treacherous part of her, buried deep beneath centuries of stoicism, felt a sudden, sharp pang of something akin to pity for the sheer, raw agony in his gaze.
She forced her expression into one of detached inquiry. "Apprentice," she stated, her voice cool, despite the turmoil in her chest. "Are you unwell? You seem… distracted from your duties."
Long Hu stared, his lips parted as if to speak, to beg, to accuse. The memory was too fresh, too painful. He looked at her, the formidable Immortal Empress, and a profound realization hit him. She was connected to this. She knew. She was the architect of his current misery, perhaps even the cause of his downfall.
His fear transformed, slowly, into a cold, burning resolve. He bowed his head, concealing the spark that had ignited in his eyes. "My apologies, Your Majesty," he rasped, his voice rough. "Just... the dust in these old scrolls. It affects the senses."
Xianxia watched him, a faint, calculating smile playing on her lips. He was lying. And that small flicker of defiance in his eyes, the hidden determination beneath the feigned humility, confirmed it. The Harem Lord was not entirely gone.
As she turned to leave, her thoughts were no longer simply of subtle revenge. Long Hu was a ticking enigma, a vessel of forgotten power, and a key to a past she thought she'd buried. Her carefully constructed game was about to become far more dangerous. He was remembering. And when he fully remembered, who then would be the master, and who the apprentice?