Life's mysteries do not arrive with courtesy. They announce themselves in fragments.
Porcelain hands, for one, too small, too fine-boned. Veridian hair spilled down her back to her knees. A noble's gown clung to her frame, its gold stitching ornate to the point of desperation.
Huh? No one dressed like this for ordinary errands. Well, maybe cosplay? It's been a long time since she visited one of those conventions, though. It's been years! Did her friends drug her?
Then…came the tacky warmth.
Blood streaked her fingers, bright against her pale skin.
"Ugh, why am I having this troublesome, mig—cough! Eh?"
The headache she believed was gone had returned. Even coughing blood now?
What is this?
Pain hollowed her skull. Each cough drew more blood from her lungs, and her complexion drained until it rivaled a carved stone.
The Scream by Vincent Van Gogh.
"Th-these coughing fits should be enough…"
No, they were not.
Her body rebelled. Violently, without any decorum, vomit and a nosebleed hit her. Her stomach already hurts from all her continuous coughing.
Crawling toward what seemed to be a river in her blurry mind, she gritted her teeth to move forward.
Slowly, she collapsed at the river's edge and stared at her reflection: blood-darkened lips, eyes the wrong color she's used to seeing.
"Dear," she murmured. "Oh, dear."
This is not hers. Not truly. The more she tries to focus her vision on the clear river to look at hers, the more her mind becomes dizzy and in pain.
Enough.
She tries to drag herself back and lean on a nearby tree.
"I'm not merely weak, I'm… I-I'm dying."
Hah. Someone, someone should have restrained the author when she made this character.
Relax.
Breathe slowly.
Dear me, I know you're confused right now. But relax. You need to calm down your breathing. We don't want to cough and die so miserably. We…should die peacefully.
Yes…yes.
Hoo.
These kinds of stories are so familiar that she already knows what happened.
Still, she closed her eyes, trying to calm her rampaging, painful mind, and check if there were any memories she could find.
Nothing.
No guiding thread.
Pathetic.
Yet she knows those eyes, face, and hair. "A novel."
It was definitely a novel she had read before.
One of the few she remembers, though not fully.
One of the striking novels that would remind her was the one she had once read, the description of the characters.
She's now, Etterellia Vonworgh Carala Beirre Lei Adiand.
In short, Ett.
The Empress Dowager, mother of the Emperor. Architect of wars and treaties alike. A woman who will die unceremoniously.
An extravagant name, wasted on a fragile vessel.
Ett, that's her name now.
And Ett, laughed.
Yet she coughed blood after laughing.
"Good—goodness."
What a life.
The novel Ett she remembered had dismantled kingdoms and empires while confined to her sickbed. And now she is Ett. But somehow, in the novel illustration, it looks like a merge of her own face and hers, in the illustration she saw before. More enhancements, like an in-game character. That was the first thing she noticed on the book cover, and it made her want to read it.
So…in plots like this, "No return."
Heh.
"Naturally."
Even if there is, she'll go to great lengths to find a hint. It was cannon.
For now, she can relax, make sure she has enough oxygen, and wait for someone.
"Ugh, when will he arrive?"
Ett asked the air as she tried to wipe away the mix of blood and saliva with her sleeve.
It's so embarrassing.
For a Dowager to be looking like this.
"A mother, to turn into a c-child—cough by some p-peculiar way…"
She raised her small, dainty hand. "Then tries to escape and b-barely returns…"
Because she felt useless, and humiliated being turned like a child when she is an adult with a son.
Great job.
Just great job.
As if that would help...well, it's not like she doesn't understand what the Ett in the novel feels. It's just that...now, she'll feel it more strongly.
Dear Her Grace, even when you were a beautiful aunt, you were weak. Now that you have been turned into a child by your enemy, do you think you can handle it? Tell me, you think you can handle it, Etterellia Vonworgh Carala Beirre Lei Adiand?
"..."
Why does she even remember her Ett's full name?
Tsk.
This setting is just too absurd.
Soon, she gradually heard a pair of footsteps closing in.
Ett narrowed her eyes.
Even narrowing her eyes gives her a headache. This is just so miserable.
"Greetings to Her Grace," he intoned, "the Matron, the Empire's Majestic Eclipse."
A butler emerged from the path, posture immaculate. His build was too broad for a butler.
Right, this guy…Sire Xiwen. Once a commander, now a servant, loyal and competent. Exactly as written. Seems to be middle-aged, with a grey beard, tied hair, and sharp features—a hirsute man, with sagacious atmosphere.
"The Emperor desires his mother's continued health," Xiwen said gently as he still looked down.
Yet he was able to take a glance at Ett's condition. It was not good.
Ett chuckled.
Right.
Ett and her son are not on good terms.
She closed her eyes, "Give me a moment."
Just a moment to finally collect myself.
Her heart was still palpitating hard.
"If you allow, Your Grace, please let me carry you."
Ett shook her head as she slowly stood up, a bit wobbly as she assisted herself using the tree's trunk.
"Hup."
Okay, there we go. Her knees are wobbling, so she tries to balance herself and test to make a stepping gesture.
Alright… it seems it's better, but she needs to walk slowly.
"Guide me."
Xiwen nodded and adjusted his pace.
Seeing his back, Ett smiled, then remembered Ett's usual facial expression.
Always cold, she doesn't smile. She doesn't show any reaction.
Indifferent.
Any switches, as long as they are synonymous, then it's fine what to pick as an expression.
You see, in the original novel, Ett would have fainted by now, rescued, borne away in the river's flow to somewhere. Somewhat, it affected the story, but not entirely.
It's just one of those before the prologue.
Yes, it seems like this was before the male and female leads met. It must have been years before.
A part of the flashbacks she once read. As for the timeline, she'll need to research it more once she's back in Ett's chamber.
As they walked through the palace gates and entered the inner walls, she moved her gaze to somewhere not far away.
Again.
Veridian hair once more.
One name popped into her mind: Guren.
"Xiwen,"
Ett stopped.
Butler Xiwen also stopped and looked at her way.
"Yes, is there something you need, Your Grace?"
"How old is His…cough, H-His Majesty now?"
Butler Xiwen paused, "Eleven years old, Your Grace."
Eleven years old…
As if Guren sensed her gaze, he looked back at her. The same expression, yet more updated and improved, was mirrored back to her.
Yeah, indeed, that is her son. Ett's son. Her son, now.
She has…a son now.
Nothing.
She felt nothing at all.
Well, other than being proud of his looks. How cute and handsome he is.
That's it.
"Let's go."
Ett looked away.
"Yes."
That little guy…heh. Who is she calling a little guy, when her height is much smaller than…maybe she's seven years old in height?
Anyway, that son of hers is the tyrant villain.
The antagonist.
Very lovely.
Very bloody.
Ett exhaled slowly.
Alright, becoming young again, scratch that, being turned young again might have been tolerable. Others had managed it well enough.
Isn't Detective Conan the same? He swallowed that experimental poison, APTX 4869? Then, what did she swallow? As far as she is aware, in her limited knowledge, this is not truly a fantasy story…
Anyway, she can handle that. She'll make do with that. However, if there is another transmigrator in this situation, knowing their death is inevitable, what would they do?
What would they always do?
There's no Northern Duke to run into since I am the dowager, the mother of His Majesty, the royal or imperial faction.
Escape? Rewrite our terrible fate? Be the good mother of the villain, hoard money—doesn't that sound right? But now, it's also doable to turn this into a parenting genre…
It should be.
Could she?
Rewrite fate? No. Redemption? Absurd. Quite an effort with this sickly body, and her social level is down to Pi.
Too much. She can't think too much.
Ett's temples throbbed, a warning drum she couldn't ignore.
Well, whatever.
Let's move the way it is.