Once more, it descended? A bitter taste churned within Jun Qingcheng's heart, even as her survival instinct surged against the venom coursing through her veins. She knew others awaited her awakening—the elders of the Poison Physician Clan would spare no cost to heal her. The world revered Jun Qingcheng, the unparalleled heiress of the clan, yet none knew of the insidious poison that had felled her six months prior. Each new moon, she waged a two-day battle against the Grim Reaper for dominion over her life. On the first dawn of affliction, her senses vanished into a void of chaos. Without the elders' timely needles to unblock her meridians, death would claim her within hours. On the second day, a toxin akin to ravenous cancer devoured her nerves and marrow—a relentless, irreversible decay demanding immediate countermeasures, lest she perish. The Jun clan had summoned all physicians: those attending dignitaries abroad, those holding sway in regional hospitals. Now, the ancient courtyard teemed with anxious souls, awaiting word from the elders within. The heiress's poisoning must remain secret, and a cure found swiftly.

  Jun Qingcheng's chamber lay sealed, windows and doors barred. Inside, stark simplicity reigned—white gauze draped the spacious room, shielding her from the elders beyond. Four physician-aunts clustered near a wooden tub, their hands working in unison to stem the venom's tide. Dark medicinal brew submerged her to the chin; months of struggle had hollowed her cheeks to pallid gauntness. First, one noticed the lashes resting like folded wings upon her lids, then the delicate nose, the alluring lips, the small ears half-hidden in disheveled hair. The aunts labored through the day, eyes fixed on the brew—when to change it, when to add more herbs, when to shift her to the toxin vat with oxygen tubes. Behind them, the elders watched, their guidance a low murmur. Southern summer nights brought a chill respite; most elders retired, leaving guards encircling the heiress's quarters. The aunts took shifts in pairs, vigilant until dawn.

  For two hours, Jun Qingcheng's mind had been trapped in darkness. Fury ignited within her. So many outside, yet this "System" man invaded her thoughts again, unseen by all! Since their first encounter three months prior, he had whispered incomprehensible words. Her icy glare met his expectations—he had shadowed her since confirming her as his chosen one, first observing, then attempting dialogue, only to face her stony silence. Now, in this black void, her gaze pierced him with predatory intensity, making his scalp prickle and heart drum.

  "I bear no deep vendettas nor seek to plague the world," she spat, her voice frigid. "Spare me your grand designs—they hold no interest!"

  "The lives you've taken outnumber those you've saved," the System retorted. Not a monster, yet no saint either; as heiress, blood stained her hands beyond counting. How else had the Poison Physician Clan endured a millennium? Simplicity was a facade.

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  "What of it?" Jun Qingcheng challenged.

  "Don't you crave life?" he pressed. Would this genius truly fade in her prime? Neither of them believed it.

  "Your solution grants immortality?" Her tone was razor-calm. The clan—her home of twenty years, filled with comrades, elders, the patriarch, her life's work—was irreplaceable. The Jun realm was a paradise of poisons and cures; she desired no other world.

  The System faltered. No, he offered no resurrection. This path led only one way—no return, even if possible. Prolonged exposure to wider realms would leave her estranged from all she knew.

  "I shall wait," he conceded. He'd bide until her death, for now she couldn't comprehend. Her organs were ravaged; little time remained. Even cured, what then?

  Dawn's light filtered through the window. "Has the heiress not awakened?" inquired Elder Qing, clad in the clan's black-and-white robes. Behind him stood the shorter, portly Second Elder. Worry gnawed at Qing; she stirred later each time—midday now, not dawn, and the aunts reported no sign. The Second Elder held his tongue, silent at Qing's flank. The patriarch still lived, a successor named, yet all prayed for her survival. Not merely for her genius—curing plagues thought incurable—but for her charm. Her patents had elevated the clan to its zenith. Trained from youth, she'd studied at the world's most enigmatic institute, open only to prodigies of peerless lineage. There, minds honed for brilliance beyond mortal ken. Yet after graduation, she'd returned for mastery in toxins and leadership. She’d excelled, obsessed, contributing beyond measure.

  "Disaster! Elders, the heiress is gone!" An aunt burst in, her voice a ragged shriek. Breath and pulse had ceased.

  Qing staggered; the Second Elder steadied him. Sudden loss—why now? Grief would shatter the patriarch. Unaware in the council hall, the patriarch listened to reports: the assassin group "Shadow" had poisoned her. Rage simmered in his eyes as an aunt rushed in, kneeling without ceremony, tears streaming. "The heiress... she's gone!" Sobs choked her words.

  The patriarch slammed a fist on the table. "Alert the authorities: we seek vengeance alone. No pursuit needed. Bounty—a million per Shadow assassin! Mobilize the Shadowslayers; annihilate them! The Poison Physician Clan swears eternal feud. Summon all owed debts—mercenaries, underworld—repayment is due."

  Jun Qingcheng watched from above, a specter. Shadow's blindness deserved extinction! Had she been whole, she'd have led the charge herself. "Tsk, tsk..." Admirable ruthlessness, befitting a clan that bred such talent.

  Her death had come too soon. Surviving the poison was miracle enough; their suppression methods had bought time. Yet bitterness lingered—with more days, a true antidote might have emerged. Now, she'd never see it.

  "Now, no retreat remains. Will you consider me?" the System seized the moment. "I grant eternal existence; aid my ascent to supremacy." Grief flashed in Yanling's eyes—he'd show those lesser systems true power.

  "What gain for me?" Jun Qingcheng demanded.

  Yanling stepped closer. His faint apparition revealed crimson robes, hair pooling on an unseen floor—though to her, it blurred pink. A penchant for theatrics? His features remained indistinct, yet his aura promised more than met the eye. She weighed her options; he'd waited so long, he wouldn't flee. In life, she'd tried to banish him—he always returned.