Chapter Text
Gao Tu knows he’s unwanted, unwelcomed.
It’s obvious to him, and to everyone witnessing the wedding ceremony, that the emperor, Shen Wenlang, is only marrying him because he has no choice.
Becoming the future empress of this empire, one would expect to be carried in a carriage so grand it gleams like a rolling palace on the way to the wedding. However, Gao Tu holds no such expectation. How can he, when everyone knows how much Shen Wenlang hates him and his family for blackmailing him into this marriage?
Gao Tu sits in the plain, rickety carriage in complete silence; no musicians play as it carries him toward the palace — yet another slight by the emperor, clearly meant to humiliate him further.
Everyone knows imperial weddings are meant to be grand, with brilliant colors and loud drums that shake the earth. Yet everything about this ceremony feels dark and muted, the unspoken rejection ringing loud.
When the carriage stops, Gao Tu notices he’s been brought to the Dahlia Palace instead of the Jade Palace, where royal weddings are usually held. Clearly, Shen Wenlang has thought of every detail to ensure Gao Tu is humiliated on his wedding day.
Gao Tu smiles bitterly to himself as he’s escorted by a single servant into the small, dim hall where the emperor waits. If he were someone else, perhaps he would have voiced his disappointment. But he is only Gao Tu — the illegitimate omega son of the Gao family, treated like scum beneath his father’s shoes for as long as he can remember. He’s simply grateful Shen Wenlang hasn’t yet found a way to kill him.
He catches his reflection in a puddle left by the heavy rain that has fallen since morning—almost as if even the heavens disapprove of this wedding—and takes in the sight of the robe on his body. For a wedding garment it’s strangely plain, the embroidery so faint it’s as though all the finest details were stripped away. It’s clearly meant as an insult, yet for someone who has spent his life in little more than rags, this simple robe is still the most luxurious thing he’s worn in his twenty five years of life.
They pass a few servants on the way to the hall. Looks of disdain follow him, whispers of “monster” trailing in their wake as Gao Tu trudges forward with his head lowered. He doesn’t take offense.
The name is almost fitting. Every time he catches his reflection, he’s reminded why: the ghost-pale skin, the long midnight-black hair, the crimson eyes that unsettle everyone who meets them. No other title suits him better than “the monster of the Gao family.”
He’s grown used to the insults about his unnatural appearance. Ever since Gao Ming finally acknowledged him as his son a few months ago—after twenty five years of hiding him away—he’s been subjected to stares of fear and disgust.
He had cried the first time those disgusted eyes met his, but constant exposure taught him not to let it cut as deep. Now he keeps his expectations low when meeting new people. He can’t change how he looks, and tears won’t change their minds.
Gao Tu hasn’t always looked like this. Only a year ago, before the cursed magic Gao Ming cast on him to control Shen Wenlang, he had snow-white hair, golden eyes, and fair skin—traits the Gao family mocked him for. Then, against his will, he was turned into this “monster.”
He can still feel traces of the agony in his bones, though the pain itself is nothing compared to the memory of Shen Wenlang’s soul screaming during the ritual.
That day remains burned into his mind. He remembers the terror of being dragged out of the dark storage room and shoved into the basement, where Shen Wenlang lay restrained on the altar, surrounded by Gao Ming, a shaman, and several attendants. Shen Wenlang had been barely conscious from a bleeding wound in his abdomen—a wound inflicted during an ambush Gao Ming had orchestrated on Shen Wenlang's return from quelling rebels in the north.
Two servants forced Gao Tu to kneel beside the altar while the shaman prepared the ritual. No matter how he struggled, his frail body could not break free from their steel grip. They cut his palm to drip blood into Shen Wenlang’s mouth. Then the back of his garment was torn open so the shaman could carve ritual symbols into his skin. Gao Tu had screamed as the dagger bit into him, the same symbols carved into Shen Wenlang’s chest while the emperor thrashed against the pain, barely clinging to consciousness.
When the chanting began, the pain in Gao Tu’s back deepened, searing through flesh into bone—into his soul itself. He had begged for death.
Shen Wenlang had slipped fully into unconsciousness, yet Gao Tu could still hear his tortured voice echoing in his mind, begging him to stop, pleading with him not to steal away his ability to bind his soul to his destined mate.
At the time, Gao Tu hadn’t understood how he could hear those cries, or what Shen Wenlang meant. But the sound left a scar on his mind, the echoes haunting his dreams ever since. Only after the ritual ended did he learn its true purpose: to forcefully bind Shen Wenlang’s inner dragon to his own soul, granting Gao Tu power over the emperor—but only with the emperor’s blood and unwilling consent.
It is common knowledge that the imperial family descends from the Golden Dragon’s bloodline, each generation blessed with physical and magical strength far beyond ordinary humans. Legends foretold that the Golden Dragon and its mate would be reborn a century after their deaths. When Shen Wenlang was born exactly a hundred years later with the foretold signs—black hair streaked with silver and golden eyes—the empire rejoiced. Though his mate had yet to appear, all believed it was only a matter of time before the dragon emperor would reunite with his destined partner and bring prosperity to the realm through their soul bond.
Now that his soul has been forcefully bound to Gao Tu’s, Shen Wenlang can no longer bond with his destined mate even if he finds him. Gao Tu’s heart aches for the emperor’s tragic fate—having waited a hundred years to be reborn and reunited with his beloved, only to end up bound to someone like Gao Tu, a man whose very existence feels like a mistake.
As a result of the spell, Shen Wenlang’s once black hair has been drained to pure silver, and his golden eyes have turned black. Meanwhile, Gao Tu’s snow-white hair has become midnight-black, as though he had stolen it from Shen Wenlang, and his skin has turned ghostly pale, the lost color settling instead into his now blood-red eyes.
When Shen Wenlang regained consciousness, Gao Ming had him released, only smirking at the emperor’s explosive rage and threats to wipe out the Gao family. He revealed, almost proudly, that because Gao Tu now carries Shen Wenlang’s dragon soul, the emperor cannot harm him—Gao Tu’s death would mean his own.
Upon learning of the forced soul-bond, Shen Wenlang glared at Gao Tu with unbridled hatred. His fury trembled in every word he spat.
“I may not be able to kill him,” he hissed, “but I can still slaughter you and your entire bloodline.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure, Your Majesty,” Gao Ming replied with an arrogant smirk. “I had the shaman place a curse on my son. With a single mantra I can end his life. So if you threaten the Gao family again, I’ll have no choice but to activate it. Don’t think I won’t just because he’s my son. My beloved boy would willingly sacrifice himself for his family—and I’ll honor that if I must.”
Shen Wenlang looked as if he might slaughter them all, consequences be damned, but the sudden arrival of General Sheng Shaoyu and the imperial guards bursting through the Gao residence’s doors was the only reason he didn’t act on the impulse.
“This isn’t over. I will find a way to break this cursed bond, and I will have all of you tortured to death. Mark my words,” Shen Wenlang spat, his voice venomous, before sending a murderous glare toward Gao Ming and Gao Tu. The general escorted him away, and Gao Ming only smirked mockingly in response.
After Shen Wenlang’s retreat, Gao Ming had Gao Tu thrown back into the storage room. In the darkness, Gao Tu sobbed until he could barely breathe. He did not cry for himself, only for Shen Wenlang’s cruel fate. He remembered the emperor’s kindness the first time they had met four years ago and, recalling the pure hatred in his eyes today, Gao Tu felt disgusted with himself despite also having been forced into the ritual.
Back then, Gao Tu had slipped out of the house while his father and stepbrothers were attending a noble’s event. He wore a cloak to hide his white hair, avoiding unwanted attention. He had always heard of the palace’s magnificence but had never had the chance to see it. That day he made the bold—and foolish—decision to sneak into the grounds. He knew that trespassing could cost him his life, but he didn’t know if he would ever get another opportunity.
After making sure no one was around, Gao Tu climbed the palace wall. He meant to pause and survey the perimeter before jumping down, but a loose tile slid under his foot and sent him tumbling straight into one of the gardens. He braced for hard ground but landed on someone instead. Before he could regain his bearings, the person beneath him flipped them over and pressed a dagger to his jugular.
His soul nearly left his body when he recognized the man: the emperor Shen Wenlang himself. “Show yourself!” the emperor barked, pressing the dagger closer. Gao Tu’s distressed omega pheromones escaped in a sharp burst, the smell of burnt sage curling around them. It might have been his imagination, but the dagger’s pressure seemed to ease slightly.
With trembling hands, Gao Tu pulled back his hood. “Please, Your Majesty! I’m not here to cause anyone harm! Please have mercy!” he begged.
“Who are you, and what are you doing sneaking into my palace?” Shen Wenlang’s voice had lost some of its threat, but suspicion still lingered in his eyes.
“I’m sorry, Your Majesty! I’m just a foolish commoner curious about the palace. I’ve only heard of its beauty and couldn’t help sneaking a look. This foolish subject begs for mercy. Please, don’t have me killed!” Tears streamed down Gao Tu’s cheeks; he was utterly terrified.
To his surprise, Shen Wenlang sheathed the dagger and pulled him to his feet. “Fine. I believe you. I won’t have you punished, so stop crying—you look ugly,” he said haughtily, though kindness still shone in his eyes.
“Really? You won’t punish me?” Gao Tu asked between sobs, trying to stop lest he anger the emperor.
“What, do you want me to? I can have your arms and legs cut off if you like.” Despite the terrifying words, his amused expression made it clear he was joking.
“No! Thank you so much, Your Majesty! May your kindness be rewarded tenfold!” Gao Tu bowed earnestly.
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say. I have a meeting to get to, so you need to leave. I can’t leave you here unattended; someone else will catch you, and then I’d have no choice but to punish you.”
“Yes, of course! I’ll leave right away! Again, thank you for your mercy!” Gao Tu bowed once more and turned toward the wall.
“Wait!” the emperor called, making dread spike in Gao Tu’s chest at the thought that Shen Wenlang had changed his mind. But instead of punishing him, the young emperor bent to pluck an iris and held it out. “Here. Since you risked your life just to see the palace, it would be a waste to leave without something to remember the day.”
Gao Tu stared at the alpha emperor in disbelief but reached out to take the flower. “Thank you, Your Majesty. I will cherish this for the rest of my life,” he said with a bright, unguarded smile.
“Tch. You’re overreacting. It’s just a stupid flower,” Shen Wenlang rolled his eyes, but Gao Tu thought he heard a trace of bashfulness in his voice. “Stop staring at me dumbly and just go—you’re going to make me late.”
Gao Tu gave one last bow before climbing up the wall, his heart fluttering for reasons he didn’t want to name.
Now, thinking back to that moment, Gao Tu can’t help but wonder if Shen Wenlang remembers him. If he does, he must regret not killing Gao Tu when he had the chance—especially when, six months after the forced bond, Gao Ming used it to blackmail Shen Wenlang into marrying Gao Tu and making him the empress.
Gao Tu snaps out of his reverie at the sound of the servant ushering him inside the hall where Shen Wenlang waits, thunderous expression on his face. Officials and ladies-in-waiting glance nervously at each other as the heavy silence thickens.
He kneels as the herald recites the vows in a clipped, displeased voice. When Gao Tu raises his head, Shen Wenlang is already glaring at him with pure hatred. His heart twists, but he endures it and stays silent as the ritual carries on.
They bow when told. When the time comes to share the ceremonial wine, Shen Wenlang’s lips barely brush the cup before he sets it aside. Gao Tu’s cheeks burn with humiliation despite telling himself not to care. This rite should bind husband and wife, but here it feels like a public rejection.
The feast afterward is tense and awkward. No dancers, no music—only heavy silence. The dishes are simple and lukewarm, far from royal wedding standards. Gao Ming’s seat is pushed farther from the dais than tradition allows, and Gao Tu takes small satisfaction at the sight of his father’s jaw clenched in anger at the blatant humiliation.
When the day finally ends, the court ladies escort Gao Tu to the bridal chamber. He looks around the room to distract himself from their thinly veiled contempt. Everything is arranged correctly, yet it feels hollow—like paper offerings burned for the dead. They leave without offering any assistance. Gao Tu sits on the edge of the bed with his hands folded in his lap, waiting for footsteps he knows will never come.
Meanwhile, in the Jade Palace, Shen Wenlang works late into the night, forcing himself to calm the burning hatred in his chest at the thought of his new wife, lest he do something hasty and kill him without caring about the repercussions. He has fulfilled every ritual obligation, yet each omission—each missing banner, each undrunk sip of wine—whispered his contempt clearly to the entire court. History may record this day as the dragon emperor taking an empress, but it will forever be known how unwanted the union was.