Chapter 62: Maid’s Life

Ling Xiya collapsed on the ground like a dying fish, gasping for breath, her entire body trembling.

Fear, a deep-seated fear, finally overcame all her anger and resentment.

Ling Xiya was afraid, afraid of that bone-deep pain, afraid of the female demon king who could easily manipulate her spirit.

She tremblingly reached out her hand and picked up The Rag that symbolized her humiliation.

The fabric was coarse, rubbing against the wounds on her palms, bringing a burst of stinging pain.

“That’s more like it.”

Isayat’s voice carried a hint of a languid smile, “If you had been obedient earlier, wouldn’t you have avoided this suffering?”

The cold marble floor was like a giant mocking face, reflecting Ling Xiya’s currently wretched appearance.

She bit her lower lip hard, tasting a faint hint of blood; the pain brought a sliver of clarity to her chaotic consciousness, also successfully forcing back the tears that were about to burst forth along with the bone-deep humiliation.

Her nails dug deep into her palms, leaving several crescent-shaped blood marks, which was the only power belonging to herself that she could perceive at this moment.

She was like a butterfly with broken wings, every inch she moved accompanied by unspeakable difficulty.

Her arms trembled as they supported her body that felt nearly broken, crawling bit by bit toward The Rag discarded carelessly not far away.

The rough edges of the fabric brushed against the skin of her knees, rubbing against the cold, hard floor, bringing a burning pain, but this was far less intense than the fiery whip wounds on her back.

When she finally reached The Rag and her knees completely collapsed onto the ground, a nearly inaudible gasp still escaped her throat.

The floor was polished to a mirror shine, already spotless without a single speck of dust to be found.

However, Ling Xiya had to use this cold Rag to wipe away these “stains”.

Her movements were clumsy and slow, as if every bend and every wipe exhausted all her strength.

It was more as if every stroke was not on the floor, but carving a new wound into her already riddled heart, leaving it dripping with blood.

Her past pride and dignity were crushed to pieces in these successive wipes, drifting away in the cold air, unnoticed by anyone.

The whip wounds on her back were already gruesome and terrifying, and now they were being pulled and torn again with every small movement of her body.

Intense pain struck in waves like a tide, nearly threatening to swallow her whole.

Fine cold sweat instantly soaked her thin clothes, clinging tightly to her back and forming a bizarre contrast with the burning heat of the wounds.

Sweat slid down from her forehead and temples, mixing with the tears she had held back for so long that finally overflowed uncontrollably, together dripping onto the smooth floor and forming a small, dark water stain.

Seeing this, Ling Xiya seemed startled and immediately used The Rag in her hand to carefully, almost reverently, wipe the water stain dry, as if it were some unforgivable blemish that profaned a sacred place,
and she, was the sinner who deserved a thousand deaths.

Not far away, Isayat stood there quietly.

She had her arms crossed over her chest, her posture languid and elegant, looking out of place with this cruel scene yet possessing a morbid harmony.

Her gaze was cold as ice, without a shred of pity or emotion, only an undisguised scrutiny, like looking at an object, an interesting plaything that was about to belong to her.

There was even a faint, playful smile lingering at the corner of her mouth as she appreciated Ling Xiya’s current wretchedness and struggle, as if this were a meticulously choreographed play, and she, was the sole audience member holding the power of life and death.

That gaze was more hurtful than a piercing cold wind and more biting than the whip wounds on her back; it silently declared Ling Xiya’s future fate—to become entirely a thing in her palm, to be toyed with at her whim.

***

Isayat’s castle was unimaginably large, like an independent kingdom.

Towering spires pierced the sky, and magnificent corridors wound and twisted, every detail showcasing the owner’s wealth and power.

The interior rooms were incredibly luxurious; exquisite murals hung on the walls, depicting scenes from mythology; huge crystal chandeliers hung from the dome, refracting dazzling light that illuminated every corner; 

soft carpets covered the floor, stepping on them made no sound; the air was filled with a faint, expensive incense mixed with the scent of old wood and leather, creating a unique and oppressive atmosphere.

And Ling Xiya’s—now she could only be called this—task was to be responsible for cleaning all the areas within Isayat’s living quarters.

This was not just a simple cleaning; it was more like an endless, rigorous ordeal.

Every inch of the floor had to be polished until it could reflect a person’s silhouette, every object had to be placed meticulously, and every window had to be wiped clean as new, without the slightest flaw.

Isayat’s requirements were borderline harsh, and if Ling Xiya were the least bit careless, what awaited her was relentless reprimand or even deeper punishment.

In the early morning, when a hint of fish-belly white just appeared on the horizon and everyone else in the castle was still asleep, Ling Xiya had to get up and begin her long and heavy day of labor.

Carrying a heavy bucket and The Rag, she started from the cold stone floor, wiping bit by bit.

The corridor seemed endlessly long, her figure appearing exceptionally thin and small in the empty hallway.

Sweat soaked her clothes time and again, then slowly dried in the cool air, leaving behind circles of white salt stains.

Isayat’s bedroom was even more suffocatingly luxurious.

The giant four-poster bed was covered with velvet sheets embroidered with gold thread patterns, so soft that a person could sink into them.

The dressing table was filled with a dazzling array of jewelry and various exquisite bottles and jars, each piece worth a fortune.

Ling Xiya needed to carefully wipe every item, ensuring they were spotless, while also arranging them neatly according to Isayat’s habits without the slightest deviation.

She often had to stand on tiptoe to reach those high shelves; her arms were incredibly sore, yet she didn’t dare stop for a moment.

In the study, towering bookshelves reached the ceiling, filled with heavy ancient books and precious manuscripts.

Ling Xiya not only had to wipe the shelves and the desk but also rearrange the scattered books in a specific order.

Those books were heavy and ancient, exuding the breath of time and making her arms feel numb.

She didn’t even dare to casually flip through those pages, fearing she might damage these priceless treasures and bring greater trouble upon herself.

The bathroom was equally luxurious, with a huge marble bathtub and brass faucets polished to a shine.

Ling Xiya needed to wipe the bathtub clean and prepare the hot water and essential oils that Isayat liked.

Amidst the dense mist of steam, her figure appeared even more blurred and lonely.

The attitude of the servants in the castle toward her was mostly cold, even carrying a hint of disdain and schadenfreude.

They were already accustomed to Isayat’s fickleness and cruel methods; as for Luo Ling, this newcomer, a “maid” with a special identity, no one was willing to lend a helping hand. Most kept a respectful distance or watched coldly.

Occasionally, some senior servants would deliberately make things difficult for her, assigning her more and heavier chores, watching her become overwhelmed and drenched in sweat just for their own amusement.

Ling Xiya silently endured all of this.

Physical exhaustion and pain could still be endured, but the mental torment gnawed at her every moment.

She often curled up alone in the cold, cramped Servant’s Quarters in the dead of night, letting tears slide down silently.

The whip wounds on her back would hurt even more at night, reminding her of everything she had suffered. She missed freedom, missed the sunshine, and missed those simple and beautiful days that once belonged to her.

Isayat would occasionally “summon” her.

Sometimes it was to have her serve tea and water, sometimes to have her stand by the side, listening to her talk and laugh with others, and those topics would sometimes pierce Ling Xiya’s heart like needles.

Isayat’s gaze toward her was still that of scrutinizing a plaything, carrying a sense of satisfaction from having control.

She would deliberately mention her past identity in front of Ling Xiya, using words to provoke her, enjoying the pain and resentment that Ling Xiya tried her best to hide but which would still leak from the depths of her eyes.