Following the story had been enough to guarantee his survival. Enough to make sure he could wake up from this dream. To go back to his world.
Until he met her.
Princess Lian Zhi did not enter his life with a dramatic entrance. There was no main-lead halo above her head, no spotlight following her as if she were the center of the play. She was simply there, standing in the great hall of Hua Palace, exactly where she was supposed to be.
When she looked at him, her gaze met his naturally. He recognized her immediately, of course. He had written every word of her, imagined every motion, every glance, every line. But in this world, she was more vivid than any paragraph could ever convey. More real, more alive.
And sometimes, unpredictable. This unsettled him more than he wanted.
At first, he dismissed the feeling. Reality was always sharper than imagination. He told himself this was no different. He observed her with the same distance he gave every other element of the story. She was a narrative point, nothing more. A necessary piece that ensured the plot would move forward as intended.
He observed her during the Hua arc with quiet intrigue. He noted how she struggled to keep up, how she reacted too quickly, how her thoughts spilled out of her mouth carelessly. She was frantic at times, clearly out of place, and he found himself… amused.
It was not fondness, he told himself. Only interest.
After all, she was the only one who behaved differently from what he had written.
She questioned more than she should have. Resisted when she was meant to comply. Survived situations that should have broken her. There were moments when her reactions felt improvised rather than scripted.
He didn't think much of it. He adjusted. The story still moved on.
He watched her, tested her. And whenever the story seemed to stray from the track, he nudged her gently toward the inevitable. Everything was falling back to its original place. Nothing to worry about.
Then came the night of the border city.
It was not meant to matter. The scene itself was insignificant, the kind of detail he might have skimmed over during editing. He had written the story for weeks or even months. It was normal to forget some details. Or so he convinced himself.
The wine had been sweeter than intended, and she had complained about it openly. She laughed as she spoke, not the careful sound of a princess with grace, but something spontaneous and unfiltered. The sound sparked something inside him. Something that belonged not to Ruhan, not to the Great Khan, but to Lian Rui, the man who had written her into existence in a small apartment in a rain-soaked city.
She drank more than she should have.
When she stumbled, irritated and unsteady, she reached for him without hesitation. Her fingers were clutching his sleeve as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Her hand brushed against his lips, and before he could react, she leaned in too close.
His eyes widened.
The kiss was brief.
Clumsy.
Gone almost as soon as it happened.
He told himself it was nothing.
An accident. A result of wine and exhaustion. A fleeting moment that did not belong to the plot and therefore held no meaning. This was not a romance story. He had not written one. He would never have written one. How could he? Before this, he hadn't even known what a kiss felt like.
And yet, something stirred inside him.
Not enough to overwhelm him. Not enough to threaten control. It was subtle at first, a faint warmth that appeared without warning and vanished just as quickly.
A crush. A momentary affection, nothing more.
He labeled it neatly and dismissed it. He understood now why so many actors fell in love on set. When people spent enough time together, feelings were bound to surface, even towards a fictional character. It was human nature, nothing extraordinary.
Human minds were prone to distraction, and distraction could be managed. He had spent his life doing exactly that.
So he pulled away.
In the days that followed, he maintained his distance with care. He limited their interactions and redirected his attention toward governance and strategy. The Chancellor's movements, the Dowager Khatun's schemes, even Kabil's spoiled antics, all of it demanded his attention.
He reminded himself constantly of the ending, of the structure he had designed, and of the cost of distraction.
Restraint was not denial, he told himself. It was a responsibility.
For the story.
For himself.
And for a time, it worked.
He just watched her from afar.
He encouraged her interactions with Kabil, dared not interrupt when she laughed at the prince's teasing, and reminded himself constantly that she was a character and he was the author. He told himself that he could afford curiosity, but not attachment. And certainly not jealousy.
Even when the story reached its cruel turning point.
When the cursed wedding night arrived. When she finally succumbed to her fate. Abused. Neglected. When the palace followed the script perfectly, treating her as something worthless.
He still tried not to interfere.
Sometimes the pain of watching was almost unbearable. There were slips, small ones. A moment of help. A wound tended. A presence offered, just long enough to ensure she didn't suffer that much.
But the story continued.
He told himself a few slips were acceptable, as long as the story stayed on course.
Until the hot spring.
There was no wine that night. No confusion to hide behind. When he stood before her, aware of her injuries, the distance he had built began to collapse.
He told himself to leave.
He did not.
When he kissed her, it was not accidental. It was not clumsy. It was slow, intentional, and unmistakably chosen.
And something inside him broke.
This was no longer a passing thought. No longer a feeling he could categorize and dismiss. This was not a crush.
It was love.
And love had never been part of the story.
For the first time since he arrived in this world, Lian Rui realized that the ending he had designed might no longer exist, and that he might not want it to.
He sat in the empty room long after Arkan had left, staring at the scroll he put on the table. Staring at the lines that were written with schemes that he already knew.
"I was supposed to be in control."
But authors were not meant to feel regret. Authors were not meant to fall in love with their own creations.
And yet, here he was, uncertain, afraid, and very much human.
Because he was no longer sure whether he could follow the story to its conclusion.
Or whether he even wanted to.