The room remained quiet.
Yueying lay still, staring at the ceiling beams until their edges stopped swimming. The worst of the dizziness had passed, but the weakness lingered—deep, pervasive, clinging to her like an illness that had never fully gone away.
She tested her hand again, slowly curling her fingers.
They obeyed, but sluggishly, as though each movement had to push through resistance. The strength drained almost immediately, leaving behind a faint tremor she couldn't suppress.
Chronic weakness, she thought automatically.
That distinction steadied her.
She shifted carefully onto her side, cataloging each sensation the way she would have with a patient. Her muscles ached in a way that suggested long-term underuse rather than injury. Her joints felt stiff but intact. Breathing came easily enough, though it never quite felt satisfying—as if her lungs could draw air, but something prevented her from using it fully.
She frowned.
It reminded her of patients with restrictive conditions. People whose bodies had adapted around an unseen limitation, compensating so thoroughly that the abnormal began to feel normal.
She lifted a hand to her throat.
There was no pain. No swelling. No damage she could feel from the outside. She swallowed carefully. The motion was smooth, unobstructed.
And yet—
When she tried to force out a sound, her body reacted strangely. Her chest tightened reflexively. The muscles of her neck engaged, then stopped, as if something in the process simply… refused to continue.
Not paralysis.
Interruption.
Her heart beat faster.
In her old life, she had seen patients with vocal damage, nerve trauma, psychological mutism. None of it felt like this. There was no strain, no hoarseness, no panic response rooted in fear.
Her body simply did not proceed past a certain point.
As though it had learned not to.
She let her hand drop back to the bed, thoughts racing.
Congenital defect?
No—those rarely behaved with this kind of consistency.
Injury?
There were no signs of healing tissue. No residual pain.
Neurological?
Possibly—but then why did the rest of her body feel similarly constrained?
She shifted again, testing her balance as she sat up partway. Her head swam immediately, a wave of lightheadedness washing over her. She lay back down, breathing carefully until it passed.
Poor circulation. Low stamina. Delayed recovery.
Not just weakness.
Something systemic.
This body felt like one that had never been allowed to fully develop—like a limb kept in a cast too long, muscles wasting not because they were broken, but because they had been prevented from moving.
A chill crept up her spine.
That thought led somewhere she didn't like.
Before she could sink any further into the spiral of dark, unsettled thoughts, the door flew open with a sharp crack, the impact rattling the walls.
"Little Yue! I'm back!"
A young man hurried inside, golden hair pulled back neatly, fine silk robes still dusted from travel. He crossed the room in a few long strides and dropped to his knees beside her bed, the motion practiced—too practiced, as if he had done this many times before.
As he leaned closer, smiling with unguarded relief, unfamiliar warmth stirred in her chest.
And with it came a rush of memories.
His face.
His voice.
The way he always knelt so he wouldn't loom over her.
Fragments filtered into her mind, slow and uncertain.
She knew this boy.
The memories settled more firmly now, no longer fragments but impressions layered with familiarity. Shen Rui—her father's disciple—had never been family by blood, yet he was closer than most within these walls, endlessly patient with the quiet, overlooked Second Miss.
He noticed her gaze and grinned, the expression easy and unguarded. "You're awake," he said, relief evident in his voice. "Good. I was worried I'd missed you again."
He sat back on his heels, then seemed to remember himself and reached into his sleeve. From within the folds of his robe, he produced a small object wrapped carefully in cloth.
"I brought you something," he said, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret.
He unwrapped it to reveal a jade trinket no larger than a coin. Pale green, slightly cloudy, carved simply into the shape of a crescent moon. It wasn't flawless—there were faint inclusions in the stone—but it had been polished smooth by careful hands.
"I picked it up in Linhai City," he continued. "We stopped there on the way back from visiting the patient. There was a wandering tradesman near the south market—said it was good for calming the spirit."
He hesitated, then added quickly, "It's nothing expensive. I just thought… it suited you."
He placed it gently into her palm.
The jade was cool against her skin.
Yueying stared at it, fingers slowly curling around the trinket as something unfamiliar tightened in her chest. The original owner of this body remembered moments like this—small kindnesses offered quietly, without expectation. He was one of the few who never mocked her silence, never treated her as if she were invisible.
She lifted her eyes to him.
He met her gaze easily, unfazed by the quiet.
"Master and I just returned," he said, settling into a more comfortable kneel beside the bed. "The patient in Linhai was stubborn, but your father managed to stabilize him. As always." There was admiration there—genuine, uncomplicated.
Then his expression softened. "The maid said you collapsed in the courtyard. Are you feeling any better?"
Yueying tried to answer.
Nothing came.
She felt the familiar frustration rise—but before it could take hold, he smiled and waved a hand lightly. "Right. Don't strain yourself. You don't have to tell me."
He shifted his weight slightly, settling more comfortably beside the bed, as if prepared to stay awhile. There was an ease to him that felt almost out of place in this household—an absence of calculation Yueying was only now beginning to recognize.
"You don't have to worry," Shen Rui continued, voice lowered. "I told the maid to keep an eye on you. She'll bring some broth later—nothing heavy." He paused, then added with a faint, self-conscious smile, "I might've told her to add a bit more ginger than usual. You're always cold."
The comment struck her harder than she expected.
The old Yueying remembered this too. He noticed things others dismissed—the way her hands were always cool, how she tired quickly in winter, how she lingered near sunny courtyards even when scolded for it. He never asked questions she couldn't answer. He simply adjusted around her.
She looked down at the jade trinket again, thumb brushing over the smooth curve of the crescent. It was warm now, having absorbed the heat of her skin.
He glanced toward the door, as if remembering something he had nearly forgotten. His expression shifted, lightening with the ease of someone recalling a duty he didn't mind fulfilling.
"I should go say hello to First Miss," Shen Rui said casually. "She'll have heard we're back by now, and if I don't stop by, she'll scold me later for being rude."
He chuckled softly, clearly untroubled by the idea.
Yueying's fingers stilled against the jade.
Her sister's face surfaced in her mind—not the polished smile she wore in front of others, but the sharp eyes, the deliberate cruelty reserved for moments without witnesses. The way her tone softened instantly when someone of importance appeared. The way blame always slid neatly away from her.
Shen Rui didn't see that version.
He never had.
"She was asking after you last time I left," he added, as if it were a kindness. "Said you'd been fainting again. I told her you just need more rest." He smiled, earnest and entirely unaware. "She seemed worried."
Yueying lowered her gaze.
The old instinct stirred—keep quiet, don't contradict, don't complicate things. This body remembered well how easily truth could turn against her.
She tightened her grip on the jade crescent, grounding herself in its cool solidity.
"I won't stay long," Shen Rui continued, rising to his feet. "Just a quick visit, then I'll come back and check on you before dinner." He hesitated, then added, "If you're asleep, I'll leave you be."
He adjusted the blanket once more, careful and familiar, before stepping back.
"Rest, Little Yue," he said gently. "You've had a long day."
The door slid shut behind him, his footsteps fading as he turned deeper into the manor.
The room fell quiet.
Yueying lay still, eyes fixed on the ceiling, listening until the sound disappeared entirely. Only then did she exhale, slow and measured.
So this was how it had always been.
Kindness that stopped at the surface.
Concern that never looked too closely.
Cruelty that thrived in the gaps between.
She turned her head slightly, staring at the thin line of light beneath the door.
Her sister would greet Shen Rui with smiles and soft words. She would ask polite questions. She would play the role perfectly—as she always did.
And he would leave thinking her gentle.
And he would leave thinking her gentle.
The thought tightened something in her chest—sharp, fleeting irritation flaring before she could stop it.
Not at Shen Rui.
At the ease with which lies settled into place. At how smoothly cruelty disguised itself as concern. At how effortlessly her sister moved through the world wearing a mask no one ever questioned.
The injustice of it pressed close, threatening to spiral into something louder, heavier.
Yueying closed her eyes.
Not now.
Frustration would solve nothing. Neither would resentment, nor the urge to correct what others refused to see. She had lived that way once already—swallowing bitterness, enduring quietly, hoping circumstances would change on their own.
They never had.
Slowly, she let the feeling ebb, setting it aside with deliberate care.
There would be time later—for truth, for reckoning, for choosing what to do about her sister and the household that enabled her. But none of that mattered if she remained exactly as she was now.
Weak.
Restricted.
Trapped.
In this world, kindness did not protect you.
Strength did.
She had seen enough—felt enough—to understand that power was the only language that carried weight here. Without it, she would remain confined to side rooms and whispered dismissals, her fate decided by others with stronger hands and louder voices.
Her fingers curled around the jade crescent until its edge pressed faintly into her skin.
First, she needed answers.
Something was wrong with this body—deeply, fundamentally wrong—and until she understood what it was, everything else was secondary. The weakness, the strange resistance whenever she tried to speak, the way her breath and strength seemed to hit an invisible limit—none of it felt like mere bad health or a simple defect.
Not to her.
These were patterns. Symptoms. A condition with a cause she hadn't found yet.
And until she did, she would remain exactly what this household expected her to be: fragile, silent, and easily pushed aside.
Agitation crept up on her before she realized it, tightening her grip around the jade crescent. She sucked in a sharp breath as pain flared through her palm—the thin edge biting into skin she hadn't realized she was pressing so hard.
Warmth bloomed, then wetness.
She loosened her fingers and saw blood smeared across the pale green surface, stark against the stone.
With a quiet, frustrated breath, she started to set the jade aside—
And froze.
Heat was building in her hand, slow at first, then unmistakable. The jade trembled against her skin, a faint vibration pulsing through her fingers. Before she could react, its surface softened, the solid crescent losing definition as if it were melting, flowing like liquid rather than stone.
Her breath hitched.
The jade began to seep toward the cut, drawn to it, sinking into her skin as though it had never been solid at all.
Panic surged.
She flung her hand outward, shaking it violently, trying to fling the substance away—but it clung stubbornly, sliding beneath her skin no matter how she moved.
It was no use.
The warmth intensified, spreading up her fingers and into her palm, and the last traces of jade vanished completely.
The heat didn't stop.
It surged.
The warmth that had pooled in her palm suddenly spilled inward, racing through her hand as if it had found a path that had been waiting for it all along. Yueying's breath hitched sharply as the sensation spread—up her wrist, along her forearm—no longer warmth but something sharper, fiercer.
Burning.
Her muscles seized as the heat threaded deeper, flooding through her veins with terrifying speed. It wasn't like fire on skin; it was as if the heat had slipped inside her, igniting her from within. Her fingers curled involuntarily, nails biting into her palm as pain blossomed and multiplied.
Her heart hammered violently.
She opened her mouth to scream.
Nothing came out.
Her chest heaved, throat straining uselessly as agony tore through her. The familiar silence wrapped around her panic, trapping it inside her skull. She tried to gasp, to cry, to do anything—
Only breath escaped.
The heat plunged onward.
It poured through her arms and shoulders, down her spine in a scalding rush that stole her strength and left her trembling uncontrollably. Her vision blurred at the edges, white-hot sparks bursting behind her eyes as every nerve seemed to light up at once.
Then it reached her abdomen.
Just above her navel.
The pain exploded.
Her body arched violently off the bed as the heat concentrated there, condensing into something dense and unbearable. It felt as though a brand had been pressed into her core, searing through muscle and bone alike. Her veins burned, pulsing painfully beneath her skin, each heartbeat sending fresh waves of agony rippling outward.
It felt wrong.
Too much. Too intense.
As if something fundamental inside her was being stripped away—burned down to nothing and rewritten all at once. Her thoughts fractured under the onslaught, fragments scattering as instinct took over. She clawed at the sheets, body shaking, breath coming in broken, silent gasps.
Make it stop.
Her vision dimmed rapidly, the room dissolving into shadow. The heat roared one last time, flaring so brightly it erased all sensation—
And then everything collapsed inward.
The pain vanished.
The heat vanished.
Yueying's body went limp, consciousness slipping away like a severed thread.
The room fell silent once more.