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  Spring surged with vitality, and all things burst into life.

  A modest horse-drawn carriage made its way toward the city of Bianjing amidst blooming reds and tender greens.

  “Stop the carriage.”

  Suddenly, a girl’s voice came from within.

  The coachman tugged lightly at the reins in response. The carriage hadn’t been moving fast, so with a gentle pull, it came to a steady halt.

  “What’s the matter, Miss?” the coachman, Musheng, asked.

  Inside the carriage, Ji Ping’an sat with a splitting headache. Her fair, delicate hand lifted the curtain.

  They had been traveling along the official road this entire time. Since Bianjing wasn’t far now, there were plenty of carts and wagons along the way—ox carts, horse-drawn ones, and even people pushing handcarts into the city to sell vegetables, returning ter with empty carts.

  Everyone was dressed like ancient folk.

  Ji Ping’an had still clung to a sliver of hope. This strange pce, the unfamiliar maid beside her, and the hazy, fragmented memories in her mind—maybe it was just a prank by her friends. Maybe she hadn’t actually transmigrated…

  But now…

  Sigh.

  Ji Ping’an let out a long sigh and said to Musheng, “Uncle Mu, could you please ask how much longer until we reach Bianjing?”

  Musheng nodded, dismounted, and stopped a pinly dressed middle-aged man pushing a handcart. He cupped his fists in greeting, handed over two copper coins, and asked, “Brother, may I trouble you—how much farther to Bianjing?”

  “Not far now,” the man replied, carefully tucking the coins into his chest. “I’d say half an hour at most. You’ll make it before nightfall.”

  “Many thanks.”

  After thanking the man, Musheng returned to the carriage. Ji Ping’an nodded. “Uncle Mu, I’m feeling a bit tired. Since we’ll arrive before nightfall, let’s stop here for a short rest.”

  “As you wish, Miss.”

  Not wanting to block the road, Musheng guided the carriage to the edge and brought it to a stop. Turning back, he told Ji Ping’an, “Miss, when you’ve rested, just ring the bell. I’ll know it’s time to continue.”

  “Uncle Mu, you’ve worked hard all the way. Have some water and take a break.”

  “I will.” Musheng uncorked the water pouch he carried and took two gulps of cool spring water. Then he grabbed a straw hat and pced it over his face to block the sunlight, leaning against the carriage to rest with his eyes closed.

  “Miss, you should drink some water too to soothe your throat.”

  Her maid Dongchun picked up the cedon ewer on the small table and poured a bit into a plum-green teacup. She handed it to Ji Ping’an and said gently, “Miss, we’re traveling and don’t have everything prepared properly. This tea is barely passable—I beg you to bear with it. Once we reach Bianjing, I promise I’ll get everything in order.”

  Ji Ping’an accepted the cup and took a small sip. Outwardly calm, inwardly she was in full panic.

  She vaguely remembered this novel.

  She had been on hospital duty at the time, around three or four in the morning. With nothing much to do and still groggy despite two cups of coffee, she grabbed a book a coworker had left on the desk to pass the time.

  It was one of those male lead-oriented novels (maybe?).

  Ji Ping’an wasn’t entirely sure—but it seemed like it.

  From beginning to end, the novel told the story of the male lead, Song Huaizhang, as he cunningly navigated the treacherous end days of a crumbling dynasty. He outwitted countless enemies, secretly raised an army under the very noses of the imperial spies, and eventually led a rebellion to save the people from tyranny.

  Of course, sprinkled throughout were several romantic entanglements with beautiful women.

  Unfortunately, the original body’s owner was one of those women.

  And the one with the lowest status.

  She was merely a concubine.

  A walking moneybag, created by the author solely for the male lead’s benefit.

  Because she was the moneybag, the original Ji came from the wealthiest merchant family in Jinling, raised in luxury, surrounded by splendor.

  And because she was meant for the male lead, her mother died shortly after giving birth to her. Then, just st year, her father passed away from overwork and illness.

  Before his death, afraid that no one would care for his only daughter and that she would be preyed upon, Ji Father used a portion of the family fortune to grease the palms of officials and transferred two-thirds of their assets into Ji Ping’an’s name. He then carefully wrote to a trusted retive—the Song family in Bianjing, where the head served as Minister of Rites—entrusting his daughter and the remaining family property to them.

  After managing her father’s funeral, faced with the greedy beasts among her retives, the original Ji Ping’an immediately set out for the Song household.

  She was beautiful, delicate, and orphaned. Sensitive and inexperienced at just sixteen, having lost her only family, she was at her most vulnerable. Not long after settling in with the Songs, she was touched by several seemingly unintentional acts of kindness from Song Huaizhang. Her heart quietly opened to him.

  Then, on a flower-filled, moonlit night—when the world was romantic and she was all alone—their retionship naturally crossed a line.

  Song Huaizhang’s father was a top-ranking official, and Song Huaizhang himself had already entered the Hanlin Academy with the rank of fourth-grade official. A prestigious family with status, and Song Huaizhang already had a wife, the daughter of a Grand Schor. Of course, there was no way he could divorce and remarry.

  So, when Ji Ping’an got pregnant, he simply took her in as a concubine—an unworthy merchant’s daughter.

  A concubine was personal property. Once Ji Ping’an became his concubine, her entire inheritance was naturally absorbed under Song Huaizhang’s name.

  Thus, he had the capital to raise his army and begin his grand imperial campaign.

  And the original Ji Ping’an, having fulfilled her role as moneybag, died in childbirth—both mother and child gone in a blood-soaked bor. Her fate as a tool was fulfilled.

  Sigh.

  Ji Ping’an let out another long sigh.

  What a wretched predicament.

  A merchant’s orphan with no one to rely on—and a massive fortune on her head.

  Return to Jinling? She’d be devoured by wolves.

  Go to the Song household? A den of vipers.

  And before his death, Ji Father had already written to the Songs and transferred her household registration to them.

  Now, she couldn’t even leave and live independently.

  Her personhood was registered under the Song family, meaning her identity and marriage were fully in their hands.

  It was impossible for a woman to register a household on her own.

  Without official travel documents, she couldn’t go anywhere else. Even if she slipped away into another city and tried to live incognito, unless she hid in the wilderness forever, any attempt to exchange banknotes, purchase nd or property—or even buy a kitchen knife—would require identification. The moment she was found without household registration, she’d be thrown into prison.

  Worse yet, in this world, there were countless wife-selling scoundrels and roaming bachelors. A woman appearing alone was like a piece of meat everyone wanted to snatch.

  Hard. So hard. Too hard.

  Her only slight advantage over the original Ji Ping’an was that in this book’s world, it was illegal to force a proper dy into concubinage or prostitution.

  As long as she didn’t follow the plot and refused to say yes, no one could force her, a respectable woman, into becoming a concubine.

  But what if that bastard Song Huaizhang wanted to take her in as a side consort?

  A side consort wasn’t a concubine. As long as the elders of the Song family agreed, she’d have no right to refuse.

  The more Ji Ping’an thought about it, the more she loathed this world ruled by rigid, oppressive customs.

  Just then, a clear and easygoing voice came from beside the carriage.

  “Hello there, I saw a ntern on the carriage with the character Ji. Would this happen to be the Ji family from Jinling?”

  “It is,” Musheng replied.

  The rhythmic clop of hooves approached—judging by the sound, Ji Ping’an guessed it was two horses drawing near.

  A bright and crisp voice called out, “Little Cousin, we’ve come to pick you up!”

  Before Ji Ping’an could respond, the earlier voice rang out again, warm and refined, “Zhiyin, don’t be so abrupt. You might frighten Miss Ji.”

  A moment ter, a young girl’s voice addressed the carriage, “Little Cousin, my surname is Song—Song Zhiyin. I’m your older cousin. The one who just asked about the Ji family carriage is my second brother, also your second cousin, Song Huaiyu. Our parents sent us to wait for you at the city gate, but when the Ji family’s carriage didn’t arrive for a while, we thought something might’ve deyed you. So we rode out to find you. My second brother is usually a bit brash—please don’t take offense.”

  “Many thanks to Cousin Zhiyin and Cousin Huaiyu,” Ji Ping’an replied.

  Ji Ping’an was still speaking when Dongchun had already lifted the curtain and hooked it onto the brass hook, revealing a delicate face as fair as congealed jade.

  Song Zhiyin gnced over and smiled. “Ah, I’ve long heard that the girls of Jinling are more charming than crabapple blossoms, softer than pear flowers, and as beautiful as spring in March. Now that I’ve seen Little Cousin, I realize—those words still can’t capture even a third of Jinling dies’ beauty.”

  “You ftter me, Cousin.”

  Song Zhiyin then asked a few questions about the journey, which Ji Ping’an answered one by one.

  As they conversed, Song Zhiyin kept peeking curiously into the carriage, while Ji Ping’an couldn’t help but observe the two people outside.

  Song Zhiyin had skin like polished jade and eyes as clear as water—a very striking beauty. She called Ji Ping’an “Little Cousin,” so she was likely a bit older than the original owner. The original owner was fifteen, and since Song Zhiyin and Song Huaiyu were full siblings, she couldn’t be much older.

  Song Huaiyu, on the other hand, was a dashing young man, riding a tall chestnut horse. His jet-bck hair was fastened with a jade hairpin, and his eyes shifted restlessly, often gncing toward Bianjing as if he found this chat between Song Zhiyin and Ji Ping’an to be a waste of time.

  Song Zhiyin’s horse was smaller and shorter than Song Huaiyu’s. The book had mentioned, in its descriptions of Bianjing’s customs, that many noblewomen enjoyed pying polo and that women of wealthy households often rode horses. Because women were typically shorter than men, some merchants had spotted a business opportunity and specially trained smaller horses suited to noblewomen.

  It was likely that Song Zhiyin’s mount was one of those specially trained horses.

  “It’s getting te,” Song Huaiyu finally interrupted Song Zhiyin’s chatter. “If we keep deying, we won’t make it into the city before dark.”

  “I know.”

  Song Zhiyin tugged on her reins. “Little Cousin, we’ll chat more tonight during your welcome banquet.”

  Song Huaiyu chimed in, “Father and Uncle Ji haven’t seen each other in years. One’s passed on, the other’s still alive—come tonight, they’ll have plenty of questions for Little Cousin. You think you’ll even get a word in?”

  Song Zhiyin retorted, “That’s why I’m asking more now, taking the chance while I have it! Second Brother, you know I’ve never left Bianjing, let alone visited Jinling. Naturally, I’m curious about this famed city that supposedly rivals Bianjing’s splendor.”

  Song Huaiyu chuckled. “Alright, if the chance ever comes, Second Brother will take you to Jinling.”

  The two of them rode ahead on their horses, and their voices gradually faded.

  Dongchun lowered the curtain from the brass hook and secured its edges onto the carriage window frame. Then she said, “Miss, well done.”

  Ji Ping’an blinked, confused.

  “…What did I do?”

  Dongchun snorted. “The Song family really looks down on people.”

  Ji Ping’an: “?”

  Dongchun huffed, “Miss, now that Master is gone, you must stand tall. Our Ji family may be merchants, but we were once the wealthiest in Jinling. Plenty of schors and officials frequented our halls, and none of them looked down on us the way the Songs do.”

  Cough, cough. Ji Ping’an coughed lightly, masking her awkwardness.

  To be honest, she had only skimmed this novel out of boredom, and most of the details were fuzzy. She really couldn’t tell where the Song family was supposedly looking down on her.