Shen Qinghuan stood on the threshold of the thatched hut, her gaze sweeping over the dilapidated, cramped space. The thatch on the roof had been shredded by the wind, exposing the pitch-black rafters. Moldy, dark patches crawled across half of the walls, emanating a lingering, damp, and musty stench.
This had once been her cage after crossing over into this world, the place where the original owner had died filled with hatred. Now that the dust had settled, the smell of blood had been cleansed by the spiritual spring water, leaving only a dead silence in the courtyard.
“Baby, let’s go. This broken place isn’t worth another moment of our time.”
She gently caressed her lower abdomen, her voice soft but filled with unquestionable determination. The child within seemed to understand, moving slightly as if in response.
Shen Qinghuan turned, her eyes falling upon Mother Wang’s adobe house. That old crone always skimped on my food, yet she had managed to hoard quite a bit of ill-gotten wealth. I am now six months pregnant and heading to the capital to pluck teeth from a tiger’s mouth. Money is the foundation of survival; I cannot afford to waste a single cent.
She walked over and pushed open the half-ajar door, met with a sour, rotten odor. The interior was furnished simply: a wooden bed, a wobbly table with a missing leg, and a few tattered fabric bundles in the corner. Shen Qinghuan sneered; the old crone certainly knew how to feign poverty.
She walked to the bed, lifted the patched mattress, and sure enough, a floorboard had been pried loose, hiding an oilcloth bundle. It felt heavy in her hand. Upon opening it, she found gleaming silver and several strings of copper coins. “My, my. It adds up to over 120 taels. What a greedy old thing!”
Shen Qinghuan swept the money into her spatial storage and searched again, finding a small gold bracelet wrapped in oil paper hidden in the ashes of the stove—evidently the old woman’s private stash. She then checked the quarters of the other two servants, scrounging up another dozen taels of silver and some clothing.
After organizing her spoils, she clapped her hands, her eyes cold as she looked at the empty courtyard. The bodies of Wang Hongwei and Zhao Er were buried deep beneath the earth, leaving no trace. The noble pulling the strings from the shadows would not discover the change in circumstances here for a long time. This was the perfect window to head to the capital.
The Ministry of Personnel—that was the original owner’s family home, and the place where her mother’s life had been buried. Her mother, Liu Wannian, had entered the Shen family with a massive dowry, expecting a peaceful life, only to find she had jumped into a fire pit. Shen Cong’an, the Minister of Personnel, had favored his concubine, Madam Wang, over his wife, swallowing up Liu Wannian’s entire dowry to enrich his mistress.
The original owner had suffered under the schemes of Madam Wang and her daughter, Shen Chuchu, until she died in despair, eventually being married off to the cruel and bloodthirsty Prince Jing, only to perish in a sea of flames.
I will settle this account. Every bit of the dowry that belonged to Liu Wannian will be returned, and the debts owed by that trashy father, Shen Cong’an, and Madam Wang—I will collect them all, with interest.
No longer hesitating, Shen Qinghuan headed toward the town. The early spring breeze was chilly, blowing wisps of hair across her forehead. Dressed in a washed-out, coarse cloth dress, her face appeared pale from pregnancy, making her look like an ordinary country woman.
After an hour, she reached the town. The streets, paved with bluestone, were bustling with shops and peddlers. Shen Qinghuan walked straight to a clothing store named “Jinxian Pavilion.” Just as she reached the door, a shop assistant blocked her, looking her up and down with disdain. “Hey, auntie, we sell only fine silks here. A single garment costs more than you make in half a year. Go look elsewhere.”
Shen Qinghuan frowned. In her past life as a divine doctor, she had been treated with respect; she had never been treated with such contempt. But given her current sensitive identity, she suppressed her irritation. “Open for business, yet you turn customers away? I can afford it. Lead me to choose.”
Seeing her firm tone and elegant eyes despite her rags, the assistant stepped aside sulkily. “Fine, go in. But don’t touch anything; if you ruin our clothes, you can’t afford the compensation!”
Shen Qinghuan ignored him and stepped inside. The shopkeeper looked up from his abacus, surprised to see a rural woman. Just as he was about to frown, she walked to the silk dresses and said, “Shopkeeper, this moon-white dress and that lake-blue quilt cover, I’ll take them. Also, get me a set of high-quality, loose navy-blue men’s clothing, sized to my build.”
Her voice was clear and composed. The shopkeeper, realizing she had an extraordinary bearing, quickly put down his abacus. “Miss, you have a keen eye! This moon-white dress is Suzhou silk; it’s perfect for a young lady.”
The assistant at the door stood silent, his face burning. Shen Qinghuan added, “Also, bring me a jasper hairpin and a pair of pearl earrings.”
Nearby, a few young ladies from wealthy families whispered, “Whose wife is this? Dressed so shabbily, she’s probably puffing herself up to look wealthy—let’s see what happens when she can’t pay.”
Shen Qinghuan ignored them, and when the shopkeeper gave the total—35 taels—she calmly placed a 50-tael silver ingot on the counter. “Keep the change. The rest is your tip.”
The ladies were shocked into silence. As she left, Shen Qinghuan paused by the humiliated assistant and said coolly, “Judging a book by its cover is no way to do business.”
She ducked into a quiet alley and entered her hidden space. Inside, she changed into the moon-white dress, her skin appearing fair and rosy. She pinned the jasper hairpin in her hair, transforming into an elegant young lady. She then dressed in the navy-blue men’s clothing, using a special ointment from her space to harden her features into a handsome, heroic young man.
Satisfied, she exited her space and headed to the carriage station. The owner, a chubby man, smiled at her. “Young master, need a ride to the capital?”
“Yes,” Shen Qinghuan said, lowering her voice to a clear, masculine tone. “I need a reliable carriage.”
“It’ll be 50 taels,” the man said. “The route is long and the capital is checking travelers strictly, but my driver, Old Ma, is the best.”
Shen Qinghuan tossed him the silver. “Done. We leave immediately.”
Old Ma appeared with a sturdy chestnut horse and a spacious carriage. As she stepped inside, the interior was comfortable with soft cushions. She pulled back the curtain, looking toward the horizon. Capital, here I come. Shen Cong’an, Madam Wang, Shen Chuchu—are you prepared?
The carriage rolled forward, raising dust in its wake. Shen Qinghuan rested against the cushions, touching her abdomen, her eyes icy. She knew this journey to the capital would be anything but peaceful.