“Ow, damn it!”
“Are the stones in this latrine made of diamonds or something?”
“That smash nearly cracked my tailbone in half!”
Shen Qinghuan cursed as she struggled up from the icy bluestone floor, the back of her head still ringing.
Just a second earlier, she had been at a mercenary training camp in the African desert. She had taken down three burly men with her bare hands, then collapsed in a makeshift latrine to catch her breath. Who would have thought a sandstorm would suddenly sweep in? Her foot slipped, the back of her head slammed against the stone base in the latrine—and when she opened her eyes again, the world spun violently.
What she saw was a drafty thatched roof, with a few strands of withered straw hanging down. The air was thick with mold and medicinal herbs, so pungent that it made her cough.
She looked down. She was wearing a coarse linen ru skirt, washed to a pale gray. The fabric was as rough as sandpaper, scraping painfully against her skin.
She raised a hand to touch her face. It was unfamiliar—small, barely palm-sized, with protruding cheekbones and cracked lips, clearly the face of someone long malnourished.
What broke her down the most was her stomach.
Almost instinctively, she touched her lower abdomen. It was swollen, about five or six months along. Even through the thin skirt, she could feel the slight bulge—and faint warmth, along with subtle fetal movement.
“No way, sir!”
“Transmigrating is one thing, but it even comes with a bonus ball?”
Shen Qinghuan was on the verge of tears. Just as she was about to wail, a flood of unfamiliar memories crashed into her mind, the pain forcing her to bare her teeth and squat on the ground, gasping.
The original owner of this body was also named Shen Qinghuan—the legitimate eldest daughter of Shen Cong’an, Minister of Personnel of the Great Jing Dynasty.
In his early years, Shen Cong’an had risen step by step using the dowry of his first wife—the original owner’s mother. But the first wife had died young, only a few years after giving birth.
Soon after, Shen Cong’an brought the mistress he had kept outside, Madam Wang, into the residence as his second wife. She came with her own children: a concubine-born daughter, Shen Chuchu, who was half a year younger than the original owner, and a concubine-born son, Shen Yuyang.
Madam Wang was vicious and ruthless. Shen Chuchu was venomous as a snake. Mother and daughter worked in perfect tandem, completely controlling the original owner.
The original owner had been timid and submissive, living in the Minister’s Residence worse than a servant.
Three months ago, during a banquet at the residence, Shen Chuchu lured her to the back mountain under the pretext of admiring flowers and made her drink a drugged cup of tea.
When she awoke groggy, a strange man lay beside her—his clothes disheveled, his features cold and sharp, a jade pendant engraved with the character “Ye” hanging from his waist.
Terrified and humiliated, the original owner fled back to the residence—only to be caught red-handed by Shen Chuchu.
Shen Chuchu embellished the story and told Shen Cong’an that the original owner had shamelessly consorted with an outsider.
Madam Wang fanned the flames, claiming the original owner had utterly disgraced the family.
Shen Cong’an flew into a rage and refused to hear any explanation.
At the time, Shen Chuchu had caught the eye of the Empress Dowager and was being considered as an imperial secondary consort for a prince. Fearing the scandal would ruin her prospects, Shen Cong’an cruelly ordered the original owner to be sent to the most remote rural estate in the capital’s outskirts.
Publicly, it was said she had contracted a serious illness and needed quiet recuperation. In truth, she was being left to die.
The servants at the estate were all Madam Wang’s loyal lackeys and showed no mercy.
Her daily meals were rancid coarse rice. Her medicine was laced with slow-acting poison.
Already frail, the original owner endured half a month of torment. Last night, after being soaked in cold rain, she suffered unbearable abdominal pain and died—leaving her body to Shen Qinghuan, a top mercenary and battlefield divine doctor from the 21st century.
“Well, damn. A stepmother and concubine-born sister teaming up to abuse the legitimate daughter—this script is melodramatic as hell.”
Shen Qinghuan rubbed her aching temples, a vicious glint flashing in her eyes.
Too bad for them—this body now belonged to her.
Want to bully me?
Want me dead?
Not a chance.
This child had been the original owner’s weakness—but for Shen Qinghuan, it was her untouchable reverse scale. Whoever dared harm him would be ground to dust.
She was just thinking about how to deal with the vicious servants at the estate when a shrill voice suddenly screeched from outside:
“Shen Qinghuan, you little slut!”
“Dead yet or not?”
“If you’re not dead, hurry up and drink this medicine! Madam said if you dare leave even a mouthful, you’ll be starved for three days and nights!”
A stout old woman in blue cloth walked in, carrying a bowl of pitch-black medicine. Her eyes were filled with contempt and cruelty.
This was Madam Wang’s trusted henchwoman, known as Wang Pozi. She had tormented the original owner mercilessly these past days.
Shen Qinghuan narrowed her eyes. Her nose twitched slightly, and she immediately detected a small amount of aconite mixed into the medicine.
Highly toxic. In large doses, it could not only harm the fetus but cause convulsions and death.
The original owner had drunk the medicine this woman delivered—and died from the resulting agony.
Seeing her unmoving, Wang Pozi strode forward impatiently and reached out to grab her chin.
“You little bitch! Still being stubborn?”
“Think you’re still the legitimate young lady of the Minister’s Residence?”
“You’re nothing but a discarded whore carrying a bastard!”
“Bastard?”
Shen Qinghuan suddenly lifted her head, her gaze cold as ice.
“I think you’re the one tired of living.”
Wang Pozi froze for a moment at the viciousness in her eyes, then spat.
“What? Talking back now?”
“Let’s see if I don’t rip that mouth apart!”
She raised her hand and swung toward Shen Qinghuan’s face.
But who was Shen Qinghuan?
She was a hardened fighter forged in mercenary training camps—skilled in combat, medicine, and poison alike.
Her eyes were sharp, her movements faster. She sidestepped instantly, grabbed Wang Pozi’s wrist, and twisted with precise force.
Crack.
With a crisp sound, Wang Pozi’s wrist dislocated on the spot.
“AAAH!”