Great Jing Dynasty, Yun Prefecture, Qinghe County.
Shen Xian woke up in agony.
Throbbing pain pulsed at the back of his skull, as if someone were tapping his crown with a tiny hammer.
He pried his eyes open.
Instead of the moldy ceiling of his rental apartment, he saw a thatched roof leaking streaks of light, with a wispy spider silk dangling and swaying overhead.
He instinctively reached for his phone, only to grab a handful of straw.
What the hell.
A corporate drone who burned out and died at his workstation doesn’t even get a coffin.
They just dumped me onto a pile of firewood?
Mid‑rant, foreign memories flooded into his mind, making him grimace in pain.
This body also bore the name Shen Xian.
He was the illegitimate son of the Shen household, seventeen years old.
His birth mother had been a cleaning maid who passed away from illness shortly after giving birth to him.
Within the Shen Manor, his status was little more than a breathing piece of furniture.
This previous version of Shen Xian had pulled quite a few stupid stunts: at eight, he stole sacrificial offerings from the ancestral hall and was forced to kneel for three days.
At twelve, he took the blame for his legitimate elder brother Shen Yaozu, who had smashed a celadon vase.
He got ten beatings and even deluded himself they shared true brotherly affection.
Half a moon prior, someone had slipped him two taels of silver, asking him to “safekeep” an ornate box.
Gleefully, he had hidden it under his pillow —‑‑
Shen Xian: “…”
Buddy, this isn’t just foolishness.
You’ve got “fall guy” carved straight into your bones.
Worse still, the box held a Red Spirit Ginseng, a tribute the Shens had saved up half a year to present as a birthday gift for Magistrate Wang.
Its market value stood at three hundred taels.
Three days ago, the birthday gift vanished, throwing the entire manor into chaos.
The night before, the manor guards “happened upon” the box tucked under his pillow.
Caught red‑handed.
At dawn the next day, he would be handed over to the authorities.
Under Great Jing law, stealing official birthday gifts merited eighty cane strokes and exile to Blackrock Mine.
Few prisoners sent there survived more than two years.
The firewood‑room door creaked open.
Steward Shen Zhong stepped in holding a lantern, his features sharp and rat‑like.
Two manservants followed behind him.
Though his given name meant “loyal”, nothing about his actions lived up to it.
“Well, the Third Young Master is awake.” Shen Zhong hung the lantern on the wall, his smile cold and hollow.
“Good timing.
The master has spoken: you will be taken before the magistrate at the fifth hour tomorrow morning.
Tonight you get one full meal, out of respect for our master‑servant bond.”
He lifted a bowl of coarse rice from the food box, topped with half a pickled vegetable.
Shen Xian stared at the bowl for three seconds.
Even a last meal is some low‑calorie garbage.
What a corporate culture the Shen family has, impressive.
He left the chopsticks untouched and lifted his head instead.
“Uncle Zhong, there is something I cannot figure out.”
“Speak quickly.
The hour grows late.”
“That Red Spirit Ginseng —‑‑ was it really found under my pillow last night?” Shen Xian spoke unhurriedly.
“Who first reported the theft?
Who first pointed the finger at me?”
“When valuables go missing in the manor, naturally we look for an insider thief.
The guard Liu San said he saw you sneaking back to your room carrying a box a few days ago.
The master led men to search your quarters, and found it without trouble.” A hint of malicious glee colored Shen Zhong’s tone.
“Third Young Master, the evidence is iron‑clad.
Confess, and you will suffer less pain.”
Shen Xian laughed.
Shen Zhong looked confused.
“What are you laughing at?”
“I laugh at how shoddy your frame‑up job is.” Shen Xian flexed his wrists, numb from being bound with rope.
“Uncle Zhong, if you had stolen a Red Spirit Ginseng worth three hundred taels, would you hide it under your own pillow and wait for people to search for it?”
Shen Zhong choked.
“That… perhaps you are just stupid.”
“Me, stupid?
Would a fool pass the Tong Sheng civil examination?” The former him may have been meek, yet he had studied for years, and Shen Xian wasted no time using that fact.
“If I truly stole it, the very first thing I would do is sell it off.
A Red Spirit Ginseng loses potency each day it sits; after three days, ten percent of its virtue rots away.
Why would I keep it under my pillow as an offering?
I am certainly no ginseng spirit feasting on its aroma.”
Shen Zhong: “…”
“Furthermore, if I knew the box sat in my room, I could have burned it, buried it, or tossed it into the latrine during last night’s manor‑wide search.
Would I really leave it resting peacefully beneath my pillow?” Shen Xian shook his head with a look of pity for their incompetence.
“‘Caught red‑handed’ hinges on the timing of being ‘caught’.
This search went far too smoothly, like a script written in advance.
Uncle Zhong, would you not call that suspicious?”
Silence filled the firewood shed.
The two manservants exchanged glances.
One, Wangcai, scratched his head and muttered quietly, “That… kinda makes sense, y’know.”
“Makes sense my foot!” Shen Zhong shot him a glare, then turned back, putting on a fierce front.
“Smooth‑tongued nonsense!
Do you think you can quibble before the master?”
“I am not quibbling.” Shen Xian leaned back onto the straw pile, settling into a comfortable posture, sounding like an office worker saying “I’ll send you the proposal by end of day”.
“Go tell the master this: give me one day.
I will unmask the real thief and lay both culprit and stolen goods before him.
If I fail, hand me over to officials tomorrow.
I shall utter no cry of injustice.”
Shen Zhong narrowed his eyes.
“You?
What makes you think you can do that?”
“When the thief stuffed the stolen goods under my pillow,” Shen Xian shook the rope binding his wrists, a smirk tugging at his lips, “he didn’t kill me first.
That means he was certain I could never clear my name.
No outsider could possess such certainty.”
Shen Zhong’s expression shifted.
He stared long at Shen Xian.
All of a sudden, he noticed this usually timid Third Young Master’s eyes burned bright, as though a completely different person inhabited the body.
“…Wait here.” Shen Zhong snatched up the food box and headed for the door.
He paused on the threshold and glanced back.
“Your food will grow cold.
Eat whatever you can.”
The door slammed shut and locked.
Darkness reclaimed the firewood shed.
Shen Xian drew a deep breath and began piecing everything together.
He had no real idea who the thief was.
What he had just said was three parts truth and seven parts bluff —‑‑ but a well‑reasoned bluff, far more effective than wailing and pleading innocence.
Lesson one from modern‑day office work: when disaster strikes, do not rush to prove your innocence.
Muddy the waters first, and turn those investigating you into people investigating for you.
“Under the pillow…” he mumbled under his breath.
“Such a sloppy frame‑up.
Either the culprit is dumb, or desperate.
Either way, they will leave traces.”
Shuffling his body, he used moonlight seeping through the door crack to scan every inch of the firewood shed.
Whoever had slipped the box into his room must have gotten in through some door, window, or passage he had not yet thought of.