Snow fell gently outside the palace walls, but inside, the air was soaked with blood.

Yan Zhi lay on the cold jade floor of the inner court, her crimson dress spreading beneath her like a dying flame. Her back was scorched with pain, her body broken. The blood dripping from her mouth tasted of betrayal.

“Why?” she rasped. Her voice was barely audible—more breath than sound.

Her cousin knelt beside her, tears glistening in her eyes. But her hands held the dagger steady, slick with fresh blood.

“I always envied you,” the girl whispered. “You were always so composed, so perfect. The capital’s favorite beauty. The Empress’s goddaughter. The one everyone loved. It wasn’t fair.”

Behind her, Yan Zhi’s fiancé stood silently, the same man who once swore eternal loyalty. He didn’t look away when her eyes met his. He didn’t flinch when she mouthed his name. He simply raised his sword and turned his back.

She felt her heart stop—not from the wound, but from that final look of indifference.

And then darkness took her.

But she didn’t stay in it long.

—

She woke to pain. Not the sharp kind from swords, but a dull, choking kind. Her head throbbed. Her chest heaved. Something heavy pressed against her ribs.

Her nose filled with a horrible stench—pigs. Rotten grain. Smoke.

She sat up with a gasp, flinging off a filthy quilt. The wooden bed creaked beneath her. The room around her was small, smoky, and crumbling at the corners. There were holes in the walls. Chickens pecked near the doorway.

“What the hell…”

Her voice was hoarse, but not the same. It was higher. Younger.

She scrambled to the side of the bed, saw her reflection in the cracked bronze mirror across the room—and froze.

The face staring back at her was round, puffy, and bruised. A swollen lip. A black eye. The body wrapped in a tattered cotton robe was thick—too thick. Her limbs were heavy. Her fingers short. This… wasn’t her.

She stared in disbelief. Then she closed her eyes.

And that’s when the memories hit.

Like a flood.

The village. The beatings. The humiliation. The original owner of this body—also named Yan Zhi—had been mocked all her life for her size and poverty. A village girl with a dead mother, a drunk father, and no future. Two days ago, she’d been dragged out of her house by the village chief’s son, Wu Er, who wanted to marry her by force. She’d resisted.

They’d beaten her for it.

And that’s when her soul had arrived.

So this was it? Rebirth?

She stared at her swollen hands again. Her once-elegant fingers were gone. The golden rings. The polished nails. All replaced by rough, callused hands that spoke of manual labor and frostbite.

Yan Zhi didn’t panic.

She sat there in silence, piecing together the memories, until her breath steadied.

“I died,” she muttered. “They killed me.”

She touched her chest. No wound. No blood. Just fat. And pain.

“They betrayed me. But this time…”

Her eyes narrowed.

“This time, I’ll play the game better.”

She stood slowly, her legs shaky, her body unfamiliar. But her spine straightened.

From outside the hut came voices.

“She finally croaked?”

“No, Wu Er said she’s alive. Damn woman’s like a pig—can’t even die right.”

Laughter.

She opened the door.

Four villagers froze mid-laugh when they saw her. Normally, Fat Yan Zhi would’ve cowered, maybe cried, maybe begged. But the girl in the doorway wasn’t the same.

She stepped out barefoot into the mud.

Wu Er sneered. “Well, well, the pig wakes. Ready to be my wife now?”

The other villagers laughed harder.

Yan Zhi stared at him. Calm. Silent.

Then she walked right up to him—and before anyone could react, her knee shot upward.

CRACK.

Wu Er let out a shriek and dropped like a sack of rice, holding his crotch.

The other three took a step back, stunned.

She didn’t stop there.

She grabbed the firewood stick from the side of the hut and swung it once—clean across the back of another’s knees. He collapsed too.

The third tried to run. She hurled the stick after him and it hit squarely between his shoulders. He fell face-first into pig dung.

The fourth just stood there, mouth open.

Yan Zhi looked at him.

“Want to be next?”

He shook his head furiously.

She stepped closer, her voice low.

“Tell your father: if he dares come near me again, I’ll cut off his other son’s manhood and feed it to the dogs.”

The man turned and bolted.

The courtyard went silent.

Yan Zhi exhaled. Her body trembled from exertion—it wasn’t used to this. Not yet. But it would be.

She looked down at Wu Er, groaning in the mud.

“The old Yan Zhi may have been a joke. But I’m not her.”

And she turned and walked back into the hut without another word.

This time, she wasn’t just going to survive.

She was going to conquer.

The entire village was talking.

“Did you hear? Fat Yan Zhi broke Wu Er’s nose.”

“I saw it! She just walked out and cracked him like a stick. Didn’t say a word!”

“She’s possessed. Has to be. Maybe her spirit got swapped with some demon’s.”

Yan Zhi heard every whisper as she passed the muddy paths between the huts. But she didn’t stop. Didn’t look back. Her body was heavy, but her steps were firm, measured. Focused.

In her past life, she walked palace corridors with the same composure. Now, those corridors were pig paths—but her pride didn’t care.

She had bigger problems than gossip.

Her stomach growled like a beast. This body hadn’t eaten properly in days. The original owner had lived off watery porridge and spoiled vegetables. She felt weak—physically—but her mind was racing.

She needed food. She needed money. And she needed information.

By the time she reached the rundown herbal shed at the edge of the village, she already had a plan.

The shed was owned by Old Lady Hu, the village “healer”—a fraud who once misdiagnosed a kid’s measles as ghost poisoning. Still, she kept dried herbs and traded them to passing peddlers.

Yan Zhi pushed open the creaking door.

Inside, the air smelled of dust and mold. Shelves sagged with old jars. Dried roots hung from ropes.

Old Lady Hu looked up, eyes squinting through the smoke of her foul pipe.

“You again?” she barked. “Didn’t I tell you to stop begging for scraps?”

Yan Zhi walked in like she owned the place.

“I’m not here to beg,” she said flatly. “I’m here to work.”

Old Hu snorted. “Work? With those stubby fingers? You can’t even tell the difference between ginseng and carrot root.”

Yan Zhi walked to the table, picked up two similar-looking roots, and dropped them in front of her.

“This one’s aged mountain ginseng—see the fine lines around the root crown? That one’s wild carrot. Worthless. You’ve got them stored together. If a peddler buys the wrong one, they’ll never come back.”

Old Hu stared, pipe slipping from her lips.

Yan Zhi continued.

“Your licorice is damp. Your angelica is full of worm holes. Your codonopsis was picked too early and stored wrong—it’s lost potency.”

She paused. “You’re wasting product and scaring off buyers. I can fix it. For 30 copper a day. And three steamed buns.”

Old Hu narrowed her eyes. “You think I’m made of coins?”

“You’re losing more than that every day. Or I can set up my own table and take your customers. I doubt you want the village choosing between your ghost cures and someone who actually knows what they’re doing.”

Old Hu scowled. “Who taught you this stuff?”

Yan Zhi smiled faintly. “Let’s just say I’ve studied better than most royal physicians.”

After a long pause, the old woman grunted. “Fine. You get one steamed bun today. Two if you bring me three sales.”

“Deal,” Yan Zhi said, and rolled up her sleeves.

—

By midday, she’d cleaned half the shelves, sorted the herbs properly, and chased off a group of kids trying to steal dried licorice.

She worked with a practiced ease that surprised even her. Her new body was slow, yes—but her movements were precise. This was muscle memory. She’d treated battlefield wounds, brewed rare antidotes, and once healed a dying prince with a single needle. Sorting herbs was child’s play.

Still, she felt every ounce of her weight by the time she sat down to eat her reward: a flat, oily bun stuffed with radish. It was the best thing she’d tasted in two lives.

As she ate in silence, she pulled out the coins Old Hu had given her. Ten copper now. Not much, but it was a start.

Her gaze drifted to the forest in the distance.

She needed herbs. Real ones. Not the stale junk Old Hu carried.

The forest was dangerous—wolves, snakes, and worse—but she’d survived palace plots. She could survive a forest.

She wiped her mouth, pocketed the coins, and stood.

That’s when she heard the scream.

It came from the north trail—sharp and panicked.

Without thinking, she ran.

Her body protested, lungs burning, thighs aching—but she didn’t stop.

She followed the noise through the brush until she reached the clearing.

And there he was.

A man lay slumped near the riverbank, half-conscious, his robes soaked in blood. His left leg was twisted unnaturally. A deep gash ran down his side. A sword lay beside him, its blade cracked and dark with dried blood.

Even in his ruined state, he radiated danger.

She crouched beside him.

His face was pale, jaw clenched, eyes burning with fever.

When he saw her, he reached weakly for the sword.

“Touch that, and I’ll leave you here to rot,” she said calmly.

He froze.

“I’m a doctor,” she said. “You’re dying. But you’ll live if you let me work.”

His eyes locked on hers—dark, sharp, wary.

“Why help me?” he rasped.

Yan Zhi looked him over. No insignia. No banners. But the boots, the calluses, the muscle—he was a soldier. A high-ranking one.

“I don’t like watching people die,” she lied.

He studied her a moment longer. Then nodded once.

Yan Zhi cracked her knuckles, eyes sharp.

“Good. Now shut up and don’t move.”

She got to work.

Blood.

Too much of it.

Yan Zhi pressed her hand to the gash on the man’s side, feeling the warmth soak through his robes. Her fingers came away red and slick. His breathing was shallow, but steady. Barely.

“Your liver’s nicked,” she muttered. “Your leg’s dislocated. And you’ve got a mild concussion. Congratulations. You’re not dead yet.”

The man didn’t respond. His head lolled slightly, eyes fluttering shut.

“No, no, no.” She slapped his cheek—lightly. “You want to die? Crawl back into the river. Otherwise, keep your eyes open.”

He winced. Good. He could feel pain. That meant he was still alive enough to save.

She worked quickly.

From her cloth satchel, she pulled out the few herbs she’d stolen from Old Hu’s back shelf. Nothing fancy—some honeysuckle, dried ginger root, and willow bark. Not enough to treat everything, but enough to keep him from burning up.

She tore strips from his robe and used them as binding. Her fingers moved fast, decisive, wrapping the wound tight. Not perfect. Not sterile. But this wasn’t a palace infirmary. It was survival.

Her hands were slick with blood, her back screaming, but her mind was calm. Focused. This was who she was. Not a fat village girl. Not a joke. She was Yan Zhi, the woman who once stopped an emperor’s bleeding with a single pressure point.

And this man—whoever he was—was going to owe her.

As she wrapped his side, she noticed the scar running across his ribs. Old. Healed ugly. A sword wound, probably from a broad saber. She recognized it instantly. The type northern barbarians used in border skirmishes.

A soldier, then. Or someone who’d fought like one.

She moved to the leg next. The dislocation wasn’t clean. She could try to set it here, but if she failed…

“You’re going to scream,” she warned.

The man gave the faintest smirk.

“Do it,” he muttered. “Or leave me.”

Yan Zhi raised a brow. “You really don’t value your limbs.”

“I value results.”

She grabbed a thick stick, shoved it between his teeth.

“Bite.”

Then she gripped his knee—and jerked.

CRACK.

His muffled scream echoed through the trees.

Then silence.

She wiped sweat from her brow.

“Well,” she said, breathless, “if you survive the night, I’ll be impressed.”

She stood, wobbly, and surveyed him. He was unconscious again, this time from pain and blood loss. He wouldn’t last out here. Not exposed. Not without fire or shelter.

She looked at his sword. Heavy. Intricate hilt. Definitely not a peasant’s weapon. She recognized the style—it belonged to a military officer. A high one.

“So who the hell are you?” she muttered.

He didn’t answer, obviously.

She sighed. Then grabbed his arms.

“You better be worth the trouble,” she hissed, and started dragging him back toward the village.

—

It took nearly an hour to reach her hut, and by then, her arms felt like jelly. Her back ached. Her legs throbbed. But she’d made it.

Inside, she laid him on the straw mat in the corner and covered him with her only real blanket.

She checked the bandages. Still holding.

She boiled water with the tiny coal stove in the corner, steeped the herbs, and forced a few drops between his lips.

The fever would hit by nightfall. She’d need more willow bark. And maybe—if she dared—something stronger from Old Hu’s stash.

As the night deepened, she sat beside him with her arms crossed, watching his chest rise and fall.

She didn’t know his name.

But her instincts screamed this man wasn’t just some wandering fighter. His calluses, his posture, the blade at his side—everything about him reeked of command.

And danger.

Just the kind she needed.

Because if she was going to take back what she lost…

She’d need allies far more dangerous than the ones who betrayed her.