Chapter 2: Not the Same Girl

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.