The last thing Li Gang knew was the sound of rending concrete and the sight of the sky falling, literally, as the condemned building he was protesting next to decided to give up a day early. There was no pain, just a profound, jarring impact that swallowed the world in dust and darkness.
Consciousness returned not with a jolt, but as a slow, painful throb behind his eyes. The first sensation was wrongness. The air was wrong. It was thick with a sweet, floral scent, not the familiar smells of sweat, leather, and industrial cleaner from the gym. The surface beneath him was wrong—soft, yielding silk instead of a thin mattress or the hard canvas of a ring.
What the hell? Did I get concussed? Is this a hospital?
He tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids were leaden. He tried to move his arms, to push himself up, but his limbs felt like they were wrapped in cotton wool, distant and unresponsive. A low groan escaped his lips, and the sound that reached his ears was high-pitched, fragile.
That's not my voice.
Panic, cold and sharp, began to cut through the fog in his mind. He forced his eyes open, blinking against the soft, ambient light. He was lying in a massive bed draped with gauzy curtains. The room was enormous, filled with dark, intricately carved wooden furniture. A delicate porcelain vase sat on a table nearby. Sunlight streamed through a latticed window, illuminating specks of dust dancing in the air.
This was no hospital.
Okay, Gang. Assess the situation. You're in a… very fancy, very old-looking room. You've been… relocated. Kidnapped? His fighter's instincts screamed at him to get up, to find an exit, to assume a defensive stance.
He threw back the silk coverlet and swung his legs over the side of the bed. His feet touched cool, polished wood. He looked down.
And the world stopped.
The feet were small, pale, and delicate. Attached to them were slender ankles, leading up to… a body that was most definitely not his own. He was wearing a long, silken sleeping robe, and it draped over a form that was unmistakably, undeniably female. Soft curves where there should have been hard muscle.
No. No, no, no.
With a trembling hand that felt both alien and familiar, he reached up and touched his face. The skin was smooth. His jawline was soft. His fingers traced the outline of his lips, then traveled upward, encountering a cascade of long, impossibly soft hair.
A high, sharp sound of pure, unadulterated terror caught in his throat. He scrambled off the bed, his legs buckling under the unfamiliar weight distribution, and half-crawled, half-stumbled toward a large, ornate bronze mirror standing in the corner.
He gripped the cool metal of the mirror's frame, pulling himself upright to face his reflection.
The face that stared back at him was that of a girl, no more than sixteen. She was beautiful, with flawless pale skin, large, dark eyes wide with the same panic he felt, and lips that were currently parted in a silent scream. It was a face of classic, elegant beauty, the kind he'd only seen in historical dramas his mom watched.
It was not his face.
"What… the… hell?" The words came out as a whisper, but the voice was a melody, a gentle chime that was utterly dissonant with the raw, guttural curse forming in his mind.
I'm a girl. I'm a… I'm a princess? His internal monologue was a roar of confusion. This is a nightmare. A stress-induced hallucination. I got hit on the head too hard.
He gripped the sides of his head, his fingers tangling in the long, black hair. Wake up, Gang. Wake up!
He did the only thing that made sense. He drew back a fist—a small, pale, and decidedly un-calloused fist—and punched himself squarely in the jaw.
The pain was immediate and bright, blossoming along his cheekbone. It was real. This was real.
The door to the room slid open with a quiet whisper. A young girl, dressed in a simple servant's tunic, entered with a basin of water. She froze, her eyes widening in horror at the scene before her: the young mistress, out of bed, hair disheveled, holding her jaw where a red mark was already forming.
"Young Mistress!" the servant gasped, dropping into a deep bow, the basin clutched tightly. "You're awake! Thank the heavens! You gave us such a fright when you fainted in the garden yesterday. Please, you must return to bed. The physician said you need rest!"
Li Gang—now trapped in the body of this "Young Mistress"—could only stare. The words washed over him, a foreign language that his mind somehow understood. Fainted? Garden? Young Mistress?
He looked from the terrified servant's face back to his own reflection in the bronze mirror. The beautiful girl's eyes, his eyes, were filled with a boxer's primal fear, a caged animal's desperation. The disconnect was so vast it was almost comical.
A thought, insane and unbidden, rose to the surface of his panic.
Six men?! I was one of you! This is a logistical and psychological nightmare!
He had survived a building collapse only to be imprisoned in a life of silk and poetry. The fight of his life was no longer in a ring; it was in this bedroom, in this body. The bell had rung, and the first round of his new, impossible existence had begun. The servant's exclamation hung in the air, a stark confirmation of the nightmare. Young Mistress. You fainted. The words twisted in Li Gang's mind, each one a fresh wave of panic. He stared at the girl, who remained bowed, her shoulders tense with apprehension.
A Servant's Perplexity. The servant, emboldened by silence, dared a glance upward. She saw her mistress, the renowned beauty Li Mei, standing not with her usual graceful poise but with the wide-legged stance of a street brawler, one hand still gingerly touching her reddening jaw. The girl's eyes widened further, a mixture of fear and confusion. "Young Mistress... are you... unwell? Should I fetch the physician again?"
Unwell? Li Gang's internal voice was a roar. I've been transplanted into a porcelain doll! But the servant's terrified expression pierced through his panic. Causing a scene now would only lead to more trouble, perhaps even to being confined to this room or, worse, subjected to strange ancient medical treatments. Survival instinct, honed from years in the ring, kicked in. The immediate goal was not to understand, but to adapt enough to buy time.
The First Test of Deception. He tried to speak, to force this new, melodic voice into something resembling a command. "N-no," he stammered, the word feeling foreign. He cleared his throat, an action that came out as a delicate cough rather than the gruff sound he intended. "No physician. I am... fine." He attempted to wave a dismissive hand, but the gesture was too abrupt, too sharp, ending in a clenched fist that he had to consciously force open.
The servant, whose name he recalled hearing as Xiaoling, looked unconvinced but nodded rapidly. "As you wish, Young Mistress. Shall I help you dress? Your father, the Minister, has been most anxious. He wishes to see you as soon as you are awake."
The Minister. The Father. Li Wenzhong. The blueprint's details flashed in his mind. The stern Minister of War. A man who would expect a demure daughter, not a reincarnated boxer. This meeting would be the first real test, a high-stakes performance where a single wrong move could spell disaster.
A Struggle with Basic Form. Numbly, Li Gang—Li Mei—nodded. What followed was a fresh hell of humiliation. Xiaoling brought over an array of garments that were a complex puzzle of silk, sashes, and layers. He stood rigid as the servant tried to guide his arms into the wide sleeves of an inner robe. His muscle memory screamed to dress himself, but his fumbling fingers were useless against the delicate fastenings. When Xiaoling gently nudged him to sit so she could comb his hair, his body instinctively resisted, tensing as if for a fight. The feeling of the comb dragging through the long, black hair was excruciatingly alien. Every pull was a reminder of the length, the femininity, the sheer wrongness of it all.
He caught another glimpse of himself in the bronze mirror. The girl in the reflection was being transformed from a disheveled patient into an emerging noblewoman. The elegant robes, now partially on, contrasted violently with the wild, frantic look in her eyes. It was like watching an actor being forced into a costume for a play he'd never read.
Finally, presentable in a way that seemed to satisfy Xiaoling, he was led to the door. Taking a step forward, he was immediately betrayed by his own body. The hem of the robe was too long, and his natural, powerful stride—the balanced gait of a fighter—caught on the fabric. He stumbled forward, only saving himself from a complete fall by grabbing the doorframe with a grip so strong the wood creaked in protest.
Xiaoling gasped. "Young Mistress!"
Smooth, Gang. Real smooth, he thought, his face heating with a blush that felt entirely unfamiliar. He straightened up, forcing himself to take small, mincing steps, each one a battle against his instincts. The hallway outside was long and opulent, with polished floors and painted screens. It felt like walking toward his first professional fight, but this time, the opponent was a world he couldn't possibly punch.