The walk to Minister Li Wenzhong's study was a gauntlet of humiliation. Li Mei, her soul a tempest of Li Gang's panic, focused all her will on the simple, impossible act of walking. Each mincing step in the delicate silk slippers felt like a betrayal of his natural, balanced stride. Her body, lighter and with a lower center of gravity, constantly threatened to overcorrect, turning her graceful glide into a series of barely-contained stumbles. Xiaoling, the servant girl, hovered just behind her, a silent reminder of the performance he was failing.
Heel-toe, heel-toe, he chanted in his mind, a boxer's mantra repurposed for a courtly waltz. Don't stride. Don't clench your fists. And for God's sake, don't look like you're about to check someone into the boards.
They stopped before a heavy, dark wood door adorned with a carved dragon. Two stern-faced guards in light armor stood at attention. Their eyes, sharp and assessing, swept over Li Mei. Instinctively, Li Gang's posture straightened, his shoulders pulling back and his chin tucking down—not in demure submission, but in the ready stance of a fighter sizing up opposition. The guards' eyes widened a fraction, a flicker of confusion at the young mistress's unusually assertive bearing. Xiaoling, seeing the reaction, quickly stepped forward and announced in a soft, respectful tone, "Young Mistress Li Mei is here to see the Minister, as requested."
One guard gave a curt nod and opened the door. Li Mei took a deep breath, a boxer stepping into the ring before a hostile crowd, and crossed the threshold.
The study was a testament to power and discipline. Scrolls of calligraphy and maps of the empire lined the walls. The air smelled of sandalwood and old paper. Behind a massive desk of polished zitan wood sat Minister Li Wenzhong. He was a man in his late forties, with a strong jaw and threads of silver in his precisely groomed beard. His posture was ramrod straight, even in repose, and his eyes, the color of dark flint, lifted from a scroll and fixed upon his daughter. They were filled with a concern so deep it was almost a physical weight.
"Mei'er," he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the quiet room. "You are awake. Come closer. Let your father look at you."
The term of endearment "Mei'er" sent a fresh jolt of dissonance through Li Gang. He forced his feet to carry him forward, stopping a few paces from the desk. He remembered the blueprint's description: Stern, powerful, and perpetually confused by his daughter's new "eccentric" behavior. The stakes were immense.
"Father," Li Mei replied, the melodic voice a stark contrast to the gruff acknowledgment echoing in her mind. She attempted a bow she had seen in a historical drama—a slight bend at the waist, eyes downcast. The motion was too quick, too shallow, ending with her staring directly into her father's eyes with an unnerving intensity.
Li Wenzhong's brow furrowed slightly. "The physician said you suffered from a sudden faintness in the garden. Your constitution has always been delicate. You must take better care." He leaned forward, his gaze searching her face. "You seem… different today, Mei'er. Your spirit appears agitated."
Agitated? You have no idea, old man. My spirit is currently trying to figure out the footwork to get out of this conversation.
"I am well, Father," she said, aiming for a soft, reassuring tone. It came out flat, almost dismissive. "It was just the sun."
"The sun," Li Wenzhong repeated, his tone neutral. He gestured to a small, exquisitely carved stool beside the desk. "Sit. You should not stand for long."
Sitting in the flowing robes was another subtle torture. Li Gang's instinct was to drop into a chair, to sprawl with his legs apart. Now, he had to lower himself onto a tiny, precarious stool while keeping the robes arranged. He managed it, but the movement was stiff, lacking the fluid grace expected of Minister Li's daughter.
A heavy silence fell. Li Wenzhong continued to study her, his finger tapping thoughtfully on the desk. "The Emperor's Mid-Autumn garden banquet is in ten days' time," he said finally. "It is a crucial event. Many important families will be present. I have heard… whispers. That the second son of General Zhao, and the heir of the Wang family, among others, have taken notice of you."
Li Mei's stomach clenched. The suitors. The six bewildered suitors. The logistical nightmare was beginning.
Li Wenzhong's expression softened by a degree, a rare show of emotion. "You are my only daughter, Mei'er. Your future is my utmost concern. You must be prepared. Your manners, your embroidery, your poetry… they must be impeccable. I have arranged for your tutors to resume their lessons with you tomorrow. With double the diligence."
Poetry? Embroidery? Li Gang's internal monologue was a scream. I can recite the combinations for a perfect jab-cross-hook. I can stitch a cut over my eye between rounds. Does that count?
The panic must have shown on her face, for her father's frown deepened. "This is not a punishment, child. It is for your own good. A good match will secure your happiness and the family's standing." He paused, then asked a question that seemed casual but was laden with expectation. "The new poem I asked you to learn by the sage poet Li Bai. Have you committed it to memory? Recite the first lines for me."
Li Mei froze. Her mind, a repository of fight statistics and training regimens, was a complete blank. Poet Li Bai? She frantically searched the fragmented memories of the original Li Mei, but found only vague impressions of flowers and silk.
"The… the moon…" she stammered, buying time. "It was… very round."
Li Wenzhong's eyes widened. "'Very round'?" he echoed, a note of pure disbelief in his voice.
Desperate, Li Gang's mind latched onto the only "poetry" he knew—the gritty, rhythmic trash-talk and descriptions from his boxing life. He straightened up on the stool, her voice taking on a declarative tone utterly unsuited for classical verse.
"The moon hangs over the battlefield," she stated, her gaze turning distant, seeing not a garden but a ring. "A silver coin for the victor. The fighter's breath is a white plume in the cold air. His feet dance on the canvas, a silent drumbeat."
She finished, a sense of grim satisfaction cutting through her panic. It was honest, at least.
Minister Li Wenzhong was utterly still. His face was a mask of profound confusion. He looked at his beautiful, delicate daughter, who had just recited something that sounded like a report from the front lines in a bizarre, metaphorical dialect.
"Mei'er…" he said slowly, his voice laced with a concern far deeper than before. "Perhaps the physician was mistaken. Perhaps you need more rest. Much more rest."
He waved a hand, a gesture of dismissal and deep worry. "Go. Return to your chambers. We will… speak of this another time."
Li Mei rose, her own confusion warring with a strange sense of victory. She had survived the first encounter without being declared possessed, but she had undoubtedly convinced her father that his daughter had lost her mind. As she walked back to her room, the weight of the upcoming lessons and the suitors felt like a thousand-pound bag she had to carry. The bell had rung for the second round, and she was already on the ropes. The walk back to her chambers was a silent, tense procession. Xiaoling, the servant girl, trailed a respectful step behind, but Li Mei could feel the weight of her confused gaze. Every rustle of silk, every soft footfall on the polished wood floors, was a reminder of the cage she now inhabited. The encounter with her "father" had been more terrifying than any fight. In the ring, the rules were clear; here, she was fumbling in the dark with a language and a set of customs she didn't understand.
As she slid the door to her room shut, leaning against it for a moment of respite, the full weight of Minister Li Wenzhong's words crashed down on her.
Tutors. Double diligence. Poetry. Embroidery.
A shudder ran through her. The memory of his bewildered expression when she'd butchered the poem was seared into her mind. It wasn't just about acting like a girl; it was about becoming an entirely different person, one whose skills were the complete antithesis of everything Li Gang had spent his life perfecting.
"Young Mistress?" Xiaoling's timid voice came from the other side of the door. "Shall I bring your midday meal?"
Food. The word sparked a different, more primal interest. Finally, something that makes sense, Li Gang thought. A fighter's fuel. "Yes," she said, trying to modulate the melodic voice into something commanding. "Bring it. And... bring a lot."
A short while later, a low table in her room was set with an array of delicate dishes: steamed buns as fluffy as clouds, a clear broth with floating greens, finely shredded vegetables, and a small plate of braised meat that looked more like a garnish than a main course.
Li Mei stared at the spread, her stomach growling in protest. This was a snack, not a meal. Where were the proteins? The carbs for energy? This was food for a sparrow.
She picked up the ornate porcelain spoon, its delicate weight feeling ridiculous in her hand. She tried to sip the broth as daintily as she could, but her movements were too abrupt. The spoon clinked loudly against the bowl, a harsh sound in the quiet room. Frustrated, she picked up the bowl itself, intending to drink from it as he would have after a hard training session—a practical, efficient way to consume nutrients.
Xiaoling, who had been standing by to serve, gasped. "Young Mistress! Please, allow me!"
But it was too late. Li Mei brought the bowl to her lips and drank the broth in a few quick, efficient gulps. She then picked up the steamed bun and consumed it in two bites, before using the delicate ivory chopsticks to efficiently pile the rest of the vegetables and the meager portion of meat into her bowl, mixing it together and eating with a focus that was entirely at odds with the slow, deliberate pace of a courtly meal.
Xiaoling watched, her face a mask of horror and confusion. The Young Mistress, who usually picked at her food like a bird, was eating with the vigor of a... a soldier?
When the last grain of rice was gone, Li Mei looked up, feeling marginally better. The gnawing hunger was abated, but the servant's expression brought back the familiar panic. Another mistake.
"Was the food not to your liking, Young Mistress?" Xiaoling asked hesitantly. "You... you ate so quickly."
Li Mei wiped her mouth with the back of her hand—another automatic, deeply ingrained habit from his old life. Xiaoling's eyes widened further.
"The food was adequate," Li Mei said, falling back on the gruff, non-committal tone that felt most natural. "But it lacks substance. Tomorrow, I want more meat. Chicken. Beef. And eggs. Several eggs."
Xiaoling blinked, processing this bizarre request. "But... Young Mistress, the physician said your constitution requires a light, balanced diet to maintain your... delicate health."
Delicate health. Li Gang almost snorted. His constitution was built on sweat, protein shakes, and sheer will. "The physician is not the one living in this body," she stated, a little too forcefully. "Bring me what I ask for."
The command, delivered with an unfamiliar steel, made Xiaolong bow quickly. "Yes, Young Mistress."
As the servant cleared the dishes, leaving Li Mei alone in the opulent silence, the reality of her training regimen loomed. Tomorrow, the real battle would begin. Not in a ring, but in a classroom for courtly arts. She looked at her hands—the small, soft, pale hands of Li Mei. She curled them into fists. They felt weak, useless.
But as she sat there, a memory surfaced: the faint, satisfying creak from the doorframe when she had grabbed it to stop her fall. There had been a hint of strength there, buried beneath the silk and perfume.
Perhaps all was not lost. Perhaps this new body could be trained. The thought was a small, defiant ember in the vast darkness of her situation. The father's concern was just the first obstacle. The tutors were the next. And Li Gang, the boxer, knew only one way to face an opponent: to study them, adapt, and, eventually, overcome.