Morning came without mercy.
In his old life, morning had meant a phone alarm and the dull dread of another day. Here, it arrived as soft footsteps on wood, whispered voices, and the faint scrape of a curtain being drawn back to let in pale light.
Ling Liyu woke before he meant to.
His body felt wrong in a dozen small ways—too light, too stiff, too unfamiliar in its aches. The bandage around his head pulled when he shifted. His throat was less dry than last night, but still raw, as if he'd swallowed bitterness for years.
He lay still and listened.
Outside the inner room, servants moved carefully. No one spoke above a murmur. It wasn't the quiet of respect. It was the quiet of caution.
Auntie Zhou's voice drifted in, low. "Gently. Don't jostle the tray. If you spill, you'll—"
"Yes, Auntie," a maid whispered, fear packed into the syllables.
A second later, the door slid open and the two maids from last night entered like they were stepping into a tiger's den. Yun'er carried a basin of water; Lanhua held a folded set of clothes and a small tray with porridge and side dishes.
They knelt immediately.
"Second Young Master," Yun'er said, eyes fixed on the floor, "this servant greets you."
"This servant greets Second Young Master," Lanhua echoed.
Liyu's brain supplied a dry thought: Good morning to you too, I guess. Thank you for starting the day by worshipping.
He forced the sarcasm to stay internal and did what he'd promised himself: say less, watch more.
"Get up," he said, voice still hoarse but steadier.
They rose, but not fully upright. Their shoulders stayed hunched, ready.
Yun'er set the basin down and wrung out a cloth with trembling fingers. She approached his bed like she expected to be bitten.
Liyu held out his hands without thinking. The gesture startled her, but she placed the cloth in his palms.
It was warm. Clean.
He washed his own face slowly, carefully. It felt… humiliatingly intimate, doing something so normal in a room full of people who feared his breathing.
When he lowered the cloth, Lanhua stepped forward to help him sit.
He lifted a hand to stop her.
"I can," he said.
The maid froze as if that too was suspicious—self-sufficiency from him.
He pushed himself upright. The movement made his head throb, but he didn't show it. He sat, back straight, eyes calm, and watched the two maids watch him as if he was a wild animal learning a new trick.
Lanhua offered the breakfast tray on a low table. Porridge, pickled vegetables, steamed bun. Simple.
Liyu looked at it and had a sudden, absurd longing for his old cheap convenience store sandwich. Not because it tasted better, but because it belonged to a life that had been his.
His stomach growled faintly, betraying him.
Yun'er's eyes widened slightly, then dropped again.
Liyu picked up the spoon.
The porridge tasted plain. Real rice, not the watery kind he'd sometimes eaten when money was tight. It was bland but warm, and his body accepted it with relief that made him feel both grateful and angry.
He ate slowly, sensing rather than seeing how the maids held their breaths with each swallow. Like they expected him to throw the bowl if it wasn't hot enough.
When he finished half, he set the spoon down.
Lanhua immediately panicked. "Second Young Master, is it not to your taste? This servant can—"
"It's fine," Liyu said.
He took another bite to prove it, then looked at them. "Last night… I asked for plain water. Is there boiled water?"
The question was harmless in his mind. In theirs, it was a trap.
Yun'er's face went pale. "Boiled water…? Second Young Master, if you want tea, this servant can brew—"
"I asked about boiled water," Liyu repeated, patient.
Auntie Zhou appeared in the doorway like she'd been summoned by tension. "Second Young Master," she said quickly, "the kitchen keeps boiled water for the master and young masters. For servants it is… it is not always prepared."
Not always prepared.
Which was a polite way of saying: the low-status people drank whatever they could get.
Liyu stared at the spoon in his hand. In his head, systems clicked into place without asking permission. A product designer's brain was trained to notice friction points. A user in pain. A process that failed quietly until it killed someone.
No boiled water meant illness. Illness meant weak labor. Weak labor meant mistakes. Mistakes meant punishments. Punishments meant resentment. Resentment meant sabotage.
And also, on a simpler level, it meant people suffered for no reason.
He set the spoon down and said evenly, "From today, keep boiled water in covered pots morning and night. For the kitchen and the servants' quarters."
Silence.
Yun'er looked like she was about to faint.
Lanhua's lips parted, then shut.
Auntie Zhou blinked hard. Her expression twisted between confusion and calculation. "Second Young Master… the charcoal cost…"
Ah. There it was. The language of this house.
Cost.
His father's language.
Liyu nodded as if he'd expected the concern. "Then reduce waste elsewhere. Measure the charcoal usage properly. Don't let the kitchen 'borrow' and forget to record."
Auntie Zhou's eyes widened a fraction. Not because he spoke about charcoal, but because he spoke like someone who understood how households bled resources in small, quiet ways.
"Second Young Master," she said carefully, "this… is a change."
"Yes," Liyu replied.
It wasn't defiance. It wasn't arrogance. It was simply a decision.
His head pulsed. He ignored it and continued, softer now. "If anyone asks, say Father hates waste. This prevents waste."
Auntie Zhou's gaze sharpened. She understood this part immediately: framing. Survival.
"I understand," she said.
The maids stared at Liyu as if seeing him for the first time, and he had the uncomfortable sensation of being watched from behind his own eyes.
Like the body remembered what it used to do, and the room was waiting for it to revert.
He needed more information.
"Bring me a mirror," he said.
Yun'er flinched. A mirror was often used for vanity. Vanity was often punished by fate, in stories. Or used as a prelude to cruel demands.
But she hurried anyway.
A few moments later, she returned with a bronze mirror, polished enough to reflect. She held it with both hands, arms trembling.
Liyu took it.
The face that stared back at him was not his.
It was younger than he'd been. Not dramatically—a few years perhaps—but with that softness at the edges that came from being well-fed and not yet ground down by time. His brows were dark and straight. His eyes were slightly upturned at the corners, giving him a naturally proud look even when his expression was blank. His nose was refined, his lips full, the skin smooth in the way skin looked when it hadn't been punished by late nights under fluorescent lights.
Beautiful, in a way that felt like a trap.
He understood instantly how a face like this could get away with cruelty for a long time. People made excuses for beauty. They softened the consequences. They told themselves it couldn't be that bad.
Then he saw it—the small things that didn't belong to a harmless pretty boy.
A faint scar near the hairline, half-hidden. A tiny notch in the lower lip, as if he'd been bitten hard once. Eyes that looked used to being feared, because they'd been trained to expect fear.
He stared at the reflection and felt a wave of nausea.
This was Ling Liyu.
Not just a name in someone else's mouth.
Auntie Zhou spoke cautiously. "Second Young Master?"
Liyu lowered the mirror. "What is my full name?"
The maids froze.
Auntie Zhou hesitated, then answered, "Second Young Master is Ling Liyu. Surname Ling, given name Liyu. The minister is Ling Shouyi."
So his father was Ling Shouyi.
Minister of Finance. Minister of Revenue. He didn't know the exact title, but he knew the weight: money. Grain. Taxes. Storehouses. A nation's veins.
His older brother was Ling Moli.
The name fit the face he'd seen: sharp, controlled, bristling affection hidden behind irritation.
Liyu pressed his fingers to his temple again. His borrowed memories stirred like something resentful under the surface.
Images flashed.
A boy—him—throwing a cup at a servant. "Clumsy! If you can't pour, cut your hands off!"
A servant kneeling, forehead bleeding from knocking too hard. "Second Young Master, mercy—"
A girl sobbing quietly behind the kitchen door.
A scholar in plain robes being forced to recite poetry while being mocked.
And always, always, Ling Moli appearing later, jaw tight, voice harsh, cleaning the blood with cold competence.
His stomach turned.
He forced the images away and focused on what he could control: now.
"How old am I?" he asked.
Auntie Zhou answered, "Second Young Master is nineteen."
Nineteen.
Young enough that his crimes weren't set in stone. Old enough that his reputation was.
He could work with that.
His head still hurt. His body still felt weak. But he couldn't afford to lie in bed too long.
In a household like this, weakness invited testing.
"Help me dress," he said.
Yun'er and Lanhua moved fast, almost desperate with relief at having a clear task. They unfolded the clothes—layers upon layers, more than he'd worn in his entire modern life. Inner robe, middle robe, outer robe, belt, ties.
Liyu let them assist, watching their hands. They were practiced, quick, careful. They tied knots that held, smoothed fabric without wrinkling.
Product designer brain noted: whoever designed these clothes had never had to run for a bus. This was clothing for being looked at, not lived in.
As they adjusted his collar, Lanhua's fingers brushed his neck accidentally.
She flinched so violently she stepped back as if she'd been burned. "This servant—this servant didn't mean—"
Liyu exhaled slowly. "It's fine," he said.
Her eyes flickered up, confused, and then down again.
He finished dressing and stood, testing his balance. His legs held.
Good.
He walked two steps and the room tightened around him, everyone watching, waiting to see if he would kick someone, slap someone, shout.
He didn't.
He walked to the window and looked out.
A courtyard, neat and enclosed, stone path, winter-bare trees, a small pond with thin ice. Beyond, tiled roofs layered like waves. A world built from wood and stone and hierarchy.
He wasn't in a dream.
He wasn't in a museum.
He was in a life that belonged to someone else, and it had teeth.
A knock sounded at the door, sharp.
Auntie Zhou stiffened. "Second Young Master… the physician has arrived."
The physician entered after being announced. An older man with a tidy beard, eyes downcast in deference. He bowed. "Second Young Master."
He checked Liyu's pulse, examined his pupils, pressed lightly around the bandage. His hands were skilled, but his expression was cautious in the way of someone treating a dangerous animal.
"Second Young Master's spirit is stable," the physician said carefully, as if that mattered. "The head injury should heal with rest. Avoid anger, avoid strain."
Avoid anger.
As if anger was a weather pattern that came and went.
Liyu nodded. "I understand."
The physician blinked, surprised at the calm reply. He prescribed herbs, instructed the servants, and withdrew.
The moment he left, the atmosphere shifted again—tighter.
Because the physician was not the real threat.
His father was coming today.
Not immediately, Auntie Zhou had said. After court. After he dealt with the empire. After he finished being important.
Liyu's pulse beat in his throat.
He needed to prepare. Not with weapons. With information and posture.
He turned to Auntie Zhou. "Tell me what happened yesterday," he said. "From the beginning. Don't embellish."
Her eyes widened at the directness. Servants were not asked for full accounts. They were told what reality was.
But she bowed and began, voice careful.
"Yesterday afternoon, Second Young Master went to the side courtyard near the study. Hua Shi gongzi was visiting with his father. They were speaking with the minister. Second Young Master… you…" Her voice faltered, and she swallowed. "You wanted to greet them, but Hua Shi gongzi refused to speak to you directly. You became angry and spoke harshly. Then you turned away too quickly. The stone steps were damp. You slipped. You struck your head."
Hua Shi.
So the rival was already in the house, connected through his father. That meant Hua Shi's family had enough access to stand in the minister's presence, even if they were minor.
And Ling Liyu's reputation was strong enough that even being ignored by Hua Shi could trigger humiliation and rage—at least, in the body's past.
Liyu pressed his fingers together, thinking.
If Hua Shi was already involved, then Hua Shi would have witnessed his "change" once he woke. Or would soon.
And if Hua Shi wanted him ruined, this injury was a gift: "Second Young Master struck his head and became strange."
Strange invited rumors.
Rumors invited knives.
A soft commotion rose outside the courtyard. Footsteps. Voices. The servants straightened like a wave pulled tight.
Auntie Zhou's face went pale.
"The minister," she whispered.
His father had arrived.
The door slid open.
Ling Shouyi entered without hurry.
He was not tall in an imposing way, but he moved like a man who didn't need size. His robe was dark and plain for a minister, no unnecessary embroidery, no vanity. His hair was streaked slightly with gray at the temples. His face was refined but stern, and his eyes—his eyes were the kind that made people feel like they'd been measured and found lacking.
He didn't look at the servants. He didn't need to. They bowed so low they nearly touched the floor.
Ling Shouyi's gaze went straight to Liyu.
Not at the bandage first. Not at the room. At him.
As if the injury mattered less than what kind of man had woken inside it.
"Liyu," Ling Shouyi said.
No "my son." No tenderness. Just a name, spoken like an entry on a ledger.
Liyu's borrowed body wanted to shrink. His mind refused.
He bowed, carefully, because he'd watched the servants and learned the shape of respect. "Father."
It was the first time he'd called someone that in this world. The word tasted unfamiliar.
Ling Shouyi's eyes narrowed slightly. "You can bow."
A statement, not praise.
"Yes," Liyu replied.
Silence stretched.
Ling Shouyi stepped closer. He examined the bandage with a brief glance, then returned his focus to Liyu's face.
"Do you remember what happened?" he asked.
The question sounded identical to Ling Moli's from last night.
The test was not the content. It was the reaction.
Liyu chose the same line, consistent. "I slipped and struck my head. I remember noise. After that… little. My head still aches."
Ling Shouyi's gaze didn't soften. It sharpened.
"Little," he repeated quietly. "How convenient."
Liyu kept his expression calm even as his stomach tightened.
In his old life, he'd dealt with clients who smiled while implying you were incompetent. This man didn't bother to smile.
"I can only say what I know," Liyu said.
Ling Shouyi looked at him a moment longer, then glanced toward Auntie Zhou. "Leave us."
Auntie Zhou bowed quickly and ushered the maids out. The door slid shut. The room suddenly felt too quiet, like the air itself was waiting.
Father and son.
Strangers in the same skin.
Ling Shouyi sat down without being asked. He gestured once, and Liyu sat as well, posture straight, hands folded.
Ling Shouyi's eyes went to the breakfast tray. Half eaten. Neat.
"You ate," he noted.
"Yes," Liyu said.
"Why?"
The question was so odd Liyu almost blinked.
Why did a person eat?
Then he understood. In this household, his eating habits were a variable. The old Ling Liyu likely threw food, refused meals, demanded delicacies, punished cooks.
Eating calmly was new.
Liyu answered carefully. "Because my body needs it to heal," he said. "And because wasting food is… unnecessary."
Ling Shouyi stared at him.
Then he said softly, "Unnecessary."
Like he was tasting the word and deciding whether it was sincere or stolen.
A bead of sweat slid down Liyu's back under his robe. He kept his face neutral.
Ling Shouyi leaned forward slightly. His voice dropped.
"I don't care if you've lost your memories," he said. "I care about results. You have been a source of noise in this household for nineteen years. You have embarrassed me at gatherings. You have made enemies that do not forget."
Liyu's throat tightened.
Ling Shouyi continued, each sentence laid down like a weight. "If you have truly been frightened by this injury into obedience, then be obedient. If you are pretending, then pretend better. Either way, you will not ruin my house again."
A pause.
Ling Shouyi's eyes locked on his. "Do you understand?"
Liyu felt the borrowed body's fear—real, ingrained—rise like a reflex.
But underneath it, his modern self surfaced: tired, stubborn, used to swallowing pressure until it turned into something sharp.
He bowed his head slightly, not as surrender but as respect. "I understand."
Ling Shouyi studied him, then sat back.
"Good," he said, and it sounded less like approval and more like the closing of a file.
He stood to leave, then paused at the door.
Without turning, he said, "Your brother will watch you. If you cause trouble, I will not waste time cleaning it."
Then he left.
The door shut.
Liyu didn't move for a full breath.
Only when the footsteps faded did he exhale.
His hands were still folded neatly, but his fingertips were white where they pressed too hard.
So that was the truth of this world.
In modern life, he'd been suffocated politely.
Here, he would be suffocated efficiently.
And yet… there was something oddly clarifying about it. No fake concern. No corporate slogans. No "we're a family here."
Just consequence.
He stood slowly and walked to the bronze mirror again.
He looked at Ling Liyu's face—beautiful, hated, dangerous.
He touched the edge of the bandage and met his own reflection's eyes.
"Okay," he whispered, voice barely sound.
No one heard.
But the vow settled in his chest anyway.
If this world wanted to measure him, then he would become someone worth measuring.
Not to impress them.
To survive.
To live long enough to build something that didn't break the people inside it.