When the woodshed door opened, Li Cha thought she had frozen solid. The sunlight stung her eyes, forcing her to blink. Cui'er stood at the entrance, her face a mix of worry and barely concealed relief. "Young Miss, Madam has ordered your release," she whispered.
Li Cha shifted, her joints creaking in protest. She rose slowly, her legs numb from days of immobility. The damp chill of the woodshed clung to her bones, but her mind had never been clearer. Over those three days, she had endured the physical agony while meticulously piecing together the fragmented memories of her past life.
The Minister of Rites' estate—a gilded facade masking rot beneath. Minister Li Yuan was the archetype of hypocrisy, obsessed with reputation and advancement, treating his wives and children as mere pawns. Madam Zhao, his legal wife and Li Cha's stepmother, ruled the household with ruthless precision. Their daughter, Li Rong, was a carbon copy of her mother—arrogant, cruel, and utterly spoiled. The other concubines and their children lived in quiet fear, surviving through submission. And then there was the original Li Cha: motherless, powerless, the lowest of the low, bullied even by servants.
Yet in those three days, Li Cha had mapped the household's power structure with clinical precision. The original host's scattered memories held a trove of details—who associated with whom, unspoken taboos, even seemingly trivial remarks made in passing. To the timid girl, these were meaningless. To a trained investigative journalist? Leverage.
Stepping into the sunlight, Li Cha welcomed the warmth like an old friend. But instead of returning to her cramped quarters, she was escorted to Madam Zhao's courtyard. The matriarch sat stiffly on her dais, face thunderous. Li Rong lounged beside her, lips curled in triumph.
"Kneel," Madam Zhao commanded.
Li Cha froze. Kneel? Her body remembered the reflex, but her modern soul rebelled. Yet defiance now would only invite worse punishment. She needed time. Patience.
She sank to her knees smoothly, as if performing a mundane courtesy. The lack of resistance gave Madam Zhao pause.
"Three days in the woodshed taught you manners, gutter rat," the woman sneered. "Cross me again, and you'll lose more than your pride."
"This daughter acknowledges her fault." Li Cha kept her voice hoarse, eyes downcast. Survival required playing the game—for now.
With a dismissive wave, Madam Zhao banished her to her quarters under house arrest. Only when the door of her dilapidated courtyard closed did Li Cha exhale. Cui'er brought warm water and meager rations, tearful. "Young Miss, you've suffered so—"
"Thank you, Cui'er."
The maid startled. The old Li Cha had never thanked anyone. "I—I'm useless. I couldn't protect you."
Li Cha gripped her hand. "Your loyalty is protection enough." An ally was essential here, and Cui'er was her first. But trust required testing. "Tell me—are you afraid to die?"
Cui'er paled. "Why ask such—?"
"Because," Li Cha held her gaze, "to live with dignity here, we'll need to take risks."
A beat of silence. Then, resolute: "Where you go, I follow. Even to the grave."
Good. The girl had spine. "Then we start today."
——
Over the following days, Li Cha played the penitent. But behind closed doors, she became a strategist. Cui'er became her eyes—noting who spoke to whom, which servants slipped into shadowed corners. Li Cha herself logged patterns: guard rotations, delivery schedules, the comings and goings of the powerful.
Li Rong, though supposedly chastened, still flaunted her privilege. Her outings grew fewer but more calculated—always to the secluded garden or the abandoned watchtower, always with an unfamiliar maid in tow.
A clandestine affair? The original host had dismissed such sightings, but the journalist in Li Cha sensed blood in the water. Noble daughters didn't meet men unchaperoned—unless it was indiscreet.
She directed Cui'er to dig deeper. The garden. The tower. The mysterious maid. Every detail mattered. Meanwhile, her mind turned to Old Liu, the gatekeeper. The man was invisible to the elite, yet saw everything—visitors, letters, the household's pulse. The original host recalled his covert kindnesses: an extra bun slipped to a starving girl. Discontent masked as obedience.
Li Cha began drafting her approach. She needed Old Liu as her conduit to the outside world—but first, she'd need to prove her worth. To show him the reckoning she could unleash.
The woodshed had birthed more than suffering. It forged purpose. She was no longer prey.
Li Rong's secret would be her opening salvo. A carefully timed "leak" to shatter the household's illusions.
All she needed was proof.