"Ha! Let's see where you think you can run now!"
"Keep running and we'll break your legs!"
"Besides, Sister Nan already said it—starting today, you belong to us. We can do whatever we want with you!"
The men caught up quickly, their voices brash and gleeful in the rain, as if the storm itself were an accomplice. They formed a tight ring around Mu Qingyue, hemming her in on all sides. Their grins were oily; their hands rubbed together in anticipation, the gesture so leering and shameless it was like watching flies swarm toward something rotting. The air around them stank of cheap liquor and cruelty, and their eyes held the same hungry brightness one sees in predators when the prey has nowhere left to flee.
Mu Qingyue's chest heaved. Blood still seeped from her wounds, diluted by the rain, yet the sting of it kept her painfully awake. She backed up until her heel struck the slick edge of the riverbank. Behind her, the river roared—dark, swollen, and violent—its surface twisting with currents that looked like the backs of thrashing beasts.
The men advanced another step, tightening the circle.
Mu Qingyue clenched her jaw so hard it ached. A fierce, bitter laugh rose in her throat—not out of amusement, but out of defiance.
"Keep dreaming," she spat.
And with that, she made her choice.
She drew in one sharp breath, gathered what little strength remained in her battered body, and hurled herself backward into the churning river.
The water swallowed her whole.
It happened in a single heartbeat, as if some unseen Dragon King had stirred beneath the depths, opened his jaws, and devoured her slight figure without mercy. There was no dramatic spray, no heroic struggle visible above the surface, no bright arc of motion. The river simply took her—silently, completely—leaving only restless ripples that vanished almost as soon as they formed.
Yet the wind that swept along the river seemed to change.
It grew colder, sharper, carrying a bleakness that clung to the skin. It sounded almost like mourning as it sliced past the men on the bank, raising gooseflesh along their arms and crawling down their spines with an instinctive dread.
For a moment, the men stood frozen, staring at the water as if it might spit her back out.
Then panic broke through.
"Shit—this is bad," one muttered, voice suddenly thin. "If she dies—if this turns into a death—what do we do?"
They craned their necks, watching the whirlpools that opened and closed like mouths in the current. In such a torrent, anyone who leaped in would be dragged under within seconds. To survive would require a miracle—something beyond logic, beyond human strength.
One of them forced himself to calm down. His face hardened, and his fear sharpened into a ruthless practicality.
"Listen," he said in a low, harsh voice. "If you don't say anything, and I don't say anything, then nobody else will ever know."
The others exchanged uneasy looks, but silence—cowardly, complicit silence—settled over them like a pact.
Mu Qingyue felt herself sinking.
Downward, downward—into a vast, bottomless darkness.
The river was no longer water in her mind but an endless void, a cold abyss that offered neither light nor direction. Her body grew heavier with every moment, as though lead had been poured into her veins. She tried to move, tried to kick, tried to reach upward, but her limbs refused her. Even her fingers seemed beyond command, each one pinned by invisible weight.
Her awareness flickered.
At times she was lucid enough to know she was falling through blackness, that her lungs burned, that something inside her fought desperately against extinction. At other times, her consciousness blurred into scattered fragments—half-dreams, half-memories—faces and voices dissolving before she could grasp them.
Am I… dead?
The thought drifted through her like a faint bubble, fragile and slow.
And then—
A voice.
Soft, warm, unmistakably gentle.
"Ayue… Ayue."
Mu Qingyue's mind jolted, as if something had struck a bell deep inside her chest. That voice—she knew it. She had not heard it in so long that it felt like a sound from another lifetime. It carried the same tenderness that used to soothe her scraped knees as a child, the same patient cadence that had once made a harsh world feel survivable.
"Ayue."
Mu Qingyue's eyes flew open.
Light—dim, familiar—filled her vision. She blinked rapidly, dazed, and the first thing she saw was a pair of faces leaning over her: aged, lined with years of sun and wind, yet infinitely kind. Wrinkles gathered at the corners of their eyes when they smiled, the way they always had. Their expressions held worry and affection in equal measure, the kind that does not require blood to be true.
Her foster parents.
Her foster mother cradled a bowl in her hands, steam curling upward from it. The scent of warm rice porridge—simple, homely, comforting—reached Mu Qingyue's nose like an embrace.
Her foster mother dipped a spoon and brought it carefully to Mu Qingyue's lips, smiling as she coaxed her. "You've been burning up with fever and sleeping for so long," she said softly. "Of course you must be hungry. Come on—eat a little first. Put something in your stomach."
Mu Qingyue stared at her, unmoving.
For a moment, she truly believed she must still be dreaming. Her foster parents' faces looked so real, so close, yet also impossibly distant—like a scene remembered from childhood with aching clarity. The warmth in their eyes struck her harder than any blow. It was tenderness she had not realized she was starving for until it was placed before her.
Her vision blurred.
Tears welled up without permission, gathering at the rims of her eyes until they spilled down her cheeks. Her nose stung. Her throat tightened, and a sob threatened to rise, humiliating in its helplessness.
Her foster mother immediately set the bowl aside just long enough to reach for tissues at the bedside. She dabbed at Mu Qingyue's tears, bewildered and concerned. "Why are you crying, sweetheart?" she sighed, voice full of helpless love. "Ayue… if you're unhappy over there, if life in that place is too hard, then… then maybe you should come back. Come home and live with us again…"
Her foster father's expression tightened. He interrupted gently but firmly, as though afraid his wife's words might stir trouble. "Enough," he murmured. "Ayue has already returned to her birth family. She's acknowledged her roots. Don't say things like that—it only puts her in a difficult position."
His foster mother's eyes reddened. She bit her lip, nodding as if swallowing her own longing. "You're right," she whispered. "I won't say it. Ayue, you rest properly, okay?"
She placed the porridge bowl back on the table, wiped at her own tears, and stepped out of the room with reluctant heaviness, as though every step away from the bed cost her.
Her foster father lingered. He sat on the edge of the bed and patted Mu Qingyue's hand. His palm was rough, thick with calluses from years of farm labor, the texture slightly abrasive against her skin—yet the warmth of it was deeply reassuring, the kind of warmth that comes only from a life lived honestly.
"Drink your porridge obediently," he said, voice low. Then he stood and followed his wife out, closing the door behind him with quiet care.
Only when the room fell silent did Mu Qingyue finally breathe.
Her heart hammered, not from fear now, but from something strange and unsteady—something like hope, though she hardly dared to name it. She lay there, staring at the ceiling of the small, familiar room, listening to the rain tapping the window, trying to piece together reality.
She was alive.
Not only alive—she was here.
In the village.
In the home where she had grown up.
The home of her foster parents, far away from the gilded mansion filled with intrigues, schemes, and knives hidden behind smiles.
Mu Qingyue's fingers curled slowly into the blanket.
A realization rose within her, as clear as dawn breaking after a long nightmare:
She had been reborn.
Whether Heaven had taken pity, or fate had decided to rewind the cruel clock, she did not know. But she knew what she felt in her bones. This was not the riverbank. This was not the alley. This was not the end.
This was the beginning—again.
She forced herself to sit up, ignoring the lingering weakness in her limbs. The room wavered slightly, but she steadied herself and slid out of bed. Bare feet met cool floorboards. She crossed the small space to the mirror hung near the wall.
And there, in the dull reflection, she saw herself.
Not the ravaged, scarred woman bleeding in an alley.
A girl.
A young girl whose face still held traces of childish softness, whose features had not yet hardened under years of humiliation and heartbreak. Her skin was unbroken. Her eyes, though clouded with shock, still carried the brightness of youth.
But the rest—
Mu Qingyue's mouth tightened.
Her hair, once naturally black and smooth as satin, had been dyed into a chaotic riot of colors—seven or eight shades clashing together like a bad joke. It had been teased and perm-tortured into an exaggerated, outdated "lion's mane" style, the kind that screamed rebellion but achieved only absurdity. Her eyelids were smeared with deep purple eyeshadow, applied without any skill or restraint, making her look bruised rather than fashionable. Fake eyelashes jutted upward stiffly, like the legs of a grotesque insect.
She looked… ridiculous.
No wonder the Mu family had looked at her with disgust.
No wonder she had been treated like an embarrassment.
Back then, Mu Xiaonan had fed her lie after lie, wrapping manipulation in the language of concern. She had insisted this was "personality," that city people adored girls who were "unique" and "bold." She had warned that if Mu Qingyue dressed plainly—if she looked too rural, too "earthy"—others would immediately know she was raised in the countryside, and that would disgrace the Mu family's reputation.
Mu Qingyue had believed her.
How could she not? She had walked into that world like a blind child, desperate to fit in, desperate to be accepted by the family that was supposed to be hers. And Mu Xiaonan—smiling, patient, calling her "sister"—had been the only one who seemed to offer guidance.
So Mu Qingyue had followed.
She had let herself be remade into a caricature—loud, awkward, easy to mock. And each time she was ridiculed, each time her "improper" behavior earned disapproval, Mu Xiaonan had stood nearby, innocent as ever, quietly pleased as she watched Mu Qingyue sink deeper into isolation.
If Mu Xiaonan hadn't stirred the flames, hadn't whispered poison into her ears, Mu Qingyue would never have turned herself into something so strange, so laughable, so painfully out of place.
Standing before the mirror now, Mu Qingyue stared at her reflection until her eyes burned.
A cold clarity spread through her, washing away confusion, washing away lingering softness.
She understood.
This time—this second life—she would not be led by the nose like a fool.
This time, she would not hand her fate to someone who smiled while sharpening a knife behind her back.
This time, she would reclaim herself—slowly, deliberately—and no one would ever again have the chance to turn her into a laughingstock for their own amusement.