Sun Mingzhe and Cao Chenxi slept together because of the drug.
That single night changed everything.
Mingzhe became pregnant.
The Bai family wasted no time. His engagement to Bai Weiyuan was immediately terminated, the explanation simple and merciless—he had "lost his virtue." Whatever fragile protection that engagement once offered vanished overnight.
With his reputation ruined, Mingzhe had no choice.
He was forced to marry Cao Chenxi.
Humiliated and heartbroken, Mingzhe could not bear the shame. The night before the wedding, he slipped away to the old well behind the house. Without hesitation, he climbed onto the stone ledge and jumped.
He did not want to live.
But he was found.
Fan Hui discovered him before it was too late. Whether she saved him out of concern or self-interest hardly mattered. She dragged him out and, from that moment on, watched him like a hawk to ensure he survived long enough to be married off.
Before the ceremony began, Sun Qiangwei made his position clear.
He wrote a formal letter severing their father-son relationship. In cold, precise language, he declared that Mingzhe's disgraceful behavior could not be allowed to tarnish the Sun family's reputation.
There were no comforting words. No hesitation.
Just a signature.
Heartbroken and hollow, Sun Mingzhe was married off that same day.
Minutes after the ceremony concluded, he collapsed.
The well water had been filthy. The infection it caused spread rapidly through his weakened body.
He died before the wedding guests had even fully dispersed.
And with his death—
I took over.
When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was sunlight streaming through tiny holes in the ceiling.
Thin beams of light cut across the dim interior, illuminating floating dust.
I had seen this house through Mingzhe's memories, but seeing it with my own eyes was another matter entirely.
Cao Chenxi's home was barely 144 square feet.
The walls were made of bamboo packed with dried mud. The thatched roof—layers of straw and palm leaves—rested on a fragile bamboo frame. The floor was covered with woven bamboo mats, worn and uneven from years of use.
It was humble.
Painfully so.
Thankfully, I was alone.
That gave me time to process everything.
Before doing anything else, I decided to check my portable space dimension. The God of Creation had told me that all I needed to do was say "open" in my mind.
So I did.
Open.
A translucent screen materialized in front of me.
It resembled a game interface—clean, organized, almost futuristic—but instead of a keyboard or mouse, it responded to my thoughts.
Fifteen categories floated before me:
Food. Toiletries. Bedding. Furniture. Appliances. Medicine. Weapons. Clothing. Accessories. Tools. Seeds. Electronics. Baby Supplies. Books. Others.
I focused on Food.
The panel expanded, revealing subcategories:
Fruits. Vegetables. Grains. Protein. Dairy. Staples. Prepared Dishes. Snacks & Sweets. Condiments & Sauces. Fermented Foods. Spices.
When I selected Fruits, an extensive list appeared—apples, bananas, cherries, durians, figs, grapes, honeydews, jackfruit, kiwis, lychees, mangoes, and more. Produce from all over my previous world.
I selected an apple.
It appeared in something labeled Cart—a separate storage section that preserved items indefinitely. Time inside remained completely still. Nothing rotted. Nothing degraded.
If I wanted something sweet to go with it, I could enter Snacks & Sweets and choose from desserts, candies, or pastries just as easily.
The system was intuitive and efficient.
More importantly, I discovered I could store items from this world as well—so long as they weren't alive. Money, valuables, important documents… anything could be hidden safely away.
In a place like this, that was invaluable.
Then I checked the Others category.
Inside was a subcategory titled Gifts from God.
There was only one item.
A goblet carved from spiritual jade, filled with about two cups of shimmering liquid.
Spiritual water.
According to the description, the goblet refilled itself daily but could only be used three times per day.
The water's effects were extraordinary.
A single cup could heal all wounds, detoxify any poison, nourish and strengthen the body, relieve fatigue, and even accelerate plant growth.
It wasn't just useful.
It was overwhelmingly powerful.
I closed the interface and lay back against the thin bedding.
Sunlight filtered through the roof. Outside, faint village sounds drifted in.
I placed a hand over my wrist.
A heart-shaped birthmark stared back at me—dark in color.
Highly fertile.
Pregnant.
Poor.
Newly married to a stranger with six children.
Disowned.
I let out a slow breath.
"…Well," I murmured quietly, "this is going to be interesting."