Tricked 044: Lucid Dream

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【I think Meng Henshui won’t be punished. Too many villains go unpunished; she was merely justice’s blade.】

【If Meng Henshui goes to the police with her evidence, she’ll still end up in jail—and not for a short time.】

【Agree with the above. She concealed Su Zhiyu’s death, lied in the February Bridge case, and even designed the mattress-with-snakes case. I don’t know how many elderly people died, but murder is still murder.】

【Is killing those who deserve to die a crime?】

【It is, but frankly, I find it understandable.】

【But in the end, it’s still a crime. As for Meng Xiangjiang… I don’t know the details; he did chase Su Zhiyu onto the roof, but it’s possible Su Zhiyu fell by accident; maybe Meng Xiangjiang didn’t deserve death?】

【I don’t know, I don’t know what to do.】

【Me neither. But anyway, Meng Henshui deserves at least one day. Meng Zhaolin must be exposed!】

Indeed.

Shen Xiaoxiao asked Meng Henshui: “Do you have anything belonging to your sister? If you do, I can help you confirm whether she’s alive or dead.”

“But,” Shen Xiaoxiao scratched her head, “do you really want to know?”

If she didn’t check, Meng Chunhong could always be alive in Meng Henshui’s heart, just not wanting to come home.

But if she checked, there would only be a fifty-fifty chance Chunhong was somewhere in the world; the other half, she’d already died sometime, somewhere.

“If it works, your sister is dead.”

“If not, she’s alive. The Bureau will definitely send a psychic who’s good at tracking to help you find her!”

Shen Xiaoxiao looked at Meng Henshui, clearly conflicted: “Do you want to try?”

Meng Henshui swore she’d never faced a choice this hard in her life.

After a moment, she managed, “Can you really do it? Why… why are you helping me?”

“Of course. I’m pretty useless, really. This is all I know how to do.”

Shen Xiaoxiao patted her chest: “And you’re great! If my own sister died like that, I’d have killed the culprit too—all of them!”

Shen Huanhuan tugged her little sister.

Shen Xiaoxiao covered her mouth.

A moment later, she said sheepishly, “Off topic—so, do you want to know?”

Meng Henshui pressed her lips tight. Her gaze circled before finally landing on Jiang Yan, who was currently staring at her own wrist, seemingly deep in thought.

“If it were you, would you want to know?” Meng Henshui suddenly asked.

There was no other sound; Jiang Yan raised her eyes: “You’re asking me?”

Meng Henshui nodded.

“Of course I’d want to know.”

Jiang Yan answered without hesitation, flatly.

“If Meng Chunhong is dead, you’ll see her spirit soon. If she’s alive, you’ll see her in the flesh before long.”

Jiang Yan raised her brow: “You ever seen a better deal?”

Meng Henshui looked at Jiang Yan for a long time, then nodded softly, “No, I haven’t.”

She closed her eyes as if steeling herself, then took a wallet from her bag and carefully extracted a photo from the inner pocket.

A classic sticker-booth photo.

A very young girl in the photo made a ferocious face, her inky black eyes mischievously turned toward Meng Henshui, both hands on her cheeks, pretending to roar like a tiger.

“This was from years ago—I’d take Chunhong to sticker photos every time she did well on a test. Back then, three yuan got you a whole sheet,” Meng Henshui explained. “She kept this one in her pencil case. After she disappeared, I started carrying it.”

“For thirteen years now.”

Shen Xiaoxiao accepted the photo, then sat cross-legged, took out a charm she’d drawn last night, held the yellow talisman between her index and middle fingers, ring and pinky curled naturally.

Obscure chanting flowed fluently from her lips. With her eyes closed, a mysterious wind lifted her hair, and after who-knows-how-long, she opened her eyes without warning.

Her pupils had become a deep, pure black.

Shen Xiaoxiao wore no makeup today, so her ink-black eyes stood out starkly against her pale skin—strangely uncanny.

In the first case, Jiang Yan had tried having Shen Xiaoxiao summon Miaomiao, but failed since Miaomiao was still alive. Jiang Yan missed it when Xiaoxiao summoned Xia Qing, so this was her first time witnessing a true possession.

Shen Huanhuan had mentioned before that if Xiaoxiao succeeded, her eyes would take on the spirit’s color.

Looks like she had succeeded.

Meng Chunhong was dead.

Shen Huanhuan turned her face away, unable to bear watching. Meng Henshui’s whole body shook violently.

She recognized those eyes.

Right now, Shen Xiaoxiao’s expression was bewildered. She blinked around at everyone until her gaze landed on Meng Henshui, and she suddenly stopped moving.

“You…”

Meng Chunhong stared for a few more seconds: “You look just like my sister.”

Meng Henshui choked, covering her mouth with her hand.

Even though she’d guessed already, the truth—when it landed—struck with wordless sorrow. Her emotions fell to pieces; she couldn’t even speak a whole sentence, but kept shaking her head, stammering to her little sister.

“How… how old are you now?”

Meng Chunhong froze, staring at her for a long time, then smiled up at the ceiling.

“So it really is my sister! No wonder you’re so good-looking.”

“I’m fourteen now.”

Which meant Meng Chunhong had died a year after going missing.

Thirteen years had gone by—the thirteen-year-old Meng Chunhong who disappeared had forever remained fourteen.

The instant she heard that, tears streamed down Meng Henshui’s face, her breathing faltered, chest heaving. But Meng Chunhong, as if unaware of her agony, simply smiled with crinkling eyes and deep dimples.

“What a scare, I was all dazed just now, thought maybe sis was dead too, so I tested a bit! Thank heavens, you’re still alive.”

“So this is a summoning spell?” Chunhong looked around, full of curiosity.

Shen Huanhuan nodded: “Only five minutes.”

Chunhong “ahhed” in realization, then turned back to Meng Henshui, suddenly speaking faster.

She said earnestly, “Sis, you don’t need to be sad, don’t cry. I’ve been super happy. My death was an accident—had nothing to do with anyone else. Even though I only survived a year after escaping, that year was really, really great.”

Chunhong hopped off the sofa, as if about to share some sisters-only secret, whispered in her sister’s ear, “I ate delicacies till I puked, and wore silks just for fun.”

Under her muddled gaze, Chunhong grinned slyly and nimbly.

“I transmigrated.”

“—Jealous?”

*

Meng Chunhong’s old name was Meng Jiao.

She disliked it; it sounded far too delicate for someone who, at seven, could climb trees and fight dogs, and by eight was queen bee of her whole village.

She was tough.

Coming from hardship, she’d learned the ways of the world young. At village banquets, she toasted each adult with plain water, and her spiel was so slick they said she’d go far in life. Chunhong agreed.

Great things, that’s her ambition! To rule ten villages!

But her dad didn’t think much of her talent. At home, he’d flick her on the forehead, making her grimace, and her mom wanted her to “act more girly.”

Chunhong didn’t get it: “How am I not girly?”

Maybe it was her buzzcut, but that was just because they were too poor for fancy hair—a buzzcut made it easier to wash.

After that, though, she started trying to grow it out. Just after her eighth birthday, with hair finally covering her ears, Mom told her to wash it at home instead of the village creek—strange.

As soon as she finished, Dad bundled her on the village bus.

Her first trip out. She watched the rice paddies pass by, sure she’d not see them again soon.

Her hunches were always right—she never did see those fields again.

That day, for the first time, Chunhong learned she wasn’t their real daughter. Dad yanked her collar and told her to call a sullen stranger “Dad.” When she wouldn’t, he rapped her on the head until she gave in, melodramatically shouting “Dad!” Right then, a pretty aunt outside the door overheard and decided to keep her.

For the next three days, Chunhong howled like a banshee—she never should have compromised!

But after three days, her sadness poofed away.

The pretty aunt brought a beautiful big sister, just back from grandma’s, and said the two would share a room and a bed. The sister’s long hair, fluttering lashes—Chunhong swore she looked like a TV star. The sister came to take her hand, and Chunhong blushed shyly.

Totally defeated.

Big-city people, truly experts at winning hearts.

She was ashamed of being so shallow, but hugging her new sister to sleep that night, she snored from excitement.

Old Meng has a sister now!

Time went by. Eight-year-old Meng Jiao became Chunhong, eleven-year-old Meng Henshui grew up with her, and the two became inseparable. One night, as they lay together, Chunhong found she barely remembered life before eight—her mind was full of her sister.

She shook the sleepy Henshui, vowing, “I want to always be together.”

Meng Henshui pinched her chubby cheek. “Okay, always together.”

*

At thirteen, a string of kidnappings swept Changxia City.

Just then, Meng Zhaolin had a chance for promotion—competing for vice-captain, his best shot with his age advantage. The whole family cared; after all, a better job meant a bigger home, and five people in forty square meters was cramped. Aunt Liu had wanted to save up for a new place for ages.

That stretch, Chunhong secretly wrote encouragements for Meng Zhaolin in her diary, caring little for the abductions.

She was just thirteen—she couldn’t save anyone, so why worry? Besides, she figured she was too smart for any trafficker’s tricks.

But she wasn’t worried; that didn’t mean Aunt Liu wasn’t.

Aunt Liu was the kindest beauty Chunhong had ever met. Even though at thirteen she knew how despised illegitimate kids could be, Aunt Liu treated her like a real daughter, though Chunhong always felt like a guest in someone else’s home.

All through March, Chunhong and Aunt Liu held hands to and from school, Aunt’s soft, white, fragrant hand both delighted and guilted her.

That hand should’ve held her real daughter’s.

Her sister, though three years older, was still a kid—she was Aunt Liu’s real child.

By late March, Chunhong no longer wanted Aunt Liu as an escort.

She plotted how to bring it up, then overheard a chat between Meng Zhaolin and Meng Xiangjiang in the bedroom. Needing a signature for homework, she sneaked the door open a crack.

“Henshui is a bit too old—those are eight or nine, twelve-year-olds at most. Chunhong’s perfect.”

That was Meng Xiangjiang.

Chunhong had never liked her grandpa—stingy and fussy—but this was the first time his face scared her.

“Perfect or not, I do like this girl… sweet, cooks, domestic, sure to be filial. Henshui is so sullen, barely says three words,” Meng Zhaolin whispered, then lowered his voice further, “Dad, isn’t your plan a bit risky?”

“Sting operations are common in the force; the brass is already discussing trying Chunhong for bait—if her safety can be ensured…”

“Gotta break a few eggs to catch a wolf—don’t be spineless!” Xiangjiang snapped, lowering his voice again. “Sure, sting ops are common, but you think you’ll get the credit? It’ll go to your bosses! Strike first! The police here are useless. They’d never guess you’d be involved, even if Chunhong…”

“But Chunhong, she—”

Xiangjiang cut him off.

“Liu is good to me, and Henshui is your legitimate daughter. Chunhong’s just adopted, not even your blood. What’s the worry about losing a girl? In the village, they’d have drowned her. You get promoted, my son gets ahead!”

The bedroom lights were off; Meng Zhaolin’s face was lost in darkness.

“I’ll think about it,” he muttered.

Chunhong quietly closed the door.

She hadn’t really understood, but knew whatever it was, it wasn’t good. Her heart hammered, crumpling her homework sheet, and it took ages for her breathing to calm.

Just then, Henshui came home, running to the kitchen to see what was for dinner.

Three minutes later, she ran to Chunhong with a steaming rib, “It’s red-braised ribs—just cooked, try some!”

Chunhong forced a smile, reaching for it. Henshui quickly raised her arm, “I’ve told you before, be careful, hold the bone, don’t burn yourself.”

Chunhong gripped the bone, eating the rib under her sister’s watchful, smiling gaze.

At dinner, Henshui kept piling the tender bits onto Chunhong’s plate. All through her meal, Chunhong kept glancing at Meng Zhaolin, sure he’d say something.

Sure enough, after her third rib, he spoke.

“Henshui.”

Henshui looked up: “What?”

“That trafficking situation’s getting bad—two kids missing nearby, and your school still won’t close. How about I…”

Chunhong’s rib dropped. Her hands were trembling. She didn’t know why, but they just kept shaking.

She bent to pick it up, and her sleeve knocked the dishes over. The crash cut off Meng Zhaolin.

Aunt Liu fussed to clean up, “It’s alright, a broken bowl means safety, Chunhong.”

Her eyes stung. She lifted her head, “Dad,” she said, “You walk me to school—I’m scared.”

*

Chunhong felt on edge those days—both from Zhaolin’s tension and an odd itching on her back.

Growing up, if anyone so much as looked at her, her back would itch, a reflex developed from years of hostile glances.

But when she looked back, there was always nothing.

Zhaolin kept taking photos, as if constantly checking she was there—selfies, or so he said. Chunhong didn’t get it, and her anxiety grew, but every time she came home, she tried to smile.

She tried to suppress her unease.

Still, not everything felt wrong. Sometimes Zhaolin gave her a pen, which was nice. And sleeping next to her sister made her feel truly happy.

April fourteenth—she had two steamed buns for breakfast, a rarity.

She’d remember that day forever: Zhaolin made her wear a pink dress, Aunt Liu’s injured finger, her unusually big appetite… most of all, she forgot to say goodbye to her sister before leaving.

She never got another chance.

After school, Zhaolin led her to a secluded public toilet, saying he’d be right back. But three, five, fifteen minutes passed with no sign.

Chunhong waited, head down, counting ants. Suddenly, pain hit the back of her head. She woke up in a car. Hands tied, eyes and mouth taped, curled like a dying shrimp.

So, not all traffickers chattered for cover. Some just whacked you and left.

Chunhong knew struggling was useless. Rescued children were rare; she had to save herself. Thanks to her constant unease, she’d hidden a small plastic craft knife in her pocket—sharp enough for the job.

She painstakingly worked the knife from her pocket and slowly sawed at the rope. After who-knows-how-long, the driver got a call, grumbled, and parked.

He left the car. Maybe he was cocky, but he didn’t lock the doors. Chunhong cut herself free, ripped off the tape, and quietly slipped out.

She breathed a sigh of relief.

Crisis equals opportunity; good luck must be coming!

There was a run-down factory nearby. She took off her shoes and ran barefoot into some woods by the factory, then, guessing on timing, dove into a ditch.

She pressed tight to the wall, submerged in filth, as faint voices drifted overhead.

At dusk, all was silent.

Chunhong crawled out, dry heaving, but actually rather happy—not every kidnapped child escaped. Maybe she could save someone else.

She memorized the place, ran deeper into the forest, and half an hour later emerged into a pear orchard.

April meant pear blossoms everywhere—white as snow.

Despite her filthy, stinking state, she could still smell their fragrance.

Chunhong stood on tiptoe to sniff at a flower, but worried her grimy hands would soil the blossoms, she stepped back fast.

Brush, brush, behind her—a rustling sound. Terrified her pursuers had come, she bolted, but a voice called her name.

“Meng Jiao…?”

She stopped.

Turning, she saw a man in his fifties. After a long stare, she suddenly recalled: “Uncle Zhang!”

Uncle Zhang—who had once said she’d go far.

He beamed: “It really is Jiao! I bought this plot four years ago—planted pears, pretty eh?”

Chunhong’s eyes lit up: “Pretty! You’re amazing, Uncle!”

He grinned wider, eyeing her: “Thought I was mistaken, but the eyes… Why are you so dirty?”

Chunhong was honest: “Ran from a bad guy and hid in a ditch.”

“Too dangerous this late. I’ll take you home, but—wait, you should wash up.” He went off to fetch some water.

She agreed. Couldn’t very well go home filthy—Aunt Liu worked too hard to dirty her floor. So she waited obediently, patting and admiring the pear trees.

A beam of white light flashed.

Suddenly, the sky brightened, and the pear trees shone.

Before Chunhong could react, she transmigrated.

*

She arrived in a country called “Li.”

She spent days trying to figure out what era or region it was, but history was her weakest subject. School had only ever been about waiting for class to end so she could go home to her sister.

History? Not delicious. Didn’t care.

In any case, it was a poor country; the emperor was a jerk—high taxes, everyone starving, but the palace feasted.

Chunhong pitied the commoners, but the concubines just called her “privileged.” She could say nothing—it was true.

—For not only had she transmigrated, but she’d also become a concubine herself.

Consort Chun.

Classic rags-to-riches transmigration.

At first, Chunhong missed home, but she let it go fast—missing home changed nothing.

Palace life was just too delightful. The emperor was always busy, rarely visited, and the four concubines—all beauties—made Chunhong the plainest one.

“No wonder the emperor surrounds himself with such pretty ladies.”

The third week, still rebellious, Chunhong got into trouble.

Clutching a bruised arm, she muttered, “If only I were emperor…”

“I’d overthrow the tyrant and become the first empress!”

Unfortunately, the emperor heard.

Bad news travels fast—he sneered and flipped her name card that night.

Her cheeks were pinched red as the emperor sneered, “You tired of living?”

“Empress? You?”

Chunhong had watched enough transmigration dramas to expect her speech to wow the emperor, but as soon as she said, “Everyone should have the right to be emperor,” he whacked her forehead.

“You really are tired of living.”

The emperor sighed, “Forget it, I won’t stoop to a child’s level.”

Rolling her eyes, Chunhong studied his face—so familiar.

Handsome.

After a long stare, she realized: he looked just like her old favourite boy band leader—cool, sharp-browed. The emperor seemed pleased by her praise, his frown smoothing.

“Go lie in bed,” he said.

Chunhong jolted. “But I’m only thirteen!”

The emperor was curt: “Consort Li entered at eleven, Consort Xing at twelve.”

Chunhong was shocked: “They were sleeping with you that young?”

He nodded, then locked the door.

Nothing to say—he’s the emperor.

By the next morning, he’d headed off to court.

Left alone, Chunhong got up, washed, and dressed comfortably.

Dead perv, she muttered. Hope he stayed out of the harem!

Li was a tiny kingdom; the palace had only four concubines and almost no servants—everything was DIY. Chunhong patched herself up and hurried off to the other beauties.

She was emotionally wrecked and needed some sisterly hugs.

Noble Consort An was a tall beauty of twenty. Upon seeing Chunhong, she covered her laughter: “Short, but man, can you run.”

“Shut up!” Chunhong snarled.

An laughed, then came over to help apply medicine, but as soon as she lifted Chunhong’s shirt, her face darkened. “You bled—did you fight last night?”

Chunhong shrugged: “Didn’t hurt at all! No, didn’t fight—the emperor, didn’t want to die.”

An said no more, only patched her up gently.

Now Consort Xing came in, aka Lin Xing’er, the prime minister’s second daughter, fourteen and in the palace for two years—a veteran.

She was the one who’d told Chunhong she was “privileged.”

Face scowling, Xing’er plonked down a plate of fruit. “Eat or don’t.”

An nudged the plate away, “Didn’t you say you hated Chun last night? Bet it’s poisoned. We won’t eat it.”

Xing’er sneered: “I’ll eat first, then you?”

An: “Please, go on.”

Xing’er angrily downed three pears. An rescued the last two, giving one to Chunhong, tossing the other to the newly arrived Consort Chen.

Chen sat down, sighing: “Poor little sister.”

Chunhong crunched her pear, “Not really. Didn’t all you sisters make it through?”

She pondered aloud, “But yesterday the—uh, dashing emperor said he’d visit you tonight, bad luck, sister.”

Chen turned pale.

Fragile and always ill, she looked ready to die at any moment. Hearing that it was her turn, she wiped tears away with her sleeve.

Heartbreaking.

Chunhong’s hands itched to help, but was swatted away.

Chen, full of pathos: “No need, I have hands.”

Chunhong: “…Just wanted you to feel the warmth of sisterhood.”

Chen retreated three steps.

An finished bandaging Chunhong, helped her down her shirt, “Don’t touch water for a few days. We’ll help you out.”

Chunhong was confused: “Help?”

Xing’er scowled as ever: “Keep the emperor away till your wounds heal.”

Chen sniffled in agreement: “We’re all abandoned daughters; only by helping each other can we survive.”

“Abandoned?” Chunhong didn’t get it.

Xing’er rolled her eyes: “Nobody’s favorite daughter ends up in a tyrant’s palace.”

“That Consort Li…”

Chunhong had heard that name, but the harem only had four consorts. She waited quietly.

An said, “She was beheaded.”

“The Emperor liked her too much—favored for a month, no help for it. She tried to run, we planned to help, couldn’t, and she died.”

“They hung her head on the wall, we as accomplices starved for four days, lost six pounds each—and could barely stand.”

While everyone shared their grievances, Chunhong concluded: Sisterhood trumps all, let’s kill the tyrant on the spot.

*

Six months later, Noble Consort An was pregnant.

Chunhong had also miscarried before. With the emperor’s lust, her own child lasted less than two months—blood everywhere, and for a month, he was too depressed to visit.

That month, the consorts were happiest—learned flowers, cooking, dancing.

The harem is a stage—whoever dares wins.

Chunhong still ached: “My pain, your joy—a gap unbridged.”

Chen shook her head, biting her handkerchief: “It’s not you.”

“Every time one bleeds, he goes impotent for a month. We take turns; each miscarriage brings the others joy.”

Chunhong, speechless, was deeply persuaded.

Miscarriages in rotation—this was An’s third.

But miscarriage hurts too much; so sisters were all reluctant, ever stalling and buying time.

One day Xing’er clung to the emperor, saying only he would do; next, Chen threatened suicide. When spring came, she serenaded him with an original verse.

“Great emperor, without you, I can’t live.”

She recited passionately: “Moments without you bring time to tears!”

So he stayed with her that night. Chunhong, half-asleep, thought: if she were empress, she’d have all the handsome boys write poetry for her—fair competition based on merit.

Dragging it out, and An was pregnant for three months.

The emperor at last returned to An. Chunhong didn’t sleep all night—visions of her own miscarriage haunted her, a bad feeling growing.

At dawn, she sneaked to An’s quarters to wait, in case anything happened.

She heard An’s screams.

It sounded so painful—helpless, she waited outside the palace all night.

Before sunrise, An arrived with Chunhong’s favorite pear pastries.

Chunhong, dark-circled, opened the door.

“I dreamed you stood outside my hall,” An said softly.

Chunhong didn’t know whether to admit it—maybe An would be embarrassed if she knew her suffering had been overheard.

So she lied, “Dreams mean the opposite!”

An pouted: “Then I suppose you slept great last night?”

Chunhong nodded meekly.

She reached for the pear pastry, but An swatted her hand away.

Chunhong stared: “You don’t want me to have it?”

“Childish!” An scolded. “How many times—blow on it first, don’t burn yourself.”

The phrase sounded oddly familiar.

Blowing on the pastry, Chunhong realized: “My sister used to say that when I ate ribs.”

An was curious: “You have a sister?”

Chunhong boasted: “Of course! She’s like a movie star… well, you don’t know movies, but she’s super gorgeous, has an amazing voice and wants to be a singer.”

An: “So, almost as pretty and talented as me.”

Chunhong’s eyes widened: “Wow, you with your warbly pitch—”

They dissolved into laughter.

Yet, despite the laughter, both faces were streaked with tears.

An looked away: “I’m just so happy.”

Chunhong wiped her face: “Me too!”

“These pastries are so good, I’m moved to tears.”

An left. That night, Chunhong heard screams again—tonight she wouldn’t let the emperor near An. So as soon as he came, she and the other two rushed at him.

Xing’er declared, “No need to be polite, tonight I’m bending over backwards all night for you!”

Chen sobbed, “My heart aches, I need to be cuddled—sleep with me tonight!”

Startled, Chunhong stammered, “I-I-I wrote a new poem—let me recite it in bed!”

But the emperor shoved them aside, “You’re too clingy. I know my charm, but only An is pregnant.”

He added, “You don’t get it—pregnancy is unique.”

Chunhong was stunned.

She watched him leave for An. Xing’er and Chen sighed. Xing’er nudged Chunhong, humming, “Consort Chun, I saw you last night.”

Chen whispered, “I hid behind the pillar and saw too.”

They looked at each other.

Warmth everywhere.

*

That night, An screamed again.

And the next.

And the next.

On the fourth day, the sun set and rose; the three consorts stood outside An’s room all night in silence.

Early dawn, the emperor left, hastily pulling up his trousers.

Chunhong rushed in first. An lay weak on the floor, blood everywhere.

“The emperor’s a monster,” An whispered, “but you have another happy month now.”

Chunhong covered her with a blanket and sobbed uncontrollably.

An pressed her face to the ground. After a long time, she finally waved Chunhong over. Chunhong bent close to listen.

“Little Chunhong,” An closed her eyes, “my real name is An Ruzhou.”

“I wanted to kill him, but all I have is my bed—our bed.”

“We shouldn’t be trapped here.”

Xing’er heard, silent at first.

Then she said, “My name is Lin Xing’er.”

Then Chen: “My name is Chen Qinxue.”

Chunhong sobbed harder.

An died half an hour later.

Her body was buried by the three of them. Next to An Ruzhou’s mound was a smaller one.

Xing’er explained, “That’s Consort Li’s—Li Nianqiu.”

Chen, wiping her tears, “We’re the unloved, pitiful palace women.”

Xing’er patted the little mound: “But we can still care for each other.”

Chunhong lifted her hand: “Um…”

Trembling, she said, “Someone loves me. My sister loves me—a lot. She’s definitely still looking for me.”

Xing’er glared: “What a showoff!”

Chen: “Yeah! Take it elsewhere!”

Chunhong decided everyone was too sweet, so she shared her biggest secret: “Actually, I transmigrated. You know what that is?”

The others shook their heads.

Chunhong sighed: “Guess not—ancients, after all.”

“Nothing fun about transmigration—better not to know.”

Time dragged. After An died, it slowed even more.

Once, Chunhong’s closest bond had been An; if she hadn’t already had such a wonderful sister, she’d have sworn sisterhood with An.

Now, all Chunhong could do was recall the good times, often forgetting to eat, only nibbling something when truly starving.

Steamed pork, glutinous rice duck—delicacies, but after a few bites, she retched.

Maybe too sad—everything tasted rotten or moldy.

The emperor acted as always, but didn’t visit the harem for a month.

If An were alive, they would have been singing and dancing.

But grief for the dead doesn’t always demand white robes—sometimes just a white heart.

The harem’s big stage was gone, leaving the consorts bewildered.

On what she thought was her fourteenth birthday, Chunhong sat on a chair all night, dazed at the window. She’d grown thin—ribs visible under her shirt.

She thought the emperor would soon kill her.

But he never came.

Not that month. Not the next.

She took it back: she wouldn’t be tortured to death—she’d starve instead.

Xing’er and Chen were hungry too. When the emperor came daily, he’d bring fun snack foods; “beef-flavored bun,” “cabbage-flavored perch”—claiming these were tributes from other countries.

No one doubted him.

Li was small and old. When the emperor finally returned, two and a half months later, he found three stick-thin consorts.

“Li has fallen,” he sighed. “Just came to collect your bodies; didn’t know there was so much food in the kitchen. You sure can live.”

Xing’er muttered weakly, “Idiot.”

The emperor took no offense—his country gone, nothing of dignity left. “Say your goodbyes.”

Xing’er’s eyes gleamed.

Chunhong jerked upright, “Let us leave?”

Chen, nearly too weak to move, sat up shakily at the thought.

“Leave?”

The emperor looked constipated, then suddenly snorted with laughter.

“I meant to let you say goodbye to each other, not to me.”

“You will be buried with Li.”

He left.

Not long after, rain fell—becoming a pounding storm.

Stinging faces.

Chunhong looked up, wiped her face, finding only grit and filth.

“Why’s sand falling from the sky?” she wondered.

The others didn’t know either.

Slowly, sand piled around them—ankle, knee, chest high. Soon, blinding dust filled the air. Chunhong shouted:

“If I could go back, I’d never like that boy band leader again!”

Chen: “What’s a boy band leader?”

Chunhong wiped her face: “Whatever, the emperor looks just like him—except he’s a jerk.”

Chen: “But you like pale-haired boys. Emperor’s a bad guy, but he’s handsome.”

Chunhong: “But the guy I like has black hair.”

Xing’er: “Isn’t the emperor blond?”

They looked at each other.

Then fell silent.

After a long time, Chunhong burst into sobs. Down in the cellar, their crying rose and fell, while outside, Uncle Zhang bulldozed away all the evil.

The pear orchard was bought by the government—the biggest amusement park in Changxia City was going to be built here.

But Chunhong didn’t know that.

The sandy soil rose above her neck, filling her mouth and nose, wrapping her battered body, her consciousness fading.

Faintly, she seemed to hear someone ask if she regretted anything.

It seemed all her pain started when she interrupted Meng Zhaolin that day. If she hadn’t, maybe it would have been Meng Henshui chosen for the escort instead.

If she’d never been chosen, she wouldn’t have been trafficked, wouldn’t have been imprisoned, wouldn’t have performed an emperor’s dream mere meters from the living.

But she had no regrets.

After all, her intuition had worked for once—it traded places with her sister. That was wonderful.

Even a little pest can be a big hero.