Her fingers clawed through the soil, careful yet frantic, until they hit something cool and smooth beneath the surface.
A glint of white.
Jade.
She brushed the dirt away slowly, reverently—like uncovering a relic from another life.
Nestled in a silk-wrapped bundle, protected all these years, lay a pair of delicate white jade bracelets. The craftsmanship was unmistakable—flawless, elegant, and impossibly familiar.
Her breath caught in her throat.
These... these were mine.
Not from her world, but from this one.
The memories surged like a tide breaking through a crumbling dam. Pain bloomed behind her eyes as the sensations overwhelmed her—memories that weren't hers, and yet were. A small girl running across this very path, her laughter echoing against the stones. A gentle hand brushing back her hair, sliding these very bracelets onto her tiny wrists with pride and warmth.
Madam Lu.
Not Madam Shen. Not some faceless name in a genealogy chart. No—Mother.
The real Shen Yuhan's mother.
Her mother.
Ah Zhu's voice echoed in her mind, faint but distinct: ""There was a pair of white jade bracelets," Ah Zhu added with a sniff. "Madam said they'd be perfect for you on your wedding day. 'Not too flashy,' she said, 'but clear as moonlight. For my daughter's first love.' She tucked them into the dowry chest herself."
A sob caught in her chest and refused to escape.
Because in that moment, Shen Yuhan finally understood.
She wasn't a shadow occupying someone else's life. She wasn't merely borrowing a body. She was Shen Yuhan—fragments and all.
She had inherited this life. In every possible way.
And with that realization came more memories—sharper, clearer. The loneliness. The confusion. The nights crying in silence when her mother never returned. The cold distance of her father. The faint smile Shen Yulan wore when watching her stumble.
Not all of it came in full—but enough to paint the outlines of truth.
And suddenly, the stakes felt different.
This wasn't just revenge for a stranger's sake. It was her vengeance. Her mother. Her home. Her past.
She cradled the bracelets in her palms, eyes glinting with quiet resolve.
"Thank you," she whispered to the wind, unsure if she was speaking to her mother, the past, or some part of herself now awakened.
This life was hers. Its pain, its joy, its bloodline—hers.
She rose slowly, the jade bracelets in her palm. The tree behind her stood like a guardian, the wind whispering through its petals.
She looked out at the pond, now fully drenched in dusk, the last light turning the water dark as ink.
From now on, she would no longer walk this world with only borrowed purpose.
She was Shen Yuhan—in this life, and the last.
And she had returned.
She would take back everything, one by one and made those pay who stole her mother's dowry, her status, her fate and eventually her life.
---
That same night, after the Shen household had fallen into a deep, uneasy silence, a shadowy figure slipped past the eastern courtyard, moving soundlessly toward the inner treasury.
Four burly guards stood at attention outside the treasury doors, their expressions blank but their bodies taut with vigilance. Their eyes swept the darkness, ears attuned to even the faintest disturbance.
Yet none of them noticed the small, dark shape that glided silently across the rooftop above them—swift and weightless, like a wisp of smoke carried by the wind.
The figure paused at the highest point of the sloping tiled roof, crouched low beneath the curved ridge tiles. The moon was high but veiled by drifting clouds, casting the world in shifting shadows. From within the folds of her sleeve, Shen Yuhan—clad head-to-toe in black, face half-covered—produced a thin wire no thicker than the silver needle she used to save her patients and kill her enemies. She waited.
One of the guards shifted, muttering under his breath, and knocked his spear against the stone flagging.
A second passed. Then another.
With a flick of her wrist, Shen Yuhan sent the wire gliding forward. It slipped between the cracks of the ventilation slats near the rear of the treasury wall, attached to a small, intricately carved hook. It caught on the inner latch.
Click.
Inside, the latch gave way.
The guards remained unaware, lulled by routine and the belief that no one would dare approach the heavily guarded vault.
Slipping down the side of the roof, Shen Yuhan landed silently on the narrow ledge that ran beneath the eaves. Her movements were fluid, like a falling leaf that refused to make a sound. She pressed herself flat against the wall, feeling for the small crevice she had identified days ago—an unguarded ventilation slat behind a decorative wooden panel.
With patient fingers, she removed the panel, revealing a narrow crawlspace barely wide enough for a child. But she had studied this opening carefully, and her slim figure made it possible.
Once inside, her breathing slowed, controlled, as she crept forward through the dark shaft. The space was cramped and choked with dust, but she pressed on. After what felt like an eternity of inching forward, the crawlspace opened into a shadowed loft above the main chamber of the treasury.
Below her, rows of shelves gleamed faintly in the darkness—boxes, chests, lacquered scroll cases, and carefully wrapped packages labeled with delicate calligraphy. A faint scent of sandalwood lingered in the air.
She dropped soundlessly into the rafters, remaining just beneath the ceiling. Her eyes, sharp and trained, swept over the room, confirming what she had memorized from stolen glimpses during the day.
She wasn't here for coin or trinkets.
Her target lay at the back of the room: a chest marked with the Lu family crest—an ancient peony in bloom, surrounded by subtle embroidery patterns unique to Madam Lu's dowry. The chest was filled with hundreds of rare and valuable jewelleries, along with the one, she had come to take today: The Phoenix Hairpin.
She descended with care, her feet never making a sound against the floor. Reaching the chest, she knelt and ran her hand over the old wood. The iron clasp was rusted but intact. She didn't force it open. Instead, she pulled out a thin blade and a small vial of oil, applying both with the precision of a surgeon.
Click.
The chest creaked slightly as it opened. Inside lay a collection of silk pouches, jade accessories, ledgers, and—at the very bottom—a small red box with golden lotus patterns pressed into the lid.
She lifted the box reverently and opened it.
Inside, nestled like fire in silk, lay the Golden Phoenix Hairpin, inlaid with ruby and South Sea pearls—an exquisite creation said to have come from Master He of the Jinfeng Workshop in Hangzhou, famed across the empire for crafting one-of-a-kind treasures for noble brides.
In the novel, after getting this Hairpin and learning its secret, Shen Yulan had suddenly risen to fame and power. And this same hairpin was the reason, the real Shen Yuhan had tested her first public humiliation in front of the authorities and entire Meixi County. But not this time.
Under the faint moonlight, Shen Yuhan's clear, bright eyes shone with determination and hunger for revenge.
Shen Yuhan clenched the hairpin in her hand, feeling the sharp edges bite into her palm.
This was not just an ornament.
This was a blade.
A symbol of everything that had been taken from her—and what she would take back.
This was what she had come for. Her fate which was stolen by her killers in her past life.
Behind her, a faint noise—a shift of wind? A creak in the beams?
She froze, every nerve alert.
Nothing followed.
No footsteps. No movement. Just the muffled breath of sleeping guards beyond the thick doors.
She returned everything to its place—except the Golden Phoenix Hairpin tucked into her sleeve. Then, like a shadow retreating from light, she ascended back into the loft and crawled out through the passage she had entered.
By the time a breeze stirred the courtyard lanterns again, Shen Yuhan was already gone—her black robes disappearing into the trees, the secrets of the treasury carried silently beneath the moonlight.