Chapter 8

Ran Nannan stared at the mirror in a daze.

The morning light poured in from the window, illuminating the small white porcelain cup on the sink—and her face.

She reached out and touched her cheek. The skin felt even smoother and more delicate than she remembered. Her cool fingertip slid gently across the surface, like it was stirring a pool of soft ripples.

It had been two days since she woke up from that dream. All those formulas the old matron had forced down her throat in her past life—she still remembered them vividly: safflower decoctions, honeyed floral water, even a unique combing technique—start with 200 strokes, reverse first, then forward, then smooth down gently.

She had followed those memories half experimentally for just two nights, yet now, the girl in the mirror already looked subtly different.

Her skin glowed, her eyes slanted ever so slightly at the corners, her lips carried a natural rosy hue. Strangely, even her lashes seemed thicker than before—fluttering faintly like tiny butterflies.

If those ten years of nightmare had been just a dream… If she hadn’t died that night… she might have feared being back in Qinghong House, once again treated like merchandise by the Zhou family to win favor with the powerful.

But this time—no one forced her.

This time, it was her choice.

A soft laugh escaped her lips. She tapped her finger lightly against her mouth. That smile held a trace of defiance, like a silent declaration to everyone who once oppressed her:
This time, she was going to live for herself.

In the afternoon, she pulled out her phone and opened the notes app, typing out every ancient formula she could still recall.

“In the morning, drink warm safflower water on an empty stomach. Improves circulation, enhances complexion.”
“At night, pat cheeks with chrysanthemum-honey essence. Moisturizing but non-greasy.”
“Comb hair 300 times—first reverse, then forward, then gently smooth. Promotes blood flow, clears meridians.”

Watching the words appear on the screen, she suddenly felt a strange but overwhelming sense of safety—so familiar it was almost frightening.

She had once been beaten with a cane to memorize these lines, forced by the Zhou family’s old matron to copy them day after day. But now—no one was forcing her.
She wanted this.

She saved the notes and set up reminders for herself. Morning: safflower water. Evening: chrysanthemum essence. Before bed: combing routine.

Once all the reminders were in place, she set her phone down on the bedside table and let out a long breath.

That night, she followed her routine step by step. She placed a few safflower petals into a porcelain bowl, poured in freshly boiled water, and watched the petals bloom slowly in the heat—like tiny bursts of flame.

Once the color turned a gentle red, she scooped up a spoonful and took a sip.

Slightly bitter, but not harsh. Instead, it carried a faint, cooling sensation that bloomed on her tongue and flowed gently down her throat, settling warmly in her stomach.

She closed her eyes, breathing slowly. She could almost feel that warmth spreading softly through her core.

Next, she poured some pre-soaked chrysanthemum water into the basin, adding two drops of honey. The mixture carried a delicate sweetness. She dipped her fingers in and lightly patted it onto her face.

Tap. Tap.

Each touch was gentle, as if afraid to disturb something precious beneath the skin.

By the thirtieth pat, she noticed a faint, natural blush rising in the mirror—not makeup, but a soft, radiant glow from beneath the surface.

Ran Nannan smiled. Her gaze shifted slightly, catching her own half-smiling eyes in the reflection.

Finally, she picked up her old wooden comb.

It was peachwood—smooth, with a subtle natural fragrance. She had bought it casually on a trip to an old town with her mother.

She bowed her head, slowly combing from roots to tips. First, 100 strokes in reverse. Then 100 forward. Then, from both sides toward the back, another 100 soft strokes.

Exactly 300 strokes—no more, no less.

By the end, her arms ached slightly, but the soreness carried a kind of satisfying warmth. Her scalp seemed to breathe with it, radiating a calm heat.

After finishing everything, she set the comb down with a soft sigh and lifted her head to face the mirror.

The girl looking back had a pair of exceptionally beautiful eyes—naturally tilted at the corners, her lashes casting faint shadows under the light, like a thin veil of silk.

Her complexion gleamed, not with a sickly pale, but with the delicate radiance of a porcelain bowl in early spring—fine, smooth, and full of life.

She suddenly remembered the old matron from Qinghong House once saying:

“A beautiful face is like a gold note. If nurtured to perfection, it could drive the nobles mad.”

But now—this face belonged to no one else.

It was hers alone.

She smiled faintly, her lips curling just a little.

From this moment on—this face, this body, this life—none of it is for anyone else’s benefit.

It’s all for her own.