Chapter 9

She stood in front of the mirror for a long time, dazed.

Steam rose gently in the bathroom, fogging the glass until only a pair of eyes remained clearly reflected. Those eyes held a quiet light—like the first moonlight glimmering across a still lake.

Ran Nannan reached out and wiped the mirror, revealing her face again.

It was the third night now. Every morning, she drank safflower water; at night, she patted her cheeks with chrysanthemum honey essence; and carefully combed her hair a hundred times with a wooden comb.

In just a few days, her skin had grown so smooth you could hardly see a pore. Her lips had a natural flush to them, like they’d been lightly tinted with rouge.

But she knew—this wasn’t all there was.

In her past life, behind the courtyard walls of Qinghong House, she’d learned far more than skincare for the sake of that face the Zhou family used to trade for wealth and status.
She’d learned how to walk, how to stand, how to turn and glance back just right.

All of it had been carved into her bones and blood. But back then, it was to make nobles linger for a second glance—so the family could earn more silver.

Now, she suddenly thought:
What if I took all that back—but this time, for myself?

The next morning, she found the room in her home with the most open space and cleared out the furniture. Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, lighting up the tiles until they gleamed.

She changed into a loose-fitting white slip dress and tied her hair up simply. Standing in the center of the floor, she closed her eyes and listened to the steady thump of her heartbeat.

Then she lifted her foot slowly—toe first, then heel—lightly touching the ground. Knees straight, back upright. Fingers relaxed, pinky slightly curled inward.

The first few steps were rusty. But soon, her long-buried instincts began to resurface, one by one.

Her steps grew light, her back straightened. When she turned, the lines from her shoulders to her neck stretched out beautifully—like the first tender willow branches of spring, soft but naturally proud.

She walked to the full-length mirror and stopped. Turned her head to look at herself.

The slight upward tilt of her eyes gave off an inexplicable allure—not the flirtation learned at Qinghong House, nor the seduction expected by the Zhou family, but a calm, quiet power.

As if to say:
I was born this way.

That afternoon, she began practicing standing postures from her past.

Heels together, knees slightly bent. Spine lengthened, shoulders relaxed, as though a fine thread tugged gently from the crown of her head toward the sky.

This was the most basic stance—drilled into her since the age of seven, with beatings from a rattan cane whenever she faltered. Even the smallest slouch meant a harsh whip across the back.

But now, no one was standing over her with a cane. No cold voice at her ear scolding, “Keep slouching and no one will ever want you.”

She remembered her younger self—small, eyes filled with tears, biting her lip to keep from sobbing, just to hold that posture for one more moment.

But now, in the quiet afternoon, she could hear sparrows hopping on the windowsill outside as she slowly tightened her core—drawing strength upward from her lower belly, through her spine, into her shoulders.

This time—for herself.

That night, after her shower, she noticed her shoulders and neck had already begun to soften. The curve of her back, once hunched under the weight of a schoolbag, was now upright. Her whole body felt lighter.

She tilted her head slightly. Her collarbones arced like two slender crescent moons, even glimmering faintly when she rolled her shoulders.

Her lips curved just a little.

Starting today, she would reshape herself—bit by bit.

Not for the Zhou family.
Not for the Cheng household.
Not for any so-called “nobleman.”

But for herself.

The next morning, as usual, she drank her safflower water. Then she pushed aside the coffee table and laid out a thin mat on the floor.

First, she rose onto the balls of her feet and gathered her breath. Then she bent her knees and lowered herself—not all the way to the floor, but hovering just above it. Knees taut, like a string being pulled tight. She held the position for three breaths, then slowly stood back up.

This simple movement, she had once been forced to do a hundred times each day under the old matron’s watch. Back then, it had felt like torture—her legs trembling like sieves.

But now, she bit her lip lightly and repeated it over and over, steady and unhurried.

By the tenth time, her calves were already quivering. She only let out a soft laugh and continued.

By the twentieth, her legs felt as if coiled with snakes of pain. She stood up slowly, shook out her ankles, then walked to the sink and took a sip of water.

The mirror reflected her face, lightly flushed, with a sheen of sweat on her forehead. Yet her expression was satisfied, glowing with a quiet, unfamiliar confidence.

That night, she sat cross-legged and placed her hands over her lower abdomen, breathing as she had once been taught.

Each inhale was deep and long—until she could feel the breath settle into her core. Each exhale was slow, like gently blowing out a flame.

At first, the breath stayed shallow, stuck in her chest. But after a few tries, her lower belly began to rise and fall, and a gentle warmth stirred there—like a small fire being kindled.

She opened her eyes and touched her abdomen lightly, a soft smile spreading across her face.

That small, growing strength gave her more peace than any silk or finery ever could.

Finally, she picked up the wooden comb and slowly began brushing her hair.

Three hundred strokes.

A breeze floated in through the window, bringing with it the faint scent of grass and lifting a few strands of hair near her temples.

She looked into the mirror.

The girl in the reflection was stunning. Her skin glowed like porcelain, her neck long and slender, her shoulders so delicate they looked like they could cradle a small bird. But the fear and people-pleasing hesitance from her past life were gone from her eyes.

Now, they held a quiet, unwavering confidence.

It was a new kind of aura—one she had earned through two lifetimes.

She gently tugged up the corners of her lips into a faint, knowing smile.

From this day forward, she would bloom—for herself.