Song Luan didn’t remember the details of the story all that well. The novel had been a breezy read, designed for quick thrills, and she’d skimmed through most of it without paying attention to the finer points.

Though the book didn’t dwell much on the original character, it vividly portrayed her nature—vicious, opportunistic, and shameless. Song Luan vaguely recalled that the original owner’s health began to deteriorate within a year, likely due to the poison administered by the male lead.

Confined to bed for years, she grew weaker and weaker while Zhao Nanyu soared in the political arena. Once he consolidated his power and took control of the court, he started settling scores one by one. Compared to the fates of others, being burned alive was almost merciful.

According to the maids, the day Song Luan fainted was the day her soul somehow replaced the original’s.

Leaning against the soft couch, she let the gentle midday sunlight spill across her face. Her fair complexion seemed to glow, her long lashes fluttered faintly, and her lips were as red as blooming petals—a true beauty.

Song Luan had a striking figure: a slender waist, long legs, and a full chest. The red cinched-waist dress she wore accentuated her hourglass figure, and her watery, flirtatious eyes shimmered with charm. She certainly had the allure to tempt anyone.

But Zhao Nanyu wasn’t swayed in the least. In the end, he decided to kill her anyway.

Song Luan spent the entire afternoon trying to come up with a plan but got nowhere. Eventually, the warm sunlight lulled her into a nap, casting a serene glow over her as she slept.

But her dreams were anything but peaceful. In the dream, a man dressed in black approached her, his presence cold and menacing. His eyes, sharp as blades, carried a chilling intensity, though his unnaturally handsome face bore a faint, eerie smile. His slightly upturned almond-shaped eyes narrowed with cruel amusement.

He held a dagger in one hand as his black boots echoed ominously with each step. When he reached her, his slender, bone-defined fingers gripped her fragile shoulders, pinning her against the wall. Then, with ruthless precision, he plunged the dagger into her chest. Twisting the blade, he ensured she felt every second of agony. Song Luan could almost hear the sickening sound of flesh tearing and blood churning. The pain was excruciating, leaving her pale and unable to even scream.

Song Luan jolted awake…

When she opened her eyes, the sky was already dimming, and cold sweat clung to her forehead. Pressing a hand against her chest, she was startled to feel a faint ache there. Then it struck her—what she’d just dreamt about was the very scene from The Power Minister where the original owner of this body met her tragic end.

The one who stabbed her? The male lead. Ugh how utterly miserable. In the story after Zhao Nanyu had solidified power, the original owner had tried to win his favor. When that failed, she flew into a rage, hurling insults at him in a fit of humiliation and fury. She said all manner of vile things, but her greatest mistake had been uttering. “You’re nothing but the bastard son of a lowly courtesan, drunk on a fleeting moment of power. How dare you show me such disrespect!”

Indeed, Zhao Nanyu’s mother had come from a humble background, never even stepping foot into the Zhao family estate. She had died of illness outside its walls, leaving behind a legacy of disgrace that became the male lead’s ultimate taboo. To bring it up was to court death.

After stabbing her, Zhao Nanyu had her thrown into a raging fire.

Song Luan resolved there and then: she wouldn’t provoke the male lead, not even in the slightest. She’d tread lightly, hold her tongue, and absolutely avoid anything resembling infidelity. The mere thought of it was enough to terrify her.

The male lead had chosen fire for a reason. He despised the original owner’s filth. As the quintessential alpha male of women’s fiction, Zhao Nanyu was domineering, possessive to the extreme, and obsessively clean. Anything or anyone he considered “his” could not be sullied in the slightest by others.

By the time the original owner met her end, she had entangled herself with countless men. To Zhao Nanyu, even looking at her was an affront. Only by reducing her to ashes could she be purified.

Lost in thought, Song Luan was pulled back to reality when a maid entered the room and asked. “Madam, shall I prepare dinner?”

Her face was still pale, her expression visibly worn, but her stomach had been growling for a while now. She nodded. “Yes, set the table.” Pausing for a moment, she called the maid back, her voice hesitant. “Did the master say when he’ll return?”

She needed to be prepared to face the male lead.

The maid was startled, then replied. “This servant doesn’t know, Madam.” Fearing she might anger her, she quickly added. “But I overheard the housekeeper saying that it seems the master will be returning to the capital tonight.”

Song Luan: “…”

Her head was throbbing—truly throbbing.

There was no choice but to brace herself and deal with Zhao Nanyu tonight. Otherwise, her life would be at risk.

“Understood.” Song Luan decided to take it one step at a time. The bigger challenge would be Zhao Nanyu, but a four-year-old like Zhao Zhiger  should be easier to handle. She suddenly said. “Go to the front yard and bring the young master here for dinner.”

“Yes, Madam.”

“Never mind, I’ll go myself.”

It would also give her a chance to familiarize herself with the layout.

Zhao Nanyu’s courtyard wasn’t large but it had exquisite taste with an emphasis on its artistic ambiance and layout. She passed through a small path and a round gate before reaching the front yard.

The four-year-old Zhao Zhiger was practicing calligraphy in the study while his uncle had already left. He stood on his chair, holding the brush with a professional posture. His strokes were decisive, and while the characters weren’t overly beautiful, they were neat and clear, each stroke well-formed.

Although his father doted on him, he had high expectations. Every day, Zhao Zhiger had to practice writing and studying. He didn’t have any friends to play with in the mansion, and his cousins didn’t care much for him.

Even his mother didn’t seem to like him. Since he could remember, she either hit or scolded him and Zhao Zhiger never resisted. Initially, he had hoped for affection, but gradually, his heart grew cold.

Song Luan gently pushed the door open, and the refreshing scent of ink filled the air, soothing her mind. She softened her steps as she approached. “Zhiger, are you still practicing your calligraphy?”

The brush in Zhao Zhi’s hand wobbled, and a splash of black ink stained the white paper. His expression faltered as he looked up. “Mother.”

Song Luan shamelessly leaned over to look at his work, offering sincere praise. “Zhiger, your writing is really good.”

He felt awkward all over as his little hands clenched tightly in his sleeves. This was the first time his mother had praised him. It had never happened before, and a strange feeling surged inside him—slightly sweet, yet a little sour.

Song Luan stared at him unblinkingly, her expression gentle causing the child’s face gradually flushed with a hint of red, he asked. “Mother, what brings you here?”

The more Song Luan at Zhiger the more she liked him. His soft, chubby cheeks were just too cute, and even when his lips pouted in displeasure, he was still adorable. She reached out and pulled him into her arms. “It’s time for dinner, let me take you there.”

Zhiger ’s body stiffened, unsure of where to place his hands. He didn’t dare hold onto her clothes, nor could he bring himself to hug her. All he could focus on was how soft and fragrant his mother felt in his arms.

So this was what it felt like to be held by his mother. It was so comfortable, so much that he hadn’t forgotten what his uncle had said earlier in the afternoon. His uncle had mentioned that his mother was probably thinking of something bad again.

Zhiger shifted uncomfortably and said, “Mother, I can walk on my own.”

Song Luan couldn’t bear to let go of the little bundle in her arms. Her face broke into a smile, and she affectionately patted his head. “Don’t move around, okay? Hold onto my neck. A good child listens to their mother.”

Reluctantly, Zhao Zhiger buried his face in her chest, his small fingers fidgeting. They opened and closed, hesitating, but in the end, his longing overcame him, and he carefully grabbed onto the fabric of her clothes.

Though his face remained cold, his little ears tinged with a faint pink.

Song Luan carried him back to Huai Shui courtyard. Concerned that he might catch a cold, she found a cloak for him to wear, the collar lined with soft, warm fox fur. His face was mostly hidden in the cloak, leaving only his bright, dark eyes visible—clear and shining.

Zhiger felt like he was dreaming. His mother had been so kind to him today. In the past, her eyes were always filled with disdain when she looked at him, but today, it seemed as though she truly liked him.

Even if it was just a dream, Zhao Zhiger was happy.

The mother and son sat down to eat together. Song Luan wasn’t sure what he liked, so she didn’t rush to pick up her chopsticks and serve him. Instead, she asked. “Zhiger, what do you like to eat? I’ll have them prepare it for you tomorrow.”

Zhao Zhiger remained stiff, his head lowered. “Anything is fine,” he muttered.

Song Luan could tell he was still very guarded. She didn’t push him for an answer, instead offering a gentle smile. “Alright, then.”

She had planned to make some pastries for him herself the next day, but this was only her second day in this body, so she didn’t dare risk breaking character too soon. If anyone noticed something was off, it could be troublesome.

That night, after finishing her bath, Song Luan wore a simple white undergarment, her long black hair cascading down her back. With no makeup, her features were softer, more refined, less vibrant but with an elegant beauty.

In the adjacent room, Zhao Zhiger had already fallen asleep. The little boy curled up in the corner of the bed, lying quietly. Song Luan tucked him in, then carefully stepped out of the room.

She was exhausted, just about to turn off the light and go to bed, when a servant hurriedly entered the room. “Madam, the master has returned and is on his way here.”

Song Luan’s drowsiness vanished in an instant, and she was fully awake.

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Author has something to say:

Song Luan: Am I miserable or Am I miserable.

Zhao Nanyu: smiling JPEG