No…
She couldn't be dead.
Not yet.
Li Ziqing felt her entire body contorting in unbearable agony, as though a swarm of insects had invaded her skin, burrowing, biting, and gnawing at every inch of her flesh. Pain—deep, relentless, and burning—coursed through her limbs like wildfire.
But why?
Why was there still pain?
Wasn't death supposed to be the end of all suffering?
Wasn't it supposed to be peaceful?
Instead, she found herself caught in a storm of conflicting sensations—pain, yes, but also… tears?
She was crying.
And worse, she could feel the wetness of the tears rolling down her cheeks.
A broken sob escaped her throat. She wasn't sure if she was grieving or gasping, or simply lost in the weight of her own disbelief. Everything she thought she understood had been shattered in the final moments of her life. Her brother's death—it wasn't an accident. Her mother's death—it wasn't suicide. They had both been murdered.
Planned.
Engineered.
Her family's tragedy had been nothing more than a cruel game played by people in the shadows—and she had never even seen their faces.
The pain in her chest deepened, but then—something shifted.
Her sobbing slowed, her breath caught, and a chilling thought pierced through the fog in her mind:
Why can I still feel pain… still cry… still think?
A spike of panic hit her. Her fingers twitched. Her lungs filled with air. Her heart was thudding—loud, and fast.
She opened her eyes.
The sudden flood of light made her squint. Her vision blurred, and her ears rang faintly, like she was waking from a dream. She blinked rapidly, trying to adjust. The colors around her slowly sharpened—walls, furniture, light.
And then—
She froze.
Her breath hitched in her throat.
"This place…?" she whispered aloud, barely able to get the words out.
She turned her head slowly, scanning the room. Her heart pounded faster with each detail that came into focus.
A narrow wooden cupboard, slightly tilted from years of use, stood by the wall. Her old study table, scratched at the corners, sat under the small window, where morning light filtered in through sheer curtains. On the desk were familiar items: a half-used notebook, a faded pen stand, a dog-eared comic book. The bed she lay on was no wider than a cot, covered in a fresh sunflower-print bedsheet—one she clearly remembered buying with her mother during a discount sale.
The smell…
It was unmistakable. The soft scent of cheap detergent, mixed with old paper and wood polish. The air was warm. Lived-in.
She pushed herself up and staggered to her feet. Her legs felt weak beneath her, as if awakening after a long slumber.
She rushed to the window and yanked open the curtain.
The view outside took her breath away—the crumbling apartment complexs and individual courtyards across the alley, clothes hanging from thin lines, a child's bicycle resting against the wall, the familiar noodle shop at the corner.
Everything was exactly as it had been.
"No… This is…" Her voice trembled. "This is my home… in Northern District… Wuhan."
It hit her all at once.
The calendar on the wall read: 17th August 2006.
She gripped the edge of the window, her knuckles turning white. Her heart pounded so violently she thought it might burst.
"I'm… alive?"
She looked down at her hands—still small, still youthful.
No. Not just alive. I've gone back.
She had been reborn.
The room—though tiny, barely eight square meters—now looked like the most precious place in the world. The warm light that filtered in cast golden shadows on the walls. Though a little cramped, it was cozy. Clean. Safe.
This had once been the place of laughter, where she and her brother whispered dreams under blankets, where her mother lovingly nagged her to study harder. This room had been their only haven in a world that had stripped everything else from them.
And now—she was back.
"Hahaha!"
Suddenly, Li Ziqing burst into uncontrollable laughter, falling back onto her bed. Her laughter echoed through the small room, loud and wild, as if all the pent-up emotions of despair and disbelief had cracked open at once. Tears welled in her eyes—not from sadness this time, but from sheer, overwhelming emotion.
She lay there, breathless and trembling, staring at the calendar on the wall.
August 17th, 2006.
Her chest tightened.
This really was 2006.
She was fourteen again. That meant there were still two full years before the tragedy struck—before her brother's "accident" in 2007, the beginning of her family's fall.
Two years...
It sounded like a lot, but in truth, it was terrifyingly short. Her fleeting joy was quickly consumed by the weight of that realization. She didn't have much time—not nearly enough to rewrite fate. And worse... her enemies were still hidden in the shadows. She had no names, no faces. Only bloodstained memories.
Just as the spiral of dread pulled at her again, she heard voices from outside the room.
Her breath hitched.
Voices... so familiar.
Her eyes turned misty instantly. She knew those voices better than anything in the world.
Her mother. Her twin brother.
They were alive.
Alive.
Two large tears rolled silently down her cheeks. She wiped them away with trembling fingers and forced herself to breathe. Then she stepped out of the room.
---
In the living room, her mother, Li Jianfang, was standing near the old fabric sofa, arms crossed, face stern. Her brother, Li Zian, sat with his head lowered, shoulders hunched like a guilty child being scolded.
"I told you already—this isn't okay!" her mother snapped. "Didn't I tell you to focus solely on your studies for now?"
Li Zian remained quiet for a moment, his expression stubborn. Then he looked up, meeting their mother's gaze. "Mom, I'm doing this for our family. Just trust me, this once. Please?"
Li Jianfang's anger flared again. Her children had always been her pride—disciplined, obedient, smart. But ever since Zian skipped grades and miraculously passed the high school entrance exam this summer, he'd become determined to work part-time at an internet café. It gave her endless headaches.
She exhaled heavily and softened her tone, sitting down beside him on the couch. Gently, she took his hand.
"Xiao An," she said, using his childhood nickname, "just because you've skipped grades doesn't mean it's over. After summer break, you'll start high school. Do you have any idea how tough those three years will be? I want you to get into a prestigious university… to have a life full of choices."
Li Zian held her gaze, unflinching. "Mom, I swear I'll never let my grades drop. I'll work harder than ever. But please… let me do this. Wouldn't it be better if I could start earning my own money? Just a little. I want to help."
Li Jianfang sighed in exasperation. Her son had always been sensible—too mature for his age. But this streak of independence was both admirable and worrisome.
Just then, the bedroom door creaked open.
Both mother and son turned as Li Ziqing stepped out, her eyes slightly red, her face pale. Seeing her, Li Jianfang immediately stood up and rushed to her side.
"A-Qing, what's wrong?" she asked, worriedly brushing her daughter's hair behind her ear. "Were you crying?"
Li Zian also hurried over, frowning with concern. "A-Qing? What happened?"
---
As soon as Li Ziqing stepped out of her room, both her mother and brother turned toward her, concern flashing in their eyes. Their voices had already stirred something deep within her—but seeing their faces again, up close and real, made her heart tremble with overwhelming emotion.
It had been five years since she last saw her mother. Eight years since her brother's life was stolen.
Now, both stood before her—alive, vibrant, beautiful.
Her vision blurred for a moment as she took in their features, afraid that if she blinked, this miracle would vanish into nothingness.
The Li family of three had always been known across the entire Northern District—not for wealth, but for their unparalleled beauty.
Among the five siblings of the extended Li family, Li Jianfang was the crown jewel.
No one could quite explain how she had been born with such delicate, divine features, so different from her more ordinary siblings. Even in poverty, even behind the dull curtain of fatigue and oily aprons, her beauty radiated like moonlight through clouds—soft, serene, and unforgettable.
Though thirty-three, she looked no older than twenty-five. Her skin was flawless and pearly, with a faint rosy undertone that gave her a natural warmth. Her oval-shaped face carried an elegant softness; her high cheekbones framed her serene expressions perfectly, and her nose was small and refined, as if shaped with intention by a master sculptor.
But it was her eyes that truly held power.
They were large, almond-shaped, with long, natural lashes and irises the color of warm amber—eyes that shimmered with a quiet strength, maternal warmth, and a thousand untold stories. Their depth could calm chaos or stir the deepest ache in one's heart. Even without a trace of makeup, Li Jianfang's face could silence a room.
Today, she wore faded, second-hand clothes and a greased apron stained from her breakfast stall's early rush. Her hair, hastily tied back, framed her face with wisps of jet-black strands. Yet even dressed in hardship, her beauty was timeless and disarming—like a rare flower blooming in the harshest soil.
And her children had inherited that very same magic.
Standing beside her, Li Zian—though just fourteen—looked every bit like a boy on the cusp of greatness. Tall and well-built for his age, he had broad shoulders and a lean, athletic frame that gave him a quietly commanding presence. His posture, naturally confident, made him seem older than he was—a striking contrast to the usual carefree boys of his age.
His face was sharp and defined, with a perfectly straight nose and a strong jawline that would have made any idol envious. His complexion was a healthy golden tan, a testament to long hours spent outdoors, and his hair—thick and dark—fell naturally into place, adding a rugged charm to his look. His eyes, slightly hooded and deep brown, were clear and focused, with a stormy intensity that made people instinctively take notice.
He wasn't just handsome—he was unforgettable.
In fact, the beauty shared between the three of them often made neighbors pause and whisper. Strangers would sneak second glances. Teachers, vendors, even passersby in the marketplace would often comment—"What kind of bloodline is this? Did God sculpt their faces with extra care?"
Though the family was poor, lacking in material wealth, in appearance, they were nothing short of extraordinary—an aristocratic grace hidden beneath humble clothes.
And now, as Li Ziqing looked at her mother and brother again—so close, so vividly alive—her throat tightened and fell into her mothers embrace and held her tightly.