The first thing Mary felt was pain—deep, dull, and stubborn, pressing behind her eyes like someone was knocking from the inside.
She groaned and forced her eyelids open. A dim, yellowish light swung from an old bulb on the ceiling, revealing a room that looked as if time itself had forgotten it.
The wooden table beside her bed was scratched all over, its legs uneven. The mattress beneath her was so hard she wondered if she had slept on a door panel. The quilt smelled faintly of old sun and dust.
She frowned. Where is this?
She lifted her arm to rub her forehead and froze. The hand wasn't hers. It was too thick, too soft, the skin several shades darker than what she remembered.
Alarmed, she slid her palm across her stomach and felt layers of flesh she did not recognize. Her breath hitched. Her body was heavy, uncooperative—almost foreign.
No, not almost. Completely.
Her heart raced. The last thing she remembered was blood, betrayal, and the cold pressure of the King Zombie's strike. She remembered Jasmine's hand pushing her forward. She remembered the world going white.
But this room, the clean scent of air, the silence, these things shouldn't exist in the apocalypse. She inhaled again—fresh air, untouched by decay. Tears pricked her eyes.
Did I transmigrate?
She had read enough webnovels in her past life to recognize the signs, even if she had never expected to experience them herself. A new room, a new body, and her old one, torn apart in a battlefield.
Her chest tightened. She had been a level-five wielder of both fire and ice. She had fought thousands of zombies, survived storms, famine, betrayal—yet in the end, she had been careless for one moment and died with her enemy. And worse, she had forgotten about her spatial ability, the one thing that could've saved her.
Thinking of that, a dull ache grew behind her eyes again. Her lips were cracked, her throat painfully dry. She swallowed but felt nothing—no moisture at all.
Right then, the door banged open.
A gust of cold air swept into the room, followed by a tall man in an old-style cotton coat. He carried a metal lunchbox that clanged softly as he walked.
When their eyes met, Mary startled. His skin was dark from years of sun, but his features were sharp and handsome, his posture straight and quietly intimidating. Up close, she realized he was even taller than she first guessed—at least 1.8 meters.
Without greeting her, he set the lunchbox on the table with a thud.
"Eat," he said, voice low and impatient. "I already agreed to what you wanted. The report is submitted. Stop hurting yourself. This body is yours now. If you keep abusing it, you're the one who'll suffer. Why bother?"
He turned as if the matter was concluded and reached for the door.
Mary panicked. She pushed against the bed with all her strength and managed to sit up halfway.
"Wait!" she shouted. "Who are you? Where is this place? And who am I supposed to be?"
He stopped, clearly annoyed but also—strangely—concerned. He glanced back, looked at her a moment as if suspecting she might start another stunt, then said casually,
"Mary, eat your food. You're too weak. I'm busy this afternoon. If you have questions, wait until I return tonight."
Her name. Her real name. Hearing it from a stranger in this new world made the back of her neck prickle.
Before she could say another word, he stepped out and shut the door.
Mary stared at the peeling paint on the door, stunned. Then—irritation. Good looks can't save a bad attitude, she thought bitterly.
Her stomach growled loudly in response.
Food first. Revenge later.
She dragged the lunchbox closer and opened it. The steam rising from the white rice nearly made her eyes sting. There was a small portion of meat, and stir-fried cabbage glistening with oil.
Before the apocalypse, this would have been an ordinary meal. After the apocalypse, vegetables like this were treasures.
She ate quickly, hungrily, scraping the box clean.
But after the last bite, another wave of pain rolled through her, this one strange—like someone else's memories were being pushed into her skull. She collapsed backward onto the mattress, eyes closing on their own.
And then she saw it—the life of the body's original owner.
A simple rural family. Parents who loved their daughter. A cheerful older brother who spoiled her. A peaceful life that stayed peaceful until tragedy carved it apart. The brother died saving someone earlier that year.
That "someone" was the man who had just walked out of the room.
His name was Ryan.
After that, guilt and responsibility pushed him into a marriage with the grieving family's daughter—the original Mary.
So now he was her husband in name.
Mary opened her eyes again, staring at the ceiling with a conflicted expression.
Of all the worlds she could have transmigrated into
Of all the bodies she could have landed in
This one even came with a husband?
The memories came slowly at first, drifting into Mary's mind like scenes hidden beneath fog. But once the fog parted, the truth of the original owner's life hit her all at once.
The girl who had lived in this body before her was round-faced, heavy, and built like a walking boulder. The kind of person whose footsteps made chairs nervous. In the countryside, people liked to say, "fat brings blessings," but behind closed doors they also said, "a fat girl ruins everything." And the original Mary had heard that line more times than she could count.
By eighteen, most girls around her had already been engaged for years. But she wasn't just single—no family even bothered to consider her. Part of it was her weight. Grain was precious, and families barely had enough to feed their own children. Who dared bring home a daughter-in-law who could empty a storage room by herself?
The other reason was her temper. She had been spoiled since birth, her parents and brother treating her like a rare treasure.
Anger came easily to her, and strength came even easier—she could throw any boy in the village over her shoulder like a sack of rice. Who would dare marry someone who might pin her husband to the ground every time she got annoyed?
So even when her parents told everyone, "Forget the dowry, forget the betrothal gifts," the villagers still politely stepped back and avoided eye contact. No one wanted to marry an ancestor.
Then tragedy tore the family apart. Her brother died saving someone else's life—Ryan's. The young man, ashamed and grieving, came to kneel before her parents, offering his thanks and his lifelong loyalty. He wanted to treat her parents as his own and continue being filial in his brother's place.
The original Mary had taken one look at him and fallen headfirst into infatuation.
A handsome man—shy, tall, clean-looking—someone who didn't resemble the rough workers in the village at all. She made a scene for an entire night, crying, shouting, refusing to eat, until her worn-down parents finally sighed and admitted, "Well, he is a decent boy."
Her parents, tired and grieving, decided to gamble. They told Ryan there was only one request—that he marry their daughter.
Mary nearly fainted when she recalled the memory. This wasn't a marriage proposal; it was highway robbery. Yet somehow, unbelievably, Ryan had agreed.
Was marriage in this era something you accepted because someone asked twice? It was ridiculous.
The new memories connected with her own thoughts, and she could almost see what had happened. Ryan had planned to visit his family for three days. He came with good intentions, but not with marriage in mind. The original owner's personality was unexpected, to say the least.
The wedding happened so quickly that the two of them hadn't even had time to breathe, let alone consummate the marriage. Right after the ceremony, Ryan had to rush back to the steel factory where he worked.
He explained everything to her back then, firm but polite.
"There are matters waiting for me. When I can take leave again, we'll talk."
The original owner didn't complain. She stayed at the household obediently, joining a family of eight. It was a crowded home, lively but loud.
There was the eldest brother, Damien, already married, with a young daughter named Rose. His wife Martha was straightforward, hardworking, and a bit stingy—hardly surprising in a poor rural household.
Ryan was the second child.
The third brother, Raydon, was around sixteen, studying in town.
Then there was the youngest sister, Elizabeth, only fourteen.
Their parents, Philip and Vanessa, ran the household—two tired adults managing a family large enough to form a small army. Mary honestly admired them. If they had lived in her old world, they would've collapsed from exhaustion.
Feeding so many mouths was a daily battle. The family relied on rationed food. Breakfast was thin porridge with pickles. Lunch was usually skipped. Dinner was the only real meal, and even then, it was mostly vegetables with little oil. Every person got one small rice pancake.
The original owner always ate more than everyone else. A few days earlier, leftover food from a banquet had sustained her, but once it was gone, she simply endured the hunger, too embarrassed to ask for more.
When she visited her mother's home—Ryan had allowed her a short stay—she confessed everything. Her mother, experienced and practical, advised her gently.
"You've only just married in. If you stay here too long, your in-laws will talk. Go back early."
So she returned before dark.
And what she saw shocked her.
In the kitchen, the entire family was gathered, eating dumplings and burgers and whatnot. When she had been home, the meals were watery and plain. But the moment she was gone, everyone feasted.
The original owner stood in the doorway, confused and speechless.
Everyone else froze.
They looked at her with stiff smiles—caught red-handed. They had made exactly enough dumplings for themselves, expecting her not to return yet. But now that she was here, etiquette forced them to give up some.
Martha, the sister-in-law, sighed inwardly, then forced a smile, took two dumplings and a hamburger from everyone, arranged them neatly on a plate, and handed them to the original owner.
Those two dumplings and a hamburger per person created just enough for a single plate.
The entire family watched her, their expressions saying:
We weren't trying to hide food, but we definitely were.