A low, threatening growl reverberated through the heavy air, the precursor to a storm. Outside the grimy window of her makeshift prison, the sky was a roiling tapestry of bruised purples and ominous greys, promising a deluge. Yao stood at the sill, the sharp, persistent scent of mildew and damp rot clogging her nostrils. She watched the two new guards stationed at the cottage door, their postures rigid but their eyes glazed with the bored contempt of men tasked with babysitting furniture. Beyond them, the vast expanse of the Xie family farm stretched out, a sea of golden wheat swaying uneasily under the oppressive, charged atmosphere. Her expression was grim, but her fingers, hidden in the pockets of her simple trousers, performed minute, deliberate motions. High above, nestled in the thatch of the roof, a small, cobbled-together device—a Frankenstein's monster of scavenged ship parts—obeyed her silent command via a thread of Gossamer thinner than a whisper. It shifted, its single, scavenged lens focusing on the guards as they muttered to each other.
The technology of her old world seemed like child's play now. Arcane Thronehad presented a fantasy, but one built on a framework of imagined science so advanced it bordered on arcane itself. Crystal logic, mana-powered circuitry, ethereal data-streams—concepts the game developers had hand-waved as "setting." But this world had taken those blueprints and made them real, breathing terrifying, concrete life into them. The databases she'd glimpsed weren't filled with game lore; they were treatises on arcano-physics, metaphysical engineering, and biomechanical fusion. The knowledge was real, vast, and utterly beyond her grasp.
Yet, she didn't need to build a starship from scratch. She just needed to make a spy camera work. And for that, the game had provided a different, more practical education: Gear Engineering. It was a support skill, the domain of dungeon delvers and black-market tinkerers. It taught you how to keep your boots from falling apart in a swamp, how to rewire a dead glow-orb, how to cannibalize a broken heater to power a short-range scanner. It was the art of salvage, of making do. Identifying components, understanding basic function, and ruthless improvisation—these were her tools. Dismantling and reassembling low-grade tech was not magic; it was a craft. And craft, she could manage.
In a world of polished jade and silent elegance, Xie An sat in his study. The guard captain's report, including the humiliating detail of the donkey cart, had given him pause. His silence was acknowledgement—this petty cruelty was the work of other factions within his own house, a subtle needle he chose to ignore for now. "She had no chance to communicate with the outside?" His voice was smooth, controlled.
"None, Clan Head. She possesses no independent citizen identity. Her personal communicator was confiscated upon boarding the shuttle, under the pretext of signal interference. We have her sealed away. She won't be causing any… embarrassing narratives." The captain's voice carried a cold satisfaction. A bastard without family backing was less than a person; he was a walking purse. The captain's mind lingered on the rumored wealth from the bandit spoils. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, a fleeting, greedy gesture.
Satisfied, Xie An terminated the call. He didn't ponder the fate of the boy in the farmhouse. Staring out at his impeccable gardens, he placed a different call. When the connection established, his tone was all cultured regret. "My contact… a reconsideration. Regarding the boy's presentation. Could we perhaps… obscure his direct lineage? Present him as a scion of a minor affiliated family, with a pre-existing troth…"
The voice that answered was dry, laced with the effortless authority of true power. "Changing the song now, Xie An? First you sell the pig, then you fret over the ribbon on its tail. Wanting the profit without the stain on your reputation is not the mark of a decisive man."
Xie An's face darkened, the memory of the arrangement's inherent degradation a bitter taste. "He is my blood, however dilute. To see him pawned off so… clinically. It troubles a father's heart."
A short, derisive sound came through the speaker. "Spare me the melodrama. How many by-blows have you sired? This one, from that pretty songbird you discarded? A 'father's heart.' Name your real price."
Xie An waited, letting the silence hum. The callback came swiftly, the offer improved. He feigned torn loyalties, the patriarch caught between family honor and cold necessity. "Even such generosity… the clan elders, the talk… An unambiguous marriage now makes a quiet annulment later so difficult. A measure of uncertainty at the outset provides… flexibility. And time, as you've noted, is a commodity in short supply."
He ended the call, a slow, cold smile touching his lips as he lit a slender cigar. The smoke coiled towards the vaulted ceiling like a grey specter of his satisfaction.
The smoking patriarch had no idea that miles away, in a musty farm cottage, his "dilute" bloodline was sweating with effort. Using the last dregs of her Spirit, Yao guided the nearly invisible Gossamer thread, reeling the makeshift camera back from its hiding place in the wheat stubble. The device, dusted with golden chaff, dropped into her palm. "Damn you, Xie An," she whispered, wiping her brow. "Trying to use me as a pawn and keep your hands clean? Your contribution wasn't thatprecious." The fine control had drained her. "Exhausting. And I didn't even get audio of those guards bad-mouthing me. Annoying."
She retrieved the device, then turned to the funerary urn. Inside, nestled against the bag of ashes, was a backup communicator, sterile and shielded. She worked quickly, downloading the damning footage—the shuttle's descent over farmland, the rustic cart, the bolted door. Her edits were swift, surgical. She registered a new account on a social platform based in a distant province, famous for its ferocious data-privacy laws. The video was uploaded, timestamped, and locked. She programmed the account's simple AI with two timed commands: publish, and blast an anonymous tip to every gossip channel in Jingyang.
Task complete, she severed the local connection, then smashed the communicator under her heel, grinding its internals to dust. The evidence was in the cloud, the trigger set. She splashed icy water from the farmhouse pump on her face and collapsed onto the mildewed cot, falling into a deep, dreamless sleep almost instantly.
She slept. In the perfumed halls of the Xie manor and across the buzzing networks of Jingyang, many did not.
The story broke like a thunderclap. It didn't need names. "A Certain Green-Blood House." "A Long-Lost Bastard." "Spirited Away to a Remote Farm." "Treated Worse than Livestock." The video was a masterpiece of quiet indictment. The public, ever hungry for a scandal that proved the mighty were also petty, devoured it. The story clawed its way up the local trend-lists.
In his study, Xie An stared at the shattered remains of a celadon brush holder. The polite, mocking messages from his peers were a digital chorus of humiliation. The video's angles were unmistakably trailing shots. They had been watched the entire time.
His secure line buzzed. The voice was no longer amused. "This is your 'discretion,' Xie An? It's a carnival. The arrangement is void unless you control this. Acknowledge him publicly, or find another groom. My daughter's name will not be associated with a saga of neglected bastards and donkey carts."
Xie An's mind raced. Another groom.The only other candidate was the Seventh Son. Promising. Valuable. Unthinkableto sacrifice.
"A… communications failure," Xie An said, his voice tightly controlled. "Overzealous retainers. It will be corrected. The boy will be acknowledged. Formally."
The Xie family's public statement was a masterpiece of oily rectitude. A misunderstanding. Rogue subordinates. The patriarch's profound concern. The "long-lost son" would be brought into the fold. The court of public opinion, for the moment, was appeased.
Yao awoke to new guards. Their deference was a tangible, uncomfortable mantle. She played the wide-eyed innocent, and they fed her the prepared lies: dishonorable guards, malicious slander. She leaned into the persona of the paranoid, pampered brat, suspicious of the food, obsessed with luxury. The meal presented was a stark contrast to the previous slop—roast fowl with crisp skin, honey-glazed root vegetables, warm bread. The message was clear: You have value again. Do not perish.
As she ate, she listened. The chatter of the farmhands, filtered through her enhanced hearing, carried more than just annoyance at her presence.
"The ewes won't touch the clover since that drizzle."
"The chicks are listless. Turned up their beaks at the best grain."
"Stupid beasts. Hope we get the harvest order soon, before this queer weather spoils it all."
Yao cut a piece of beef, her mind working. Animals rejecting feed and water. A recent, light rain. A ghost of memory, a fragment from a thousand forgotten forum posts and client requests, stirred.
Later, as she was leaving, she saw a farmhand struggling with a kid, trying to force its head to a water trough. The animal resisted, bleating as if the water were foul. On impulse, Yao brushed her fingers against the wet leaves of an oak by the door. Inside the now-sealed flyer, she touched her damp fingertips to her lips.
Acid.Sharp, metallic, undercut with a foul, organic tang. Not corrosive, but unmistakable.
The memory slammed into place. Not news. A player request.Years ago, a low-budget client from the "Rain-Singer's Guild"—the in-game Imperial Meteorological Service—had needed a workaround for a localized environmental disaster he was trying to exploit. He'd been cheap. She'd refused. But the details… Micro-acidic precipitation. Aberrant creature behavior. A calamity that crippled Jingyang's harvest because politically-appointed junior forecasters missed the signs, leading to a purge…
It was a world event.A limited-time dungeon. A Calamity Scenario bursting with unique resources and first-clear bonuses. And it was going to trigger here,on this farm,imminently.
The flyer hummed around her. The guard simpered. Yao felt a wave of pure, agonizing irony. She had schemed her way out of a gilded cage only to be airlifted away from a goldmine. The universe had a vicious sense of humor.
She forced a brittle smile. "Thrilled. Can't wait to meet the family." Inside, she was screaming. A perfect, beginner-friendly disaster dungeon! Served on a platter! And I'm flying away from it!
She demanded a communicator, citing the need to "understand the slander against her dear father." Once it was in her hand, she dove into the arcane networks. In the shadowy forums where freelance Arcanists lurked, she spent a hundred thousand copper notes on a high-reputation, disposable account. Her first instinct was to post a warning, to sell the intel. She stopped. Too traceable.
Instead, she created a fresh, local account. She posted a simple bounty on a gig-work board: "Theatrical services. Short notice. Flash mob welcome ceremony for a private individual at Xie family rear gate. Traditional instruments, maximum exuberance. Budget: 100,000 copper. Discretion required."
It was accepted in under a second. Yao felt a pang of cynical kinship. The desperate hustle for coin was universal.
The flyer soared over Jingyang. The city was a monument to stubbornness, all blocky russet stone and hard angles. The Xie manor, when they arrived, was an elegant anomaly, a transplant of softer aesthetics. They were directed not to the grand front gate, but to a secluded service entrance.
The guard captain's face was a mask of strained professionalism. The locked door, the muffled laughter from within, the flyer driver's insolent suggestion about a "dog hole"—it was a calculated humiliation.
Then, the music erupted.
A riot of sound and color exploded into the lane—dancers, acrobats, fire-breathers, a leaping lion. Their chants were gloriously, painfully off-key.
"WELCOME, WELCOME, WARMEST WELCOME! TO THE HONORABLE YOUNG MASTER OAKS!"
"OAKS! OAKS! OVERCOME ADVERSITY, KEEN SPIRIT, GREAT FORTUNE AWAITS!"
The sheer, brazen absurdity of it froze everyone. The paparazzi Xie An had hired for a tasteful "reunion" shot blinked in confusion. Was this… part of the script?
Yao didn't hesitate. She became the touched, grateful, unhinged son. "FATHER! YOU DID THIS!" she wailed, throwing herself at the lead performer in a tearful hug. A discreet pass of a cash chip, a palmed exchange, and the鹰眼宝石 (Eagle's Eye Gem) was hers. She whirled, her face a masterpiece of performative joy and outrage. "MY FATHER'S LOVE IS PROVEN! IT IS THESE TREACHEROUS SERVANTS WHO DEFY HIM!"
She kicked. The old service door splintered inward. Inside, a cluster of youths in servant livery, noble-house pins gleaming incongruously on the cheap fabric, gaped in shock. Yao's chant was already in the air. Arcane Missiles, accelerated by the gem, flew like angry hornets.
Thwip! Thwip! Thwip!
Spells smacked into shoulders and rumps. Chaos. The lead bully, a sneering boy, scrambled up, hands weaving. A Level 5 Scorch-Orb, a compact sun of vicious heat, flared to life. Yao let him aim. As it flew, she threw herself back in a calculated fall, raising her arm. The orb seared her vambrace; the heat bit into her skin. She screamed, genuine pain blending with her act. "MURDERER! KINSLAYER!"
Wild-eyed, she pointed. Another Missile, supercharged, shot not at the boy, but at the ancient, lantern-laden oak bough above him. Wood shrieked. The branch, heavy with oil-filled lanterns, plummeted.
It was a cascade of terrible luck. The branch struck the boy's shoulder. Lanterns shattered. Fragrant lamp oil doused his front. The sputtering ignition of his own Scorch-Orb provided the spark.
WHOOSH.
The boy became a screaming torch.
Pandemonium. The flyer driver, face contorted with fury, lunged at Yao.
"ENOUGH!"
The word cracked like a whip. Xie An stood on a balcony, his face pale with a rage so cold it seemed to bleach the color from the scene. His eyes swept over the screaming boy (now being frantically doused), the ruined door, the "injured" Yao, and the paparazzi now filming with gleeful avarice.
His gaze fixed on the livestream feeds. A narrative was writing itself in real-time: Feuding Noble Youths, Attempted Murder.
In the study later, the air was thick with the smell of fear and poultice. Xie An presided. The burned boy's father spluttered. Yao played the frightened victim.
"A misunderstanding! A game!" one youth cried.
"A game where you wear servant's garb and mock the family name?" Yao shot back, voice trembling with apparent hurt. "I who have longed for this name! You disgrace the crest you wear! Who taught you this?"
Xie An seized the opening. "The desecration of the family insignia is a serious matter."
A grumbling truce was settling when the flyer driver entered. He was the proxy for real power. "The boy is scarred. His studies impacted. A valuable asset, damaged. There must be consequence, Clan Head. Or it appears you play favorites."
Xie An's gaze flicked to Yao, who was sniveling about returning to the "safety" of the farm. An idea formed. "Oaks acted with cause, but the outcome is severe. Clan law dictates confinement." He paused. "Fifteen days. At the rural holding."
Fifteen days.It would make her miss the academy deadlines. It was exile, dressed as discipline. The elder's faction nodded. Acceptable.
Alone, Xie An approached. "The performers. The gem. Was it you?"
Yao cowered. "N-no…"
Xie An's kick was swift and brutal, dropping her to the floor. A file folder struck her chest—network logs showing the query from the farm's flyer, the job posting for "theatrical services."
"Never," Xie An said, each word ice, "think you are cleverer than I am."
Yao crumpled, sobbing. "The gem… I bought it on X5… with Mother's money… I hid it… in her urn… I was scared…"
Xie An stared down, disgust overwhelming his anger. This creature hid treasures in her mother's ashes. "What do you want?" Flat. A transaction.
Yao looked up, tears streaking dirt. "The farm," she sniffled. "Give me the farm. Then I'll stay there, out of the way. I just… want something that's mine."
Xie An almost laughed. It was so small, so petty. A million-copper farm for her silence and absence. A bargain. "Fine. You will give a cooperative interview first."
"Yes, Father! I'll act so sad, so they won't be jealous…"
Xie An turned away, unable to bear the sight.
Later, in the buzzing flyer headed back to exile, the guard captain glanced at his charge. Her face was pale, despondent. A beaten dog.
He didn't see the reflection in the darkened canopy. The face there was calm, calculating, utterly indifferent. Her eyes watched Jingyang's jagged skyline recede. Her fingers traced the embossed seal on the folded deed of gift in her lap.
Academy doors closing?she thought, a ghost of a smile touching her lips. Perhaps. But a goldmine's gates are about to open.