The first golden rays of sunlight filtered gently through the sheer silk curtains of the Jia residence, casting delicate patterns across the polished floors. The courtyard sparkled with dew, each leaf catching the morning light like crystal. Birds chirped softly in the distance, and a mild breeze whispered through the foliage, rustling the fragrant magnolia blooms.
Inside, Jia Lan began her day with poise and grace. She slipped into a pale peach robe with hand-embroidered peonies, cinched at the waist with a soft ribbon the color of rosewater. Her hair, dark as ink and silky to the touch, was brushed into a smooth bun and pinned with a jade butterfly clip. A light floral fragrance lingered around her as she moved, the scent of camellia oil she'd applied with care.
Her morning began with warm water and lemon, a quiet bath scented with herbs, and a light breakfast of congee, pickled lotus root, and jujube buns served in the sunlit veranda. She moved like poetry in motion—graceful, composed, and radiant, her every action reflecting the nurturing environment she now lived in. Gratitude welled quietly in her heart.
She often reflected on her past life. In that world, she had been an orphan, scrambling to survive in a crowded city that had no place for softness. Every yuan was earned with aching feet and empty stomachs. Her dreams had always been small—safety, a roof, a quiet night without fear. There had been no warm hands to guide her, no legacy to lean on. Just her own fragile tenacity.
Now, to awaken as Jia Lan, in a family of such strength and dignity, felt like a second chance kissed by fate. The warmth of the Jia household, the respect they earned, and the loving structure of their lives—it was more than she had ever dreamed. And she vowed not to take it for granted.
It had been over two months since she transmigrated. The system's initial generosity had dazzled her:
Day 1: "Skin Like Porcelain" — Graceful Glow (Permanent)
Day 2: "Elegant Temperament Aura" (Permanent)
Day 3: Artistic Insight + Steady Hand (Permanent)
The first three days transformed her presence entirely. Her skin glowed with a clarity that turned heads, her gestures became refined and elegant, and her hands never trembled again—she could paint, write calligraphy, and arrange flowers with flawless grace.
After that, the rewards mellowed in grandeur but never ceased. Small daily gifts came in various forms:
Exquisite hairpins carved from sandalwood
Delicate silk ribbons in jade and crimson
Beautiful scarves woven in soft brocade patterns
Sums of 20 to 50 yuan at random intervals
Herbal sachets for calm sleep
Fine combs, soaps, and rose-scented balm
Altogether, the money she'd received from Days 10 to 60 had reached over 3,000 yuan—a respectable sum, even if spread out. Enough to buy the finer things in life without extravagance. But it was the thoughtfulness of each gift that touched her. A comb appeared just when she needed a replacement. A balm showed up on the morning her lips had cracked from the cold. Each trinket, though minor, felt like a silent affirmation of her journey.
Each item was neatly stored, catalogued in her mind with gratitude. Even the smallest gift reminded her that she was being watched over. The system never promised to make her life dramatic—it only asked that she live well and be present. And she had been.
Yet Jia Lan wasn't naïve. Yesterday's visit from Liu Fenfang and Shen Yimin had left a sour taste in her mouth. She remembered the full arc of their past relationship. In the original timeline, they had used her connection to climb into better social circles. Pretending to be humble, they gradually ingratiated themselves to the Jia family—just enough to open doors.
Eventually, they'd introduced her to Xu Mingze, a supposed rising star in the military world. On paper, he seemed promising—upright, mild-mannered, loyal. His army background gave the illusion of righteousness, and Jia Lan's family had trusted that. But his family was a nest of vultures.
His mother was sharp-tongued and manipulative, always siding with Liu Fenfang. She'd treat Jia Lan like an outsider, insisting on old-fashioned obedience while twisting traditions to corner her. His sister was a lazy opportunist, treating Jia Lan like free labor while stealing her cosmetics and expensive belongings. Even his elder brother and sister-in-law were opportunists, probing the Jia family's wealth and gossiping whenever possible.
The original Jia Lan hadn't fought back. Gentle and naive, she bore it all in silence. She tried to fit in, to please everyone, to believe love could soften rough edges. Xu Mingze did love her in his own way, but he was blind to his family's cruelty. He believed harmony meant silence, and he let her suffer for the illusion of peace.
Even when she fainted from exhaustion or cried in the middle of the night, he would say, "They mean well."
It wasn't until her tragic death during pregnancy—slipping on wet stairs, belly heavy, heart heavier—that he finally saw the truth. But by then, it was too late. She had been alone in her suffering, unseen in her grief.
The man himself had truly loved Jia Lan. That was the most tragic part. He saw her as pure, delicate, and worthy of protection—but he was blind. He never noticed how his family eroded her joy, her spirit. He believed love was enough to sustain them, but love without action, without insight, became a hollow thing.
The man had grieved bitterly. He visited her grave for years. But Jia Lan, sitting now in her twilight-filled room, could only think: Love that ignores truth is not love. It's self-indulgence.
In this life, Jia Lan thought firmly, never again.
Love wasn't kind words—it was action. It was protection, understanding, and the courage to choose your partner over the comfort of ignorance.
She stood near the window, looking out at the flowering trees swaying gently in the wind. Her long sleeves rippled as she moved. Today, she wore a lavender dress embroidered with wisteria. Soft, demure, but striking—just like her.
"I won't live for anyone else's comfort anymore," she whispered to herself. "And I won't be used as a stepping stone again."
She picked up her brush and opened her notebook. There was strength in planning. Clarity in intention. And Jia Lan had both.
The sun had risen higher now, its light washing over the house like a quiet blessing. In this new life, Jia Lan wouldn't just survive. She would shine.
And no one—not fate, not schemers, not shallow love—would dim her light.
The past had taught her sorrow.
But this life would be her triumph.