Chapter Two: The Beauty, Su Meng

Her jade-like face was tilted slightly, fragrant sweat beading but not yet falling, her skin as smooth as congealed cream. Rising steam swirled around her, setting off a pair of eyes as limpid as water—she was truly a beauty beyond compare!

Luo Changning finally reached Su Meng, his breath ragged, his appearance disheveled. Though his plain linen clothes had dried, they were still smeared with mud and grass; his hair hung in tangled locks, and a coin-sized wound on his forehead had finally ceased to bleed.

Seeing him, Su Meng’s nose stung with emotion and her brows knitted in worry. She drew a handkerchief from her bosom, gently wiped his little face, brushed away the debris from his clothes, then pulled him down to sit beside her on a stone bench.

“Qing Nanny, bring Ning’er a bowl of brown sugar ginger tea,” she said, her voice as gentle as spring water, warmer than the winter sun.

“Yes, miss,” came the reply.

Qing Nanny had nursed both Su sisters since childhood. Now in her forties, her beauty had not faded; though no longer young, she still possessed a certain charm.

She approached the stone table, picked up the small medicine pot with her hands, and poured a steaming bowl of ginger tea. By the time she handed it to Luo Changning, it was just right to drink.

This woman was evidently trained in martial arts; her skills might not match the innate masters of the Glorious Continent, but she was far from weak.

“Thank you, Nanny,” Luo Changning said, draining the bowl in one breath.

“Ning’er, Uncle Zhong has already prepared your bath. Go wash up, and afterwards come to my room—I’ll tend to your wound.”

Uncle Zhong was Qing Nanny’s husband. The two had grown up together, shared a deep bond, and though they lost their only child shortly after birth and never had another, their love endured.

“Understood, Auntie,” Luo Changning replied, setting down his bowl and heading for his own room.

Su Meng herself was only twenty-three, but as she watched Luo Changning’s retreating figure, her gaze shone with a mother’s affection.

Motherly love on a maiden’s face should have seemed incongruous, but with Su Meng, it felt wholly natural, and that love only added to her feminine allure.

A maiden with the grace of a woman—what man could resist such a combination?

“Miss, the young master seems different today. He’s been mourning deeply since eldest miss passed away, but today, besides grief, there’s something else in his demeanor,” Qing Nanny said, worry in her voice. The past few days, the young master had spent hours on Mount Mo Hui, but never returned so battered and wounded.

She had grown up in the Su family estate, nursing both Su sisters, and her affection for little master Luo Changning was especially deep.

“It’s all right. Ning’er was never meant for an ordinary life, and we can’t protect him forever,” Su Meng sighed, her gaze lingering on the glowing coals in the brazier, lost in thought. “He must learn to grow up.”

How could Su Meng not sense Ning’er’s turmoil? She chose not to ask, because she knew—whether a child of the Luo family or the Su family, he was destined to be a man of character, never one to be defeated. No matter how small his shoulders, they would bear the weight of the world.

In his room, Luo Changning soaked in hot water, the ache in his body slowly ebbing, though the hatred in his heart only grew fiercer.

Returning to the small Su family courtyard and seeing his gentle aunt brought him comfort, yet also stirred unhappy childhood memories, leaving him restless and ill at ease.

After all, he was still just a child. Even if life’s cruelties had come early, he was nonetheless a child.

A child might survive without a father’s love, but never without a mother’s. To have a mother yet be denied her love was a deeper agony—especially now, when Luo Changning’s mother, Su Qinqin, was gone, her beauty forever lost.

He had no memories of the Su family estate; he was born in the small courtyard. After only eleven days at his mother’s breast, held close and cherished, Su Qinqin lost her mind. Never again did he nestle against that warm, milk-scented bosom.

His aunt treated him well, doing everything a mother should—except for nursing him—yet she was not, in the end, his mother.

Luo Changning slid down along the edge of the tub, submerging his head beneath the water.

He thought of his mother again, that beautiful, mad woman—her face always pale from weakness after childbirth, eyes empty of all warmth.

She would dance beneath the peach blossoms in spring, silver hair spinning in the breeze, laughing charmingly, eyes glimmering. “Ah Feng, isn’t my dance the best in the world? Am I not the most beautiful woman in the world, hmm?”

Mother, you are the world’s greatest beauty.

Auntie is the second most beautiful.

She would wield a wooden sword, demonstrating the only martial skill she knew, claiming it was Ah Feng who taught her.

Luo Changning’s mind was filled with images of his mother’s awkward swordplay—her movements clumsy, yet in his heart, she was beautiful no matter what she did.

Wait—a sword technique!

With a splash, Luo Changning sprang up from the bath, water flying everywhere.

Though his ten-year-old body was still slim and undeveloped, his heart already held a resolve to defy the heavens.

His face flushed, fists clenched, eyes shining with excitement and determination.

Master said his father was the greatest swordsman in the land. His father’s sword technique must be unparalleled. If he could master it, and with his master’s guidance, he could take revenge.

Revenge!

If Luo Changning had truly been only Luo Changning, perhaps his hatred would not have burned so fiercely.

In truth, his soul had transmigrated from a place called the Earth-Dragon Continent.

There, he was an orphan, born without limbs, abandoned at birth. Seen as a burden and a curse by his parents, he was left at the neighboring city’s orphanage before he was even weaned.

He had no name—just a code: “007,” signifying he was the seventh orphan taken in since the orphanage’s founding.

Like his number, he had nothing—his life was bleak and pitiful.

One could imagine what fate awaited a helpless, disabled child at an orphanage: caregivers’ scorn and abuse, other children’s exclusion and ridicule—all of it a torment.

He longed desperately for a mother’s love, for family, for anyone who could accept him and give him warmth. Other children were adopted one by one, but his disability meant he was never even brought to adoption meetings. As Director Pu put it, he’d scare off potential benefactors.

As the years passed, he became more and more unwelcome. Other children helped with chores or performed in fundraising events—if they succeeded in life, they might one day repay the orphanage. But “007” was seen only as a waste of food and effort.

He could only live in solitude, with books as his companions, immersing himself in stories to escape reality. By fourteen, he’d read every book in the orphanage, even the most trivial ones—his photographic memory giving him a store of knowledge far beyond his peers.

Despite being a mere orphanage, the library was well stocked, bolstered by donations from the community—enough to rival the collections of major universities.

He loved the classics most, though the orphanage lacked rare editions due to budget and sourcing; still, the popular versions sufficed. He delved deeply into ancient military, political, and literary texts, forming his own insights.

Theory without practice, of course, but knowledge is never wasted. Now, in this strange new world, he would have the chance to put it to use.

He never flaunted his prodigious memory—it was a matter of pride and dignity; he would not stoop to win the favor of hypocrites.

So, instead, he was mocked: “What’s the use of reading so much? You can’t even care for yourself. Dreaming of rising above your station—you should know your place!”

At last, on his fourteenth birthday, with the tacit approval of the staff, he was starved to death. Outwardly, the story was that “007” refused to eat.

Who would care about the fate of a worthless, disabled orphan? Even with obvious contradictions, no one sought the truth—no one wanted to.

Perhaps, moved by pity, fate gave him another chance: reborn into another world, as the unborn child in Su Qinqin’s womb.

This time, he was given a name full of hope—Luo Changning.

What he had longed for in his previous life was suddenly his. One can imagine his gratitude and joy.

He still remembered Su Qinqin holding him, rocking him gently, singing lullabies. Breathing in her faint milky scent, he drank her sweet milk in tiny sips, afraid to hurt the mother he’d finally gained.

Though he possessed the soul of a sixteen-year-old boy, he felt no awkwardness or shame, and harbored no impure thoughts. He was just a child yearning for maternal love, expressing his affection and dependence through the primal act of nursing.

At that time, Luo Changning thought he would be happy forever—that what he had lost before would be repaid in full.

But fate loves to toy with people. News came of his father, Luo Feng, dead and unburied; Su Qinqin went mad and never held him again.

To yearn and never obtain, to gain and then lose—such heartbreak is hard to bear.

Now, knowing both his parents had died because of Du Gu Bancheng, how could Luo Changning not hate him? He even poured the resentment of two lifetimes onto that man.

Back then, he only knew his father had died horribly, not even his name. Now, he realized his aunt and the others had avoided mentioning it, fearing someone might link him to Luo Feng’s bloodline.

A remnant of the old dynasty was not a safe identity. If exposed, it would bring a storm of bloodshed—both Du Gu Bancheng’s faction and those loyal to the old order would come seeking him.

Settling his emotions, Luo Changning made his way to Su Meng’s room.