Chapter 12:
The wind outside the Main Hall was biting, but Shen Yuhan's steps never faltered.
She walked without haste, her back straight, her head high. The cool wind played with the trailing ends of her sleeves and tugged at the edge of her robe, as though even nature tried to stop her from walking too far ahead, too fast.
But she didn't stop.
Her emotions weren't visible on her face—but they surged like wildfire beneath her skin.
Rage. Cold, bitter rage.
Not because Shen Yulan had dared to cry in front of her. Not because her father had berated her again.
But because she had tasted it.
Power.
The moment she turned the tide in that hall, made everyone question Shen Yulan, made even Shen Zhirui fall silent—that was the moment she knew. She wasn't just defending herself anymore. She was starting to win.
By the time she crossed the stone bridge to her own courtyard, Ming'er was already waiting with warm tea and worried eyes.
"Miss, are you alright?" Ming'er asked, stepping forward quickly.
Shen Yuhan took the tea, fingers brushing the warm ceramic. She didn't drink.
"I'm fine," she said softly.
But her eyes were dark.
She looked past Ming'er to the Osmanthus tree that stood crooked in her courtyard—the only living thing in this place that hadn't been moved or replaced by Madam Su when she took over.
Petals fluttered gently to the mossy stone floor.
"They've started to notice," Shen Yuhan murmured, half to herself.
Ming'er tilted her head. "Miss?"
"The servants," she said. "The housekeepers. Even Father. They're starting to sense it—they just don't understand what they're sensing yet."
She took a sip of tea finally. The warmth slid down her throat like honeyed fire.
Shen Yulan's act had been flawless. The tears, the kneeling, the humility—it would've won over a gentler opponent.
But Shen Yuhan wasn't gentle.
Not anymore.
In her past life—the one written in ink and fiction—she had let those things sway her. She had accepted apologies and believed in sincerity.
And she had died for it.
This time, she wouldn't be the one kneeling.
She would never kneel again.
---
The silence lingered for a moment more before Shen Yuhan suddenly turned her head toward her. "Ming'er."
"Yes, miss?"
"How many silvers do we have at the moment?"
Ming'er blinked. "Silvers?"
"Yes. The silver we have left for use this month."
"Ah…" Ming'er looked away, flustered. "We do have a little, but… not much. Do you need me to bring all of it, miss?"
Shen Yuhan smiled gently, shaking her head. "No need. I just wanted to know."
Ming'er chewed her lip. "As you know, our allowance is very low. Only thirty silvers per month. We received it on the first… and today is the eighteenth. There's not much left."
She lowered her voice to a whisper. "We have about nine silvers… and some loose copper coins."
Shen Yuhan hummed softly. "So, we don't have sufficient funds if we wanted to do something bigger."
Ming'er shook her head. "No, miss."
Shen Yuhan didn't look angry. She didn't even seem surprised. But something subtle shifted in her eyes.
---
In the weeks since her transmigration, she had focused so intently on analyzing her enemies, on building her strength, and understanding the terrain of the battlefield that was the Shen household… that she had neglected the state of her own rear guard.
Ming'er and Ah Zhu had endured everything in silence. Smiling. Obedient. Loyal to a fault.
But now, the truth was clear—they had barely enough to get through the month. Their meals were bland, their clothes patched, their rooms cold in winter and stifling in summer.
Shen Yuhan exhaled slowly, her breath curling in the cold air.
Such poor souls, she thought. Loyal without question.
But loyalty must be rewarded.
"Don't worry," she said, her voice carrying a rare warmth. "We'll soon have plenty of silver. So much that you won't be able to spend with your both hands."
She chuckled, and Ming'er looked up, startled by the lightness in her voice.
Just then, from outside, a new voice joined in:
Ah Zhu's voice broke through the weighty air like sunlight cutting through a misted window.
"Then let me lend my two hands too," she said with a smile, stepping in with a lacquered tray in hand, the steam from the dishes curling like wisps of cloud around her sleeves.
Shen Yuhan turned, the edges of her lips lifting in something that wasn't quite a smile—but it was the closest thing to warmth she'd shown all day.
"You're late," she said, voice light.
"Blame the kitchen," Ah Zhu replied easily, setting down the tray on the low table by the window. "The main kitchen was stalling again. They only gave scraps at first—some leftover rice and half a salted duck egg. I had to throw a fit just to get them to prepare a proper lunch."
Ming'er's head snapped up, eyes wide. "Ah Zhu! You'll get punished again—what if Madam Su finds out—"
"I hope she does," Ah Zhu said with a snort. "I'll let her know that even the dogs in the third courtyard eat better than our young miss."
Shen Yuhan remained silent as the bowls were placed before her—plain boiled chicken, stir-fried cabbage with garlic, and millet congee. Simple, humble fare. Nothing compared to what Shen Yulan or even the old matron in the west wing received.
But it was hot. Fresh. And hard-won.
Her gaze dropped to the bowl of cabbage, watching the shimmer of oil and the bright green of freshly cut scallions. Her lips parted slowly, voice soft but cutting.
"They starve me on purpose."
Both Ah Zhu and Ming'er stilled.
"I used to think it was neglect. That Father forgot me. That Madam Su was simply indifferent." She laughed once, the sound low and void of humor. "But it isn't neglect. It's precision. It's control."
Ah Zhu straightened, hands clasped before her. "They want you to break."
"They'll be waiting a long time, then."
Outside, the wind rustled the bamboo fence and made the wind chimes tinkle like distant bells from a forgotten temple. For a moment, the world fell into a hush.
---
That evening, long after Ming'er had dozed off and Ah Zhu had gone to wash up, Shen Yuhan sat alone beneath the crooked Osmanthus tree in her courtyard.
The moonlight fell in splashes over the stone tiles, catching on the soft white blossoms that had begun to scatter across the earth. The scent was faint but sweet—like memory.
She sat with her knees pulled close, her arms wrapped around them, her cheek resting on folded sleeves. Gone was the icy fire from earlier. What remained now was the burn after the battle—the part that didn't show in public.
Her thoughts drifted back to the Hall.
Her father's face. Shen Yulan's tears. The faces of the servants and guards—so easily swayed, so eager to love the soft-hearted and hate the strong.
It would be easy to grow bitter. Easy to hate them all.
But Shen Yuhan didn't have the luxury of hatred. Not now.
Hatred was a blade turned inward. What she needed was control. Strategy. Patience.
The truth was, Shen Yulan was clever. A natural-born actress. She knew how to sway a room, how to cry just enough to seem fragile, how to make others feel guilty even when she was the one holding the knife.
But Shen Yuhan had something Shen Yulan didn't.
A second chance.
She closed her eyes. In the silence, the past brushed against her—like cold fingers trailing across skin. Her training. Her missions. Her death.
She remembered the first time she'd been betrayed in her old life. The sharp twist of pain, the helpless rage. And how it taught her the most important rule of all—
Never show your real wound to anyone who isn't willing to bleed for you.
A single blossom drifted down and landed in her hair.
Shen Yuhan opened her eyes.
"Let's see how deep this rot goes," she whispered.
The phoenix was waking. The storm had only just begun.