Mystery

My husband was sick and dying.

But before he died, he insisted on divorcing me.

He transferred every asset under his name, including the company, to me and left himself without a penny.

The night we signed the divorce agreement, he held me and cried like his heart was being ripped out.

He said this was the last thing he could do for me. He didn’t want me, after his death, to become the widow everyone pitied-the woman whose husband had died.

It was his one and only wish before he passed. As the wife who loved him so deeply, how could I possibly refuse?

The night before we were supposed to pick up the divorce certificate, he suddenly fell into a coma and was rushed to the hospital.

The doctor issued a critical condition notice.

And I signed the consent form to forgo treatment without hesitation.

They couldn’t save my husband. He died on that rain-lashed night.

I turned away, wiped the tears from my eyes, and tore the divorce agreement to shreds with a smile.

That same night, I called the funeral home. Before dawn broke, I had him sent into the cremator and burned down to a handful of ash.

I livestream my mom dancing the Soul Summoning Dance.

Netizens rush to like and comment.

Only one bullet comment says: [Your mom is dancing the Soul Summoning Dance. If she dances for seven days straight, she can exchange a life.]

My hand holding the phone trembles.

Today is the seventh day.

I had profaned the divine after all.

The aloof, ascetic monk from the altar now stood inside my red-draped bedchamber, tearing off his prayer beads as he clasped my ankle, his Adam’s apple shifting.

“Little Highness, this humble monk has broken his vows.”

My first love, a man who had clawed his way out of poverty, murdered me.

Then I was reborn inside his beautiful, wealthy wife’s womb.

If nothing went wrong, once I survived the pregnancy, that bastard would lift me tenderly into his arms and say, “Look at this little darling.

Daddy’s sweetheart from a past life.”

That’s right.

I was your sweetheart.

And I’ve come to collect.

My roommate Chen Ling was always coming up with strange rules. For example, after the dorm power went out, we weren’t allowed to turn on any lights, and once a bag of snacks was opened, it had to be finished within five minutes.

If we didn’t follow them, she would nag us about it all day long.

Just now, at three in the morning, she woke all of us from a dead sleep and said:

“You have to survive. The drill is officially over now.”

With that, she gave us an eerie smile, then turned and walked out the door.

A scream came from downstairs soon after.

She had jumped from the dorm room below ours.

I was venting during a livestream.

“What kind of problem makes my roommate shower seven times in one night?”

The chat immediately filled with viewers complaining about their own nightmare roommates.

Only one person gave me a serious answer.

[Your roommate showers so much because she’s a monkey.]

I spent ten years in the imperial harem testing rouge, and not once did I fail to detect a single trace of poison.

That was until Consort Hua dropped dead after applying the “Drunken Beauty Red” I had personally verified.

It was then that a newly arrived talented lady told me: what truly kills isn’t the rouge, but the intent to murder.

In our village, a child who dies before his parents cannot be given a funeral—unless he dies in an unclean place.

When my drowned best friend is laid in the mourning hall, a seven-day vigil turns my guilt into terror, and the truth behind the hauntings proves more horrifying than any ghost.

I have a secret.

From the moment I was born, I carried memories of my previous life.

I buried that secret deep in my heart and never dared reveal the slightest trace of it.

Until the year I entered the palace as a maid.

The other maids warned me never to provoke Shen Ruyun, Imperial Consort Shen.

They said she was a vicious, ruthless woman, and that countless eunuchs and palace maids had died by her hand.

I did not believe it.

Because I had once seen Shen Ruyun’s portrait.

And I recognized her.

She was my daughter from my previous life.

When I died, she was only ten years old.

I wanted to understand why that sweet, sensible child had become such a wicked ghost now…

It has been three years since I transmigrated into this brothel.

I have mastered the arts of seduction, and no one knows better than I how to make a man lose his very soul in ecstasy.

But then, I overheard a group of new girls gossiping.

“It’s hilarious. Our Flower Queen really thinks she’s living in ancient times.”

“A refined Female Doctor, tricked into working as a whore for three years. These rich people really know how to have a good time.”

“Do you think she’d go insane if she found out this was all orchestrated by her ‘Young Marquis’?”

“Shh! Every actor who comes in here has signed a life-and-death waiver. Who would dare let her know?”

I froze in place, as if plunged into a pit of ice.

Could it be that these three years of transmigration were nothing more than a scam?

Before I could regain my composure, the Young Marquis’s cold voice suddenly rang out from behind me.

“Fudong, what are you doing here?”