The decision was made, but the execution was agonizing.
Every movement felt like tearing stitches I didn't even have yet. The lower half of my body was a disaster zone of raw nerves and throbbing aches. I was bleeding, I was exhausted, and my breasts felt like two over-pressurized water balloons strapped to my chest.
But I had no time to waste.
According to the plot of Chronicles of the Dragon God, the Qiao Patriarch—my "father"—would soon arrive with a demonic cultivator looking for a fresh infant to use as a cultivation furnace. It was a neat, horrifying way to erase the family's shame.
In the original story, the grief-stricken, vain Qiao Ling allowed it to happen, convinced by her father that getting rid of the bastard would restore her marriage prospects.
Not on my watch.
I raided the room, moving with the desperate efficiency of a paparazzo trying to get a shot before security arrived.
I found a thick woolen cloak to hide my face and the baby. I grabbed stacks of clean linen rags—diapers for him, padding for me. I found a stale crust of bread left by the midwife and forced it down; fuel was fuel.
'What is this woman doing?'
The cynical inner voice of my son piped up again. He was awake, his dark eyes tracking my frantic movements from where I'd laid him on the bed.
'She just gave birth. She should be wailing for servants, demanding ginseng soup, and cursing my existence for ruining her figure. Why is she packing like a thief?'
I ignored the commentary, gritted my teeth against a particularly nasty wave of cramps, and scooped him up. I bundled him tightly against my chest, securing him with a sash so my hands were free.
"Hang on tight, kid," I whispered, my breath ragged. "We're blowing this popsicle stand."
'Popsicle stand? What gibberish is she speaking? Is she taking me to the Patriarch herself to curry favor earlier?'
His suspicion was palpable, but I didn't have time to argue with a newborn regressor.
I slipped out the back door of the small courtyard where they had stashed me during my pregnancy. The night air was sharp and cold, biting at the sweat drying on my skin. The Qiao estate was massive, a sprawling complex of traditional courtyards and gardens.
My memory of the original host gave me a vague layout, but navigating it in the dark, while hemorrhaging, was a different beast entirely.
I stuck to the shadows, moving along the outer walls. My knees buckled with every step, threatening to spill us both onto the stone pathway.
We almost made it to the servants' gate.
"Well, well. Look what we have here."
The voices slurred out of the darkness, thick with the stench of cheap rice wine.
Three shadows detached themselves from an alcove. Estate guards. Bottom-feeders who weren't good enough for main gate duty, probably slacking off and getting drunk on patrol.
My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic staccato beat that Mingye must have felt against his small body.
"Isn't this the Eldest Miss?" one of them sneered, stepping into a patch of moonlight. He was missing a tooth, his grin predatory. "Where are you rushing off to in the middle of the night, smelling like blood and milk?"
"Get out of my way," I rasped, trying to inject authority into my voice. It came out weak, trembling.
The second guard laughed making an unpleasant sound.
"Aw, she's trying to give orders. Don't you know, Miss? You're damaged goods now. The Patriarch doesn't care what happens to you tonight, as long as you're here in the morning."
He stepped closer, his eyes raking over my disheveled figure. Even postpartum, covered in sweat and grime, the original Qiao Ling's body was undeniably stunning—a curse in a situation like this.
"Hey," the third one piped up, eyeing my chest. "Let's see what you're hiding there. Maybe we can help you... lighten your load."
'How dare they!' Mingye cursed. 'Run, you idiot. No. She can't run. Did this actually happen? Was this the reason she hated me?'
A heavy hand clamped onto my shoulder, spinning me around. Pain flared in my hips, and I nearly collapsed.
"Come on, sweetheart. Be nice to your uncles..."
The revulsion was instant. It brought back memories of aggressive bouncers, grabby celebrities, and the constant low-level threat of violence that came with my old job.
Don't touch me.
The thought screamed in my head, furious. I was not a victim. I needed them to stop. I needed to revoke their access to me.
DING.
A sound, clear as a bell, rang inside my skull. The headache that had plagued me since waking intensified into a blinding flash.
Above my head, the air shimmered. The black, mechanical box—my Martial Spirit—materialized. The lens extended with a sharp whirring sound, focusing squarely on the three men.
[Congratulations. Trait awakened: Paparazzi.]
A holographic interface, like the viewfinder of my old camera, overlaid my vision.
[Skill 1: BAN]
[About: As the ultimate observer, you dictate the terms of engagement. Issue a single command to suppress one property of your opponent within your lens's field of view.]
[Hint: You may ban movement, sight, sound, or spirit energy flow. The stronger the opponent, the shorter the duration.]
The guard's hand was tightening on my shoulder, his sour breath in my face. I looked him dead in the eye. The shutter inside my mind clicked.
"BAN: Sight."
For a split second, nothing happened.
Then, chaos.
"My eyes!" The guard gripping me shrieked, releasing me as he clawed at his face. "I can't see! It's dark! Why is it dark?!"
The other two stumbled back, tripping over their own feet, swinging wildly at the air.
"What did you do, you witch?!"
"Where is she? I can't see a damn thing!"
They were flailing like newborn puppies, completely disoriented. Their cultivation base, whatever pitiful level it was, was useless without the ability to target anything.
The drain on me was instantaneous. It felt like someone had hooked a vacuum up to my dantian and sucked out every ounce of energy I had left. My vision blurred, black spots dancing at the edges.
But I couldn't stop.
I slammed my shoulder into the blinded guard, knocking him off balance, and bolted for the gate. I ran on pure adrenaline and spite, the sounds of their panicked cursing fading behind me.
I burst through the servants' gate and stumbled into the alleyway outside the estate walls. My legs finally gave out. I slid down the rough stone wall, hitting the dirt hard, jarring my entire body.
A whimper escaped my lips, but I bit it back.
'What... what just happened?'
Mingye's internal voice was no longer cynical. It was stunned.
'That spirit... that wasn't her spirit from before. Her spirit was a useless Jade Mirror, only good for checking her makeup. What was that black box? And how did she blind three cultivators instantly?'
It seemed the original Qiao Ling's martial spirit was different. I cursed internally, fully aware he might have begun to doubt my identity.
'She didn't drop me. She didn't trade me. She fought three men while bleeding out... with me?'
The reality of it crashed against his two lifetimes of trauma, cracking the foundation of his hatred.
I dragged in shivering breaths, trying to stabilize my racing heart. The pain was immense, clawing at my insides.
Slowly, weakly, I pulled the bundle closer, tucking his small head under my chin to shield him from the cold wind. I rocked him gently, the motion as much to soothe myself as him.
"Don't worry, baby," I whispered into the dark, my voice thick with exhaustion but iron in its resolve. "Mommy's got the best martial spirit in the world. I'll protect you."
'...Who are you?' Mingye thought, staring up into the darkness, his tiny fists clutching the fabric of my cloak. 'You are not Qiao Ling.'
I didn't answer him. Without wasting any more time, I pushed myself up to run away from this cursed family.
*
* *
Each step she took sent a jolt through his tiny spine, rattling teeth that hadn't even grown in yet.
Qiao Mingye, the former scourge of the righteous sects and a man who had once bathed an entire mountain range in blood, was currently being bounced around like a sack of potatoes.
He should be furious. He should be plotting her demise.
Instead, he was confused.
The woman holding him was vibrating with exhaustion. Through the thin layers of fabric separating them, he could feel the erratic thrum of her heart and the heat radiating from her skin.
Qiao Ling, the mother he remembered, was a creature of vanity.
She treated pain like a personal insult and inconvenience like a crime. That woman would have tossed him into a ditch the moment her legs gave out.
This woman? She held him tighter every time she stumbled.
'Who is she?'
The question looped in his mind, persistent and annoying.
She wasn't his mother. That much was certain.
The weird box spirit, the blinding light, the sheer grit—none of it matched the records in his memory. She was an imposter.
A body snatcher.
But as the wind bit at his exposed cheeks, he found himself burrowing deeper into her chest.
It was instinct, he told himself. Just survival. A tactical retreat into the nearest heat source.
Grrrrrrr.
A loud, wet gurgle erupted from his stomach, shattering his dignified internal monologue.
Heat rushed to his face. Humiliation washed over him. He was a cultivator; he did not have tummy rumbles.
"Shh, don't cry, baby."
Her hand came up, patting his head with a clumsy, inexperienced rhythm.
Her breath hitched as she whispered, "Momma will feed you after escaping this stupid place. Just hold on, okay?"
'I am not crying, woman. I am merely expressing physiological dissatisfaction.'
He tried to nod, to signal his understanding and perhaps salvage some dignity.
His neck muscles betrayed him. Instead of a stoic nod, his head flopped uselessly to the side.
Damnit. Being an infant was a curse worse than death.
They finally stopped moving. Mingye cracked one eye open, peering through the gap in the cloak.
They were in the outer logistical district of the estate. A lonely horse was tied to a hitching post, idly chewing on hay.
His mother approached the beast with the confidence of a tiger, but the competence of a toddler.
She reached for the stirrup. She missed. She tried to lift her leg, but her body—ruined by childbirth—screamed in protest.
She slipped, her nails scratching uselessly against the saddle leather, nearly dropping him in the process.
'Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic.'
It was almost funny. Here was the woman who had just blinded three cultivators with a glance, now defeated by a piece of leather and a slightly tall animal.
"Need a hand, little lady?"
A gravelly voice broke the silence.
Mingye's mental alarm bells rang. Danger.
A carriage had pulled up silently beside them. The driver was a heavyset man with a face full of pockmarks and eyes that darted around too quickly.
He looked like a vulture spotting carrion.
The woman froze. She turned slowly, her grip on Mingye tightening until it was almost painful.
"Where to?" the man asked, leaning down from his bench.
His gaze raked over her disheveled clothes, the bloodstains, and the frantic energy radiating off her.
She stood awkwardly, her mouth opening and closing like a fish.
"I..."
"Running away?" The man interrupted, a knowing smirk twisting his lips.
"Maid who stole something? Or maybe a maid who got knocked up by a young master?"
He laughed, a sound like grinding stones.
"Don't worry. It's common in these big families. Hop in. I'm heading out of the city. I can drop you off for a silver coin."
'No! Don't trust him!'
Mingye screamed inside his mind. The man reeked of dishonesty.
The carriage was unmarked. The offer was too convenient. In this cruel world, there were no coincidences, only traps.
'Kill him with the box! Do something!'
"Okay," she breathed out, her shoulders sagging. "Please. Take us."
'You idiot!'
She handed over a coin—stolen from the room, no doubt—and scrambled into the dark carriage before the man could change his mind.
The door slammed shut, plunging them into darkness.
The carriage lurched forward, the wooden wheels groaning against the cobblestones.
The interior smelled of old wood, stale tobacco, and something faintly metallic.
Mingye was ready to unleash a mental tirade, to curse her naivety until his throat went dry.
Then, the rustling started.
"Thank god," she muttered.
Before he could react, she pulled her blouse down.
Light spilled in from the window cracks, illuminating pale skin.
The scent hit him instantly—sweet, warm, and primal.
Mingye froze. He tried to turn his head away. He tried to summon his iron will, his ascetic discipline, his hatred for the flesh.
'I am a grown man. I will not succumbed to—'
His stomach roared again, a traitorous beast demanding tribute.
"Here you go, little guy."
She didn't wait for his permission. She guided him in.
The moment the nipple hit his tongue, his resistance crumbled.
The grand ambition of the Demon cultivator, the pride of the Regressor, the suspicion of the schemer—all of it vanished, replaced by the singular, overwhelming need to eat.
He drank, his tiny hands latching onto her, his cheeks flushing with a shame that was rapidly being drowned out by contentment.
'Fine,' he thought, his eyes fluttering closed as the rhythm of the carriage rocked them.
'I will eat. But I am still watching you, imposter. I am still... watching...'
Darkness took him, warm and safe.