Damn — broke character again. I’m dead.
01 Once more, I woke up on the mad beauty’s bed.
Determined to break free from this hateful cycle, I shouted.
“I’ll hit him, I’ll hit him — isn’t that enough?!”
Before my words finished, a transparent panel popped up with red text:
[Ultimate Son-in-Law System: Today’s Punishment (0\3)] — what the hell!
Daily task. Fail and die?
Unlimited attempts, with bonus rewards for extra hits?
Methods suggested include kicking, stomping, slapping, beating; tone not limited to scold, mock, insult… Ugh — this is my fault. I shouldn’t have gone online to argue with male-aimed novel authors, nor should I have been updating fifteen hundred words a day while trashing fifteen thousand of them. The internet isn’t above the law. I repent, sincerely!
Now look — don’t hit him and you die, hit him and you still die!
My chaotic train of thought was interrupted by his sweet, soft call: “My lady, how do you plan to strike me?”
No surprise he’s the male lead adored by thousands of spiteful supporting heroines. He had black hair, a red robe, and a pale face carved like jade. Most striking were the two symmetrical vermilion moles under his eyes — craftsmanship itself.
Ignore the forbidding chill in his gaze; he looked like a handsome boy stepped right out of a painting, and it made my skin tingle.
He bowed his head humbly at my horrified stare. “Please, my lady, instruct me.”
Don’t be fooled by his current subservience and pitiful demeanor. In the book, this man is proud, capricious, violent, and quick to anger. He toys with his lawful wife until she snaps, then shoots her through the heart — end of story.
God, you’re making this impossible.
After much thought, I found a compromise: when completing the punishment, make it so he can’t hate me — then maybe I won’t deserve death.
What obscure trick could stump a modern beauty whose hard drive holds 500GB of trashy films?
So I said, stone-faced, “Lie down. Kneel properly.”
He bit his lip in humiliation, a flash of red crossing his eyes, but his body trembled with a rising excitement.
I reached out with long fingers and lightly tapped the round curve he’d arched three times, even praising him, “Nice elasticity.”
Because we were on a bed, the whole sequence looked more like an intimate caress.
A pleasant chime sounded as the system pinged: “Hit +1”
“Hit +2”
“Hit +3”
[Ultimate Son-in-Law System: Today’s Punishment Complete (3\3)]
02 I woke up inside a novel.
This beautiful boy was my husband — the ultimate son-in-law tycoon with every golden pointer. No amount of human cruelty could crush him; it only let him draw power from pain, eventually becoming Westmore’s top Chancellor.
So my borderline-abusive “treatment” (a caress?) did not please him. His gaze went cold, reptilian, roaming my face.
“Is that it?”
“What, you have objections?”
I stiffened immediately.
Seeing my feral expression, he happily brightened, even getting misty-eyed with excitement. “Then, my lady, is there any other punishment today?”
Jesus. I’ve seen perverts, but not like this. I waved him off. Sure, be happy — I’m the one annoyed. Even my readers don’t demand extra chapters this hard.
We stepped out of the room into a wide courtyard of pavilions, rock formations, trickling streams, and a winding East Gallery. The staff walked along in neat ranks.
Clearly, a big household.
He followed a careful step behind me, but when we brushed past, inexplicably he fell.
“Ah!”
The thick leg of someone in the line hadn’t been withdrawn — probably a deliberate trip. Laughter rippled through the crowd.
The boy didn’t protest; he stood and returned to his place, not daring to brush off the dust. Watching his trembling shoulders, afraid (or excited?), I bit back the retort that rose in my throat.
If I didn’t humiliate him, others would. The book’s fate pushed it along: even the yard’s geese chased him until, fed up, he finally blackened into darkness — the core of this big son-in-law story.
A son-in-law story without torment? What would be the point? Clearly, this is my coming trial.
03 Still, as a web-novel author full of delay tactics — no, brilliant strategies — I had a plan. I strode with my son-in-law toward the main hall.
Mr. Bennett was easy to spot, sitting high in the head seat, with a powerful gaze and deep eight-character wrinkles at the temples.
I recalled the original wife’s routine and gave a simple handkerchief bow.
“Greetings, Father.”
Unexpectedly, the man groaned like an earthquake. “You greet your father and you don’t kneel?”
“Someone! Bring the family discipline!”
“Huh?”
I turned and, sure enough, everyone around me knelt obediently, heads bowed.
Including my son-in-law.
Family discipline meant the long crimson whip. It never stopped until it snapped. I trembled, but two burly maidservants seized the boy by the neck and forced him down into a prostrate position.
“Father, this—?”
The patriarch snorted. “You’re my only daughter. Don’t mess her up; let your husband take the punishment!”
Oh come on. You’ve got a screw loose!
In the end, I’d be the one taking the blame.
I raised my voice coldly. “Father, my husband is of a scholar’s body. If he’s whipped into crippling scars, how will he enter the halls of government to bring honor to the Bennett House?”
My righteous argument made the patriarch pause.
Would this break my character? Of course not.
In the book, Mr. Bennett married his only daughter to a son-in-law so the family could sponsor a scholar to rehabilitate their newly rich reputation. It was inconsistent to abuse the man they’d installed. So I used his desire for family glory to counter his desire to beat the son-in-law — perfectly reasonable.
Pressed, my nominally expendable father stroked his beard and frowned. “So, according to Claire’s words, what should I do?”
I stepped forward, picked up the crimson whip and toyed with it, a sly smile on my face. “Father, impatience spoils hot tofu. Why not exile him to some remote Harlow Farm, let me keep watch day and night, and I won’t return him until he refuses any pursuit of rank?”
“Excellent! Excellent — refuse honor until he returns it!”
My cast-off father grew purple with excitement, as if visions of fine robes and triumph were suddenly within reach. He grasped my hand and said tenderly, “Child, be careful. You’ve already snapped this whip ten times — at least leave him a life to go to the capital, okay?”
What the—? You only tell me this now? What was I supposed to do, keep struggling? Why didn’t I just play dead earlier?
04 In truth, the civil exam was less than three months away.
On that day, the son-in-law would top the list, then be publicly captured by seventy or eighty high officials — maybe he’d dump me, the vicious original wife, and live his carefree life.
So I cheated. I swapped out the map and took him far from people to a remote Harlow Farm on the outskirts of the capital.
Replace palace scheming with farming — that’s the secret to padding a web novel.
Fate may be inevitable, but human trouble can be manufactured. The first thing I did at the farm was issue a decree: no staff may enter without summons; all food and clothing must pass through me. Any who disobey will be sold off. No exceptions.
A true vicious original wife — enforce that iron rule and the whole estate emptied. Even someone to swat mosquitoes was nowhere to be found.
It was summer; the mosquitoes swarmed. Both my husband and I were chewed to pieces. I called out, “By the way, what’s your name again?”
Faced with unexpected concern, he lowered his lids.
“…Ethan Hale.”
“Oh, right. That’s the name.”
As dusk fell, he sat silently — in the moonlight he was a perfect image, a heavenly youth.
I picked at the mugwort sachet on my neck and looked at him. Maybe fate favored him, because most mosquitoes were after him, leaving huge welts on that porcelain skin — way worse than mine.
This won’t do. We can’t sleep like this!
At my urging, Ethan endured the pests and sat to study hard. I went to the back garden to gather mugwort, roasted it on the brazier, made sachets, and hung them beneath his desk.
The smell was sharp, but vastly better than before.
Soon someone at the front rang for dinner; the servant brought the meal box. I opened it and complained, “This rice is too hard; the char siu is pale and bland; and this intestine—there’s literal feces inside. Is this how you treat your master?”
The server was a young boy; his face lit up. “Master, will you punish me?”
That tone and that little expression — perfect. Another masochist, apparently.
I seemed to have stumbled into a masochist reservoir.
05 At dinner I deliberately arranged his chopsticks separately. “From now on, I eat first with every bite. You do not cross me, understand?!”
He bowed obediently, and the system pinged.
“Scold +1”
Pfft. Pretending to be humiliated? Please.
After sampling a few dishes, I swapped the chopsticks and bowls, then signaled him to begin. He seemed puzzled. The system kept popping alerts in a confused state.
Fifteen minutes later I collapsed onto the floor.
Holy hell — which bastard dosed me with croton oil?!
I had taken every precaution, and yet I was struck on day one. I ran to the privy a dozen times, pale and with my butt sore; my cheap husband, it seemed, understood. He walked to the back, gathered some herbs, brewed them, and had me drink — the medicine worked like a charm.
Don’t ask why everything grows in the backyard; just accept that the male lead’s golden finger extends to the farm.
After night fell we each prepared to sleep at opposite ends of the room. Just as I barely closed my eyes, the system popped up:
[Ultimate Son-in-Law System: Extra Reward Credited (1\30)] Huh?
What kind of reward was that?
I had just started to wonder when the lights went out. The insects fell silent. Only the soft sound of the boy’s breathing remained.
I got it — this is the time-out room!
A little black room that hides you from system monitoring, perfect for bold mischief!
Overjoyed, I hushed my breathing and softened my voice as much as I could. “Ethan, are you asleep?”
A vague reply came from across the room.
I cued my tone and apologized, “I’ve had this problem a long time — I have a disease that makes me unable to speak nicely, and I can be violent and quick to anger. I was wrong before, and from now on—”
Before I finished speaking, the room flared bright again and that maddening chorus of insects crawled back into earshot.
[Ultimate Son-in-Law System: Bonus reward issued (0\30)] I nearly choked!
After a long while, the person across from me gave a faint chuckle when I fell silent.
Obviously he wasn’t pleased with my performance.
System, come on—give me a break?
This little window of time wasn’t even enough to wipe my—!
With no other option, I fell asleep wrapped in a tide of regret.
The next day I caught the servant who’d poisoned out of jealousy and made him march ten laps around Harlow Farm while loudly confessing his crime.
“I am not a human, I poisoned someone, I am not a human, I poisoned someone…”
Meanwhile, amid that human-warning spectacle, Ethan Hale asked softly, “My lady, he meant to poison me, didn’t he?”
“You’re overthinking.”
To preserve the act, I coldly cut him off, then snapped at him with stern supervision. “If you have time to worry about vulgar nonsense like this, you’d better spend it studying!”
He stared at me silently for several heartbeats. Two little vermilion moles under his eyes burned like fresh wounds. Suddenly he parted his lips. “My lady, you have not instructed your husband today.”
That line triggered a death flag—again. The system pinged.
We’d already run that play yesterday. What now?
Fine—let’s try insulting him.
I kept my tone flat, expressionless. “You rascal, you’re annoying.”
Insult +1. He flinched and shot me a stunned look. I steeled myself and kept going.
“You rascal?
Annoying.”
Insult +2. “You rascal!
Annoying~” Insult +3—goal met. The pretty boy suddenly covered his face, shoulders shaking. I took a step back in alarm. “What’s wrong with you?”
“I don’t know either, my lady. Hearing you call me that today stirs my heart more than when you used to strike me. I’m all aflutter—so, so delighted!”
Me: …I give up. Signing off.
Over the next few days I repeated the tactic. I lounged in bed, snacking on sunflower seeds, and still managed to fulfill the quota—sometimes overshooting it.
It felt exhilarating.
Since he’d clearly admitted he liked hearing it, I deliberately softened my voice into a coy, honeyed whisper and called him the name a few more times.
“You rascal, come eat~~”
“You rascal, it’s chilly—wear another layer~”
“You rascal, go to bed early; you can study more tomorrow~”
Because the system judged all negative words as insults, I had a green light all the way. After several days of this grind, I finally unlocked a red-line plot.
[Ultimate Son-in-Law System: Visit retired Professor Whitman—astonish him with your talent (0\1)] Ah, I know this arc!
Not only would the professor be astonished—his celebrated daughter, who in the original story later became the male lead’s official wife after the vicious first wife died, would be made the top court favorite.
Worth mentioning: the male lead also dazzles the seasoned Chief Physician Morgan and his daughter, the battle-hardened General Lawrence and his daughter, Lord Harrington and his daughter, and even the incognito emperor and his daughter… Honestly, this sort of transparent plot-pumping insults the readers’ intelligence. Haven’t I already roasted it for fifteen thousand words?
But beaten and trapped by the story, I had to play along. I spat a mouthful of seed husks toward a figure hunched over nearby—delightfully fragrant.
“You rascal, you rascal, you rascal, you rascal——————”
The system’s pleasant chime cut off mid-note.
[Ultimate Son-in-Law System: Bonus reward credited (30\30)] Holy—so the mockery actually has a tolerance cap? Thirty’s the limit? No more stacking!
Ethan turned at my repeated calls. His hair shone like lacquer, the rims of his eyes flushed, each vermilion spot beneath them bright as a dab of cinnabar—irresistible, like some celestial idol teasing the heart.
That gaze made me shudder. I snapped at him, “Focus on your studies. Don’t be distracted—understand?”
Oddly, my insult left him slightly breathless and flushed. I had to admit it was weird.
Sheesh… this son-in-law rehab is heading somewhere strange.
That night I cashed in every second of bonus time the system had given me. I dragged a little stool to his desk and sat there, humble as could be. “Husband—no, Mr. Hale, I’m sorry we met like this. It wasn’t your fault, and it wasn’t mine. Fallen into this world together, strangers who fought first and got to know each other—that’s our fate.”
He turned slightly, lashes drooping, as if contemplating something.
“A great responsibility placed on someone first afflicts their spirit and labors their body—true enough. But suffering alone doesn’t equal success.
Faced with these senseless humiliations, shouldn’t you fight fire with fire?”
“Given your perfected skills in medicine, poisons, martial arts, scholarship, tactics, and power balancing, had you stepped forward earlier the world would’ve been yours. Why struggle in the Bennett House’s mud?”
I’d lectured him dryly until my mouth felt parched. Finally the man in front of me moved.
“Mr. Hale?”
With a delighted look, he placed a pale, refined hand on my forehead and murmured, “A bit warm. My lady may be having hysterics. Let me brew a little tonic—one dose and the malady will be gone.”
Ha!
Go ahead—try to drug me to death now then!
The day before the plot deadline, I brought old Mr. Hale to the task location: a lantern fair outside the farm.
Dusk bled into night, lanterns lit the streets, and we paused at the largest, most ornate lantern stall. We guessed riddles and matched couplets. The elderly scholar threw out stoic lines; I answered smoothly.
“One person is great; two make the heavens.”
“Ten makes earth; twenty makes king.”
“Grain and fire mark the autumn; grain dried by sun becomes fragrant.”
“A man once monk, yet man cannot be Buddha?”
“Live poor, adhere to the way—endless road.”
“Endure bitter cold, cultivate zen—deep is the meaning.”
After just the time it takes for an incense stick to burn, we’d traded several verses. The old man hummed, then handed over a crooked little night lantern, a polite send-off. I triumphantly lifted my lantern and motioned Ethan forward.
Please—Sound Rhythm Primer? I recited that by age three; this is nothing.
Then came the highlight. The old man stroked his beard comfortably and declared, “One, two, three, four, five.”
Ethan, quick on the uptake, answered calmly, “Go up the mountain and beat the tiger.”
The old man froze, then trembled with excitement, tears streaming. “Ah! Such genius! This lower verse is bold, majestic, and full of surprising charm. I’m utterly astonished!”
Me: ????
What did he just hear that made him ‘astonished’? The bar for ‘astonishing’ is embarrassingly low.
The old man clearly was the retired Professor Whitman. He grabbed my husband’s hand and waxed lyrical. “I haven’t heard such fresh, delightful verse in ages.”
“Young sir is transcendent—unlike others, all talk of monks and Buddhas, clinging to attachments, reeking of pretension and vulgarity…”
Me: …Hello? Was it necessary to stomp all over me to praise him?
After the “astonished” task completed, I strode ahead with a stiff face. Ethan, tall and long-limbed, caught up and scooped me into his side.
Under the sea of lantern light his face flushed like a red lotus, a little anxious. “Are you displeased, my lady?”
I fanned myself with my sleeve and tossed back, sarcastic, “How could I dare be? You are the one and only mighty son-in-law in all heaven and earth!”
Before he could react, the system dinged me.
“Mock +1”
A flare of guilt shot to the top of my skull. I didn’t want to blurt out something OOC in a hot temper, so I flicked my sleeve, left the little lantern, and stalked off.
Behind me, Ethan’s sweet smile snapped into something cold and exacting. Funny—his saccharine grin always looked like a borrowed expression, stiff and false. But this sinister, icy look fit him better.
“Claire Bennett—you can’t read a single word, yet you delivered impeccable antithetical couplets and flowed with literary thought.
Hmph. Let’s see how you’ll keep performing.”
Though this son-in-law seemed to court suffering and never earnest in study—mean and shallow—every bigwig outside our cramped household looked kindly on him. Every eligible young miss dreamed of being his concubine. You could say the entire Westmore unmarried set pined for him.
Professor Whitman’s daughter also fell head over heels into the son-in-law’s orbit. On that lantern-lit avenue, she took one look at the striking vermilion mole and was smitten. Ethan, however, was lost in thought and didn’t notice her.
The girl, still radiant despite his furrowed brow, shyly approached. “This young sir…”
She handed him a scented note and was casually brushed off.
“Sorry, I don’t do fan clubs.”
“Oof!”
Rejected, she went pale and collapsed into her maid’s arms. Back at Harlow, I was blindsided by a stream of system notices.
[Ultimate Son-in-Law System: Harem recruitment failed (1\9)]
[Failure penalty: Force son-in-law to kneel for one hour (0\1)] What left me speechless was that this forced punishment was a red-line event!
Which meant—if he didn’t comply…my fate was total erasure.
Not long after, the handsome youth returned that night and stood in the porch.
I pounced and patted him all over. “Hey, where’s the scented note?”
I checked sleeves and cuffs—nothing. The would-be top court favorite had vanished into the crowd, no second chance.
As I stood there dejected, a cold, honeyed voice came from above me. “My lady, what are you feeling around for?”
Ethan stood in the dark, brows knitted but not, eyes amused but not—like a breathtaking specter crawled straight up from hell. All kinds of dangerous beauty.
In front of me it seemed he was finally shedding a mask…But here’s the problem: would he still obey me after a whole enforced hour of kneeling?
A thin crescent moon hung high and the chill went through me. I shivered and let tears fall. “Husband, just now in my nap, my father- and mother-in-law came into my dream and scolded me for not having a proper wedding with you. They said we never officially performed the ceremony, and that I’m not truly a member of the Hale family.”
Seriously—how awful was this son-in-law in the original novel?
With his parents dead and no one to manage things, when he married into the Bennetts they only quietly set out a table of wine. Afterwards they wouldn’t even allow the couple to consummate, nor conduct a proper ceremony—afraid it might affect the daughter’s chances to remarry.
The only way he could turn into the novel’s son-in-law was to pass the civil exam.
Luckily, the system favored big things and let small things slide, so I had some room to play. I put on a showy tear and whimpered, “I only knelt to my parents, not yours. Surely they can’t rest in peace in the afterlife, so they came into my dream to warn me.”
Moonrise was bright; the beauty beside me was radiant.
Ethan Hale looked down at my tears. The corners of his eyes tilted up like swallow tails. Under his mocking gaze, I lit a red candle, dragged him into another ritual bow and declared, “Come, my husband. Today we’ll make up the three bows!”
Luckily, this young man stared at me for a long moment—and still knelt.
Unluckily, once the progress bar passed halfway, he grew impatient. “It’s just bowing to heaven and earth. Does it need to take this long?”
I quickly covered my mouth and feigned sobs. “If they bear me ill will, why would my in-laws deign to visit? If you’re tired, go rest. Let me kneel to death alone—better than being terrified to death in a dream, boohoo!”
He sighed and kept his eyes lowered while I moaned melodramatically. At last he humored me and we finished the task.
The next day, after kneeling for an hour, I could barely stand. I rang the bell for help and had a mugwort compress brought. To be friendly, I insisted he use one too, claiming I wouldn’t disturb his studies.
No sooner had I left than he tossed the mugwort pouch out of the courtyard.
With his deep cultivation and sturdy body, kneeling until you can’t get up simply wasn’t a thing. Now his tone was cold and his eyes bloodshot, clearly full of resentment. “Claire Bennett, what tricks are you playing?”
The herbs had been thrown far, but a faint scent still lingered at the tip of his nose and made him more irritable.
He followed the smell and bent down—and saw, under the table, a row of long, wobbling, crude… lopsided sachets.
As the civil exam drew near, Ethan’s looks toward me kept getting stranger.
“My lady has been different lately.”
A chill ran down my spine. Sweat prickled on my skin. “Different how?”
“For example, you used to give me a whipping every three days. It’s been three months now…”
He produced that long blood-red whip and stroked it, his eyes sparkling as he glanced at me.
“Hiss… whip me?”
The move was deliciously ambiguous.
Not whipping with clothes on is abuse; taking clothes off… is foreplay?
To lock in my role, I forced a brave smile and snatched the whip. “Who says I don’t enjoy it?”
“Come on, let’s do something different today!”
I tested the whip’s tail on my forearm—surprisingly, it didn’t sting. It tingled, almost pleasantly.
Seeing me hesitate, he sweetly urged, “Why aren’t you striking, my lady?”
“Because you haven’t taken anything off!”
Quick as a flash I tugged off his shirt. Morning light revealed a lithe, sculpted body—pale and solid like marble.
Guiltily vandalizing a work of art, I lightly flicked the whip along the hollow of his exquisite collarbone. His cool, delicate skin bloomed with a red mark at once.
He let me do it and only hummed softly.
I anxiously asked, “Does it hurt?”
“If my lady likes it, Ethan likes it.”
Since he liked it, I traced the whip over his wide shoulders, along his long neck, over the sharp throat. In that charged moment, he grabbed my hand, breathing hard, eyes glistening with tears and burning red. “Harder, my lady.”
“Like this?”
“Perfect!”
“Shall I do a few more?”
I took the chance to add a few extra light lashes and thus finished today’s extra quota. When I pressed no further, he clutched my wrist, eyes misty, voice thick.
“My lady… Ethan is very happy.”
Phew—today he was so strange, and wildly intoxicating.
Green walls of moss circled the courtyard. Banana leaves in the center curled faintly in the sun.
Outside, a pair of swallows whispered on the curtain hook; willow fluff and dandelion seeds spun around the well. The sounds of children playing on the farm braided into a soft melody that slipped into the room.
Ethan dressed and rose from bed, feeling wistful. “There is such heaven on earth.”
“Speak normal.”
“The sun is quite magnificent today, my lady.”
Maybe because no one had bothered him, he’d put on a little weight recently and looked healthier—more composed and striking than before.
I lay on the cool couch and lazily ordered people to pack.
“In two days it’s the civil exam. I packed your exam kit. Gather some fine clothes and you can go to the capital.”
He sat at the table and sighed. “Ethan doesn’t want to go. He only wants to stay at the farm with my lady, wasting the days without a care.”
“I’ve lived twenty years without knowing how short summer can be. Just a gentle chide from my lady, a bowl of fruit, a few sour poems—and the day slips away.”
I listened quietly, unsure how to answer.
No matter how reluctant, everyone must face their fate. There’s no turning back.
To take better care of him, I arranged for two reliable attendants to go up to the capital with him. He left first. As soon as he did, I suddenly couldn’t sleep.
How truly strange.
After the preliminary exam, I was dozing when a few housekeepers burst into the inner hall shouting, “Lady of the House! Disaster! The gentleman was snatched away in public!”
I leaped up in giddy delight and began packing at once!
No more staying at the farm feeding mosquitoes. Back to the Bennett House for free food and luxury!
I was so happy I wanted to sing a few bars from “Good Days.”
In the original novel, I knew Ethan would be snatched under the betrothal list—and that the captor would be the general’s daughter, disguised as a man, who’d roam the streets and swoon over him, then knock him out and take him away.
What I didn’t expect was being intercepted halfway to the Bennett House by the general’s guards and semi-forced to the general’s residence.
Ethan was disheveled but sitting proudly in the main seat, face set with unyielding resolve. “My household already has a lady. I advise you to stop your delusions and avoid trouble.”
The general’s daughter collapsed at his feet, crying her heart out.
Wait—weren’t these two supposed to have an earth-shuddering, lightning-struck chemistry and spend a whole night together in the original?
General Lawrence, imposing and unflinching, flashed his sword at me upon entering and then asked coolly, “Lady Bennett is here as well. What are your thoughts on this affair?”
In the great hall, three pairs of eyes, like spotlights, all turned to me.
I babbled nonsense, and the general flashed his blade again. I straightened and declared, “We haven’t exchanged marriage tokens, nor consummated our marriage. We’re not proper husband and wife. If Mr. Hale has a better match, he should choose a worthy tree to roost in…”
Reborn as the Villainess: I Won
But Ethan was ready. He cut me off with a calm, decisive tone.
“Having bowed to parents and heaven and earth together—if not my lady, then who is?”
Me: …Are we being framed?
Are we being scammed?
My unlucky self had no choice but to be detained at General Lawrence’s residence along with my supposed son-in-law.
For days we were kept in the wood storage. Ethan slept soundly on his pillow while I, spoiled and unused to cold, damp ground, had not slept properly in days and was wilting from exhaustion.
“You didn’t sleep either last night, my lady?”
I ignored him and turned my back, but he teased in an improper tone, “Graceful and lithe, the very picture of Claire—your back is handsome even from behind.”
A knife to the throat; I was the fish on the chopping block. At such a critical moment, he had the nerve to make lewd jokes?
Seeing me turn pale with anger, he quickly steadied my trembling shoulder. “Tonight Ethan won’t sleep. I’ll keep watch over you first, all right?”
That was a tempting offer.
I huffed and then melted into his arm. His chest was wide and warm, a little boat rising and falling, lulling me into a haze.
“By the way—you're not really Claire Bennett, are you? Who are you then?”
My real name?
Honestly, my real name is Claire Bennett. If I hadn't run into that villainess in the book who shared my name, I’d never have been so reckless as to read male-aimed novels.
I cleared my throat. “Yuki Tanaka.”
That was my pen name—taken from my niece Lily Tanaka.
“What a cute name.”
He praised me sincerely, and with the gentle rise and fall of his chest I slipped into sleep.
But not long after, I was rudely awakened.
“Mr. Hale, we’ve word from King Wu—he’s here to pay his respects. Please attend the banquet immediately.”
King Wu had come with his beloved daughter, Lady Charlotte, to congratulate the Emperor’s birthday, and they were staying at General Lawrence’s estate.
I was baffled. In the imperial capital, under the Emperor’s shadow, how dare a territorial lord cozy up so openly to a general who held military power? Didn’t they fear being accused of factionalism?
Don’t ask—this is an illogical indulgence of a feel-good novel.
Intentional or not, the moment Ethan sat down he was placed beside Lady Charlotte.
Young and in the bloom of youth, she’d never seen a beauty like him—bone-fine and clear as a painting. The tiny vermillion mole under his eye looked like a drop of blood on her heart and shook her to the core.
“Why are you so perfect? I could look at you forever!”
Her hand wandered across him.
He cleared his throat and shifted a little. She put a grape on her tongue and said, “Taste, my lord.”
She coyly batted her eyes at him, as if inviting him to sample what she had.
Ethan: …I wilted in the corner and almost burst laughing.
After the banquet, the great son-in-law was kept to talk alone while I wandered among the bamboo groves, digesting my meal.
Ahead, two women argued—one firm, one soft—each refusing to yield.
“I’m the lady; I outrank you.”
“You may be the lady, but I caught Mr. Hale first. I outrank you.”
They noticed me standing frozen on the path and snubbed me in unison with a derisive sound. “Don’t mind her. We’ll continue.”
Hey—I have pride too!
Beside them, in the moonlight, a swing shimmered. In the original story the swing was the male lead’s favorite stunt for his harem. Back then I’d even tipped for those steamy chapters.
So I sneaked away and hid in a fake rock nearby to keep watching the scene unfold.
Not far off, General Lawrence’s booming voice approached.
“Lord Harrington, if you simply give the nod, who fears the plan won’t succeed?”
My original wife isn’t dead yet, and the general was already calling me "Lady Charlotte’s consort" with unmistakable warmth. “The county champion just topped the exams today—first place in the civil exams, triple honors! The parade’s right around the corner. Mrs. Bennett is only a merchant’s daughter; how could she possibly help him climb higher?”
Ethan Hale opened his eyes lazily at him. “A real man wins his merits himself. Why should his wife push him?”
Those words sounded noble and unshakeable. The big, burly general froze on the spot.
Bamboo shadows, silver moonlight, a cool breeze—Ethan Hale approached slowly beneath that moon, and the two women’s hearts thudded so loudly they might as well have leapt out and tackled him to the ground. They wanted to devour him whole, but his heart was iron. No hesitation, no compromise. “Today, even if the princess came, I’d still say the same.”
“One life, one wife.”
“Don’t bring this up again.”
Wait—this isn’t how the plot goes!!
I froze on the spot. The system pinged me just in time.
[Ultimate Son-in-Law System: Harem recruitment failed (2/9)]
[Ultimate Son-in-Law System: Harem recruitment failed (3/9)]
…
…
[Ultimate Son-in-Law System: Harem recruitment failed (9/9)] One life, one wife.
Hiss—I'd forgotten. The male lead is the male lead; his oath is a story flag!
It’s an iron rule that can never be shaken!
This is bad. All nine concubine recruitments failed. What ultimate punishment is waiting for me?!
Death by a thousand cuts? Dismemberment? Iron maiden? Ticklish torture? Thrown from a horse? My mind raced through countless grisly endings in a single breath.
“I’ll pick being thrown off a horse.”
“What did you say, my lady?”
I wiped my mouth, feigning calm. “Nothing.”
Ethan hauled me out from where I’d been hiding. When had the others gone? They were gone—only I remained, facing this near-perfect youth under moonlight.
He lifted me easily and set me onto the swing, then stepped back. In a soft, syrupy voice he praised me. “A goddess fallen among mortals—this swing suits you perfectly, my lady.”
Thinking of the original book’s eighteen ways to use a swing, I shivered. “N—no, it doesn’t suit me.”
“Why belittle yourself, my lady?”
He tilted his head, curiously studying the single drop of cold sweat on my temple. “If I could spend a day with you up there, I’d be much happier.”
“No… well, I’d better get down first—”
I tried to hop off, but he moved behind me and began to push the swing. He pushed and, with a voice that could steal souls, teased me.
“Are you happy, my lady?”
“Do you feel like you’re floating, my lady?”
Ugh—put me down!
I’m a kid!
The system punishment I’d imagined didn’t appear. Instead the system seemed to crash and never refreshed any penalty tasks again.
After that we said goodbye to General Lawrence and went back to the Bennett House together.
When Mr. Bennett learned Ethan had topped the exams, he’d already strung scarlet silk three miles out, hung red marriage characters down the street, and sent house guards thirty miles to escort and announce to the neighborhood that the Bennetts of Westmore were about to rise to noble status.
Being alive with rank and wealth is important, but it wears a person out.
So while my nominal father threw a lavish banquet and entertained the whole town, we hid at Harlow Farm and swung together in the quiet.
The sky was painted with sunset, clouds like mist, and his face glowed like a red lotus—clear brows, elegant features, his whole expression loosening into contentment.
“My lady, I only realized today the world has such days,” he said.
I looked at the lazy, soft beauty mark at his jaw and couldn’t help softening my voice. “Do you know, even immortals on high can’t truly escape the mortal world. Even immortals who come down to undergo tribulations must do good deeds or they can’t return… just like you.”
“Are there immortal ladies down here too?”
“I’m not an immortal.”
“Then I wouldn’t want to go back up.”
Wow, what a sweet mouth.
He leaned closer in the afterglow, a small smile at the corner of his lips.
Honestly—this is why he’s the male lead. His mouth is intoxicating.
Claire Bennett: Don’t ask—yes, I tasted it.
After that, Ethan Hale did indeed shine in the provincial and national exams, top of his class, triple honors.
But he didn’t take a government post right away. He returned to Harlow Farm, spending his days fishing or playing chess, sometimes taking me to wander the lakes and streams nearby—so rustic, so free.
One night, watching him swat mosquitoes inside the tent, I couldn’t help asking the question that had been nagging me. “You finally earned those triple honors after hundreds of years. Why would the court let you laze around like this?”
He stopped, peering at his palm. “There were a few openings, but I turned them down, saying I must tend to my wife.”
“Why?”
“I can’t bring myself to the task. I don’t like luxury, nor crave fame—official life is just asking for trouble.”
Fine, fine—strong arms, strong opinions; everything you say must be right.
At that moment a servant brought a bowl of honeyed melons. I was about to pop a piece in my mouth when he slapped my hand away.
“What are you doing? Even killing mosquitoes requires care!”
He went serious and picked a hair-thin needle from the melon—blue-green and clearly laced with poison.
Me: …Now I understand why the system’s slacking off. This doesn’t need the big boss to intervene—NPC malice alone could finish me.
There was a light sound at the door.
In no time he shot out like a gale, grabbed the intruder by the jaw: “Tell me—who sent you?”
The man tilted his head and smiled. Blood poured from his orifices. Dead—obviously poisoned in advance.
Ethan’s face darkened. He tipped the bowl of melon onto the ground. Each slice had a hair-thin poisoned needle embedded in it. As I leaned in, he spun around and pulled me into a tight embrace.
“If not for my nose detecting the scent of poison, my lady would have—”
“—definitely be dead already—ugh!”
He clamped the back of my head and lifted me close. His lips pressed hot and intense against mine; his teeth eased a lock apart, and his sweet tongue teased me like plucking a fruit—the kind of kiss that stole the breath from my bones.
He finished gently, tasting and stopping at just the right moment, like gathering dewdrops.
When we parted I was trembling, clutching my chest, gasping. He lay back slightly in the tent, dark hair loose, robe open to reveal a firm, sculpted chest. Under his eyes the vermilion was raw and fierce—both wild and hungry—a spark that set my heart aflame.
“Do you like it?”
Of course I did. The whole arc—the surprise, the rush, the tenderness at the end—his kiss lived up to his gilded leading-man status. But my mouth was sharper than my heart.
“Just that?”
Heh. Taunt +1.
At my words his gaze turned dangerous. “We’ve been married years without consummating. Why not tonight…?”
Ugh, my face flushed.
System, it’s not that I cling to virtue—he’s just too handsome!
With so many young women drooling over him, if I waited until the last page to do anything, that’d be insane.
That night we were a blur. He took the lead, guiding me through the moonlit depths as if he owned the night, fierce and untamed, gentle and lingering—quick like rain on a pond and slow and soothing like wine under the moon.
As the clouds faded, the silver river spun soundlessly into a jade disk.
After a long while he held me so I could rest on his chest. “How was it, my lady?”
I grit my teeth and refused to give in. “Just… that?”
He was slightly embarrassed. “Then wait a bit longer. I won’t let you down.”
Return to power, reclaim old lands—me? Really?
At some point tears were streaming down my face.
The next day.
I kept teasing him but the system never sent any task completion notice. Then I remembered the system had crashed a long time ago; my stubborn mouthsewing for a phantom reward was just plain dumb.
Just as I was feeling cheated, Ethan rolled up a book and paced over, suddenly thoughtful. “My lady, I think going to the capital is the safer choice. Someone poisoned your melon today; tomorrow they’ll be under your bed. Whoever’s behind this must be punished!”
“Which faction do you think it is?”
“Either Lord Harrington’s or the emperor himself.”
He frowned a little. “But being an official is truly dull…”
I have to say, Ethan Hale isn’t a gentleman—he’s blunt, frank, and shamelessly honest.
I sat up, rare seriousness in my voice. “To found a heart for heaven and earth, to establish fate for the people, to carry on lost wisdom from the sages, to open peace for ten thousand generations—how can that be boring?”
He scoffed but then gave an easy laugh. “If you were a man, you’d be famous for a thousand years.”
“Too bad I’m a woman. If you make a glorious name, I’ll share that honor. If everyone curses you, I’ll share your infamy.”
He pondered that.
Seeing him moved, I coaxed softly: “Do well as an official; I, your wife, will take pride in it.”
“Yes, I can earn you a title.”
His stirrings made me smile in satisfaction.
In the original book he formed cliques, teamed with Lord Harrington and other cronies to throw the court into blood and scandal, framing opponents and manipulating the court’s winds—help those who follow him prosper, and those who resist perish.
Since I’d come into this novel, at least I could help him sort right from wrong a little. That would count for something.
Ethan Hale accepted an imperial summons to the capital, was appointed to the Hanlin Academy for compilation work, and because his radical military theories shone, within six months he was promoted to deputy minister of war, and a year later took the top slot as minister of war.
Coincidentally, Lord Harrington’s rebellion and a southern barbarians’ invasion happened right then. The previous minister of war stumbled and fell ill—fortunate timing, or cursed luck, who could tell?
As the male lead, he didn’t shy away from storms. He threw himself into court life, contending daily with peers until his eyes were bloodshot. When he came home he always drank a jar of calming tea before he could be gentle with me.
I rarely left the house, but once I was spotted at the fish market at dawn and inexplicably earned a nickname: the Salted Fish Lady.
Darn it—I didn’t want that! I was just avoiding poison!
“Today at court I’ll petition for the third time to send a princess for a political marriage.”
“Huh?”
“The emperor has drafted the decree. Once that’s done, the household will settle. You won’t have to sneak out at dawn to buy fish anymore.”
“Oh, that’s good.”
Ethan, who chose his words sparingly about me, sounded displeased. “Just that?”
I shrugged. “What else do you want me to do?”
Seeing my attention wander, he softened his voice. “Ethan is the newly appointed Minister of War. All the troop registries, armories, military orders, relay-station layouts—everything needs to be redrafted. I had no choice but to leave my wife alone at home. That’s my fault.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” I pretended.
Feigning a teasing tone, I said, “But with a brilliant scholar on your left and a noble princess on your right, it’s no wonder you forgot you had a salted fish at home.”
Beep—system hit increment +1.
Days slipped into months. Our relationship settled into a calm lake—pretty, but utterly still. He blinked as if roused from a long sleep. “My lady, you haven’t called me ‘you rascal’ in a long while.”
I offered a flat, perfunctory “You rascal.”
“No—there needs to be waves!”
“You rascal~~~~ you’re so demanding~~~~”
His face flushed, color blooming in his cheeks. The gloom that normally lived in his eyes softened into affection.
(Note: 2,000 words omitted here.) After some horsing around, he held me close and murmured, “My lady…don’t you think I’m too cruel?”
“Which part?” I asked.
“Sending a fragile girl off to marry into a foreign land.”
Before I could answer, his voice turned cold and dangerous. “Ever since she poisoned you at that banquet, she tried again and again. If the princess’s marriage truly didn’t benefit the realm, I wouldn’t have let her live.”
He lowered his head and looked at me, his eyes glistening. His tone was full of pity. “Poor my lady. Not only did she get dragged into this, but those fools called her a salted fish. How could I stand that?”
I clicked my tongue. “You don’t understand—being a salted fish is a blessing.”
He mistook my resignation for suffering in silence and embraced me tighter, stroking me and murmuring endearments.
“My lady! Oh, my poor lady～～”
Not long after, King Wu colluded with the southern barbarians and rebelled. Westmore was hit by a once-in-a-century downpour—endless rain, torrents breaching levees, thousands of riverside homes swept away, and as many as a hundred thousand displaced. Jiangnan was hit hard, too.
After the disaster came secondary calamities.
Floods bred fever, and disease broke out. The capital showed concern by sending imperial physicians with the water-control officials. Because Ethan’s ancestral home fell in the epidemic’s epicenter, he was granted ten days’ leave to visit family.
At the gate, I saw my father wearing his official hat, standing under a crooked tree handing out gruel. The broth was thin, the rice sunk to the bottom—each grain distinct.
“Father, are you afraid the refugees won’t be fed enough?” I asked.
“How dare you!” His voice cut me off. “We Bennetts burn oil on the family lamp, pile on rank and ribbons. We must set an example for Jiangnan! Come help distribute the gruel.”
I shook my head. “The most frightening thing is people who even deceive themselves.”
I ignored his bark and walked into the tent line. The woman overseeing the gruel looked gentle in a quiet way and smiled at me. “You must be the minister’s wife?”
“Mm. And you are?”
“I’m the chief physician’s daughter. Call me Lady Morgan.” She encouraged me with a nod and handed me a brass ladle with calm grace. I couldn’t help but be impressed.
“All right, Lady Morgan.”
I joined the gruel brigade, working so hard I forgot my own hunger until the minister and the water officials returned from inspecting the levee.
The moon had barely risen when I saw him surrounded by county magistrates, commanding as if the world orbited him. The refugees’ faces were hollow and bowed; only then did the truth of this world hit me.
Whether him or me, whether the countless ordinary people—everyone had sorrows and joys, blood and flesh.
That night, curled against his arm, I told him softly what I’d seen.
“Today each person gets one bread. A little girl insisted on giving her loaf to her brothers and sisters…”
“They said a child died of the disease. His mother clutched a wooden lump and kept telling everyone it was her child…”
“Jiangnan isn’t the worst. Downriver, whole villages were wiped out. Nearly entire clans are gone…”
He listened a while, then put an arm around me. “You’re tired, my lady. Why aren’t you sleeping?”
I wanted to do more for them, but it felt awkward to ask in front of the cold-faced male lead. So I changed the subject. “Also, I saw a very admirable young woman today…”
He propped his chin on a hand and brushed my hair back. “How admirable? Is she as good as my lady?”
“Ugh…”
His flirting was impossibly smooth. He parted his lips and started weaving a long, flowery praise until the dim tent felt like a dream.
“My lady’s conversation is witty and her writing elegant. She has depth and the noble air of the grove—beautiful and cool, yet with a refined charm. To me she is a thousand kinds of lovely, ten thousand kinds of wonderful.”
“At the Bennetts you spoke coldly, but I saw how you worry for me. Today, listening to you tell stories, I saw how you worry for the common people. Your compassion is like spring rain, soothing my irritable heart.”
“He actually quoted the sages—‘Love the aged as you love your own, and care for the young as if they were yours.’” I stood there stunned. “Is he talking about me? Is he an immortal?”
Guilt washed over me. “But I’m powerless. I can’t do anything.”
Back then, even if I remembered sulfur and saltpeter and charcoal, I wouldn’t be able to make gunpowder. Compared to Ethan—who knew military schematic and medicine—my presence felt weak and useless, almost a drag.
Ethan seemed to think for a moment. “What does my lady want to do?”
His question sparked a bold impulse. He was outwardly warm but inwardly cold and ambitious. Even if Westmore bled to the gates, he’d walk over corpses to rise. What could a salted fish do to alter that cold nature?
His warm hand rubbed the back of my neck. I looked at him and spoke slowly, “I want to face heaven and earth with a clear conscience. I want to act with a heart that can look up and down without shame.”
“To set a righteous mind for the world, ensure people’s lives, preserve lost teachings, and strive to bring peace for all time—this is one of the wishes of my life.”
In the dark he watched me silently, then kissed my forehead. “I understand. For my lady, I will try.”
At dawn the next day Ethan woke me. His beard was stubbled and dark under-eye circles showed he’d hardly slept.
“My lady, I have a remedy. It might help with the water epidemic.”
I sprang up. “What remedy?”
“In epidemics, children often get high fevers and convulsions. This remedy—something I stumbled upon—can bolster the body and lower fevers. Old and young can take it.” He set a bowl of greenish medicine before me. “Try it?”
I leaned over and nearly recoiled. “That color is terrifying. Kids will cry and refuse to take it.”
Beep—system hit increment +1.
He turned to leave. “Fine. Don’t.”
“No, no—wait. The disaster zone still needs you.” I grabbed him and thought fast. “Add some licorice and honey, form them into small sugar balls, stick a little handle in them—lollipops. Adults can drink the medicine, kids take it as a treat. Win-win.”
He nodded eagerly. “My lady is brilliant!”
He summoned a few imperial physicians and went to the camps.
A few days later, I went to hand out gruel and found him trapped and exhausted among a swarm of kids.
“Sir! I want another!”
“Sir, one more lollipop, please!”
“You’re greedy! I only need half a lollipop!”
Like fate, he saw me and called out, “My lady, come quick! See? This was my lady’s idea—smart, right?” I didn’t want the credit, so I hurried away.
Because of Ethan’s “licorice recipe,” children’s fevers were controlled and the epidemic eased. He gained great renown; banners and tributes piled up at our home.
He even earned a nickname: He Who Judges Without Mercy—implying that the King of the Underworld might decide your fate quickly, but Ethan’s treatment saved lives.
It’s worth noting that in the original tale, he joined King Wu’s rebellion, overthrew the Westmore dynasty, and left carnage in his wake—hence the ominous double meaning behind his moniker. Two sides of a name: one heavenly, one hellish.
In the same year, after King Wu’s defeat and the emperor’s passing, Ethan became Chief Minister. The crown prince called him a second father. This once lowly son-in-law rose to unprecedented power.
A few years after the political marriage, the southern barbarians returned. The new chief minister ordered weapons: repeating crossbows, early cannon schematics, rushed construction—to strike with unconventional arms.
We’d been married many years without children. People coveted our bed. Courtiers hinted, trying to place their daughters or nieces with him. Even my own father sent concubine maids—yet Ethan kept them barred at the outer gate, forbidding them inside.
In the original story the original wife remained a maiden to the end—perhaps it was fate that we would be childless.
Strangely, Ethan didn’t just think of medicines and weapons; he had radical principles. Whenever I brought up heirs, he brushed it off with a few words, “I only need my lady. I’ll treat her like a child and care for her.”
Then he’d turn back to his crossbow designs. He didn’t seem worried, but I couldn’t help feeling anxious. The plot before he became chief minister had been rearranged—barely completed—but what would happen after he took office?
At the time I was too busy arguing with the author to remember later details.
One night a fierce wind rattled the windows. Darkness thick as ink pressed in. I hurried to bring books in from the courtyard. Three massive repeating crossbows stood in the yard, shaking in the gale. I had just straightened when someone shouted nearby.
“My lady—watch out!”
The wind whipped into a storm and the half-height crossbows were toppled. One fired a volley of three arrows. Even with his intervention, one arrow struck me.
The original wife did indeed die from an arrow through the heart—fired by the son-in-law male lead. In other words, I practically died by the male lead’s hand. Realizing that, I tilted my head and spat blood. “Goddamn you—”
He trembled and pressed at my bleeding mouth. “My lady, what did you say?”
“Quick…please…send…Chief…Physician…Morgan…” I gasped. “Help…”
At the brink of death, everything blurred. In a daze he held a set of sumptuous clothes up to me, tears streaking his face as he choked out, "My lady, Ethan had these made for you. Look."
Apparently the emperor, hearing of my condition, hastened to grant a posthumous title.
"Ah, it's all empty honors…" I muttered.
This time I didn't hear the system chime—so that line probably wouldn't trigger any sarcasm credit for the male lead.
Still, there was a twinge of regret.
I could barely make out his muffled cries at my ear, as if blaming himself. Finally I remembered when the original wife died—right after he'd become chief counselor, when power sat heavy on his shoulders. It must have been fate.
"It's not your fault… it's just… time," I whispered.
Ethan Hale, skilled in medicine, must have known I was beyond help. He pressed my growingly cold hand to his cheek, sobbing, "My lady, scold me again."
"You rascal…"
"Sounds so sweet—anything you say sounds sweet to me."
In the original novel he never shed a tear, but now he wept like a lost child. Droplets fell on my forehead, my neck, my cheek—hot enough that I squeezed my eyes shut.
He, who had never had a choice, was always the pitiable one.
Someone who'd never been shown kindness couldn't tell love from harm. Even the smallest warmth could send him flying headfirst into the flames. Honestly, I hadn't been saintly—at best I'd stopped other people's cruelty when they were falling—but he repaid me a thousandfold, a hundredfold.
After I was gone, none of them cared; only he seemed crushed. He forced his eyelids open and murmured, "You… you must become someone above base appetites, someone useful to the state and society. Do you understand?"
"Ethan understands."
"When the people curse you, they curse me. Don't let my spirit be restless."
"Ethan understands."
There was nothing left to entrust. I had just closed my eyes when he whispered, "I'll go with you."
No—absolutely not!
In a flash of clarity I snapped, "Do you remember I have unfinished wishes?"
He shut his eyes without answering, tears streaking down.
"When I'm dead, you must fulfill them for me! If not—if you follow me to the underworld, I'll divorce you from beyond the grave!"
At those words he broke completely. My lifted hand fell away.
"Husband, you must remember…"
Remember to live well.
And remember to forget me.
Day one after Mrs. Bennett's death, Ethan Hale cradled her body, dressed her in the posthumous finery himself, shaded her brows and painted her lips without help. When the make-up was done, she looked alive again. People stood back, whispering, not daring to approach.
Day two, Bennett kin came to demand the body. They claimed the woman had died suspiciously and insisted on burning her to purge the shame, scattering the bones into the canal. Ethan drove them off with a firearm; the family's face was ruined.
Day three, two cousins arrived by order of the head of the Bennett House to offer Ethan a new wife. Both were stunning—arguably more so than Mrs. Bennett—but Ethan spat at them, "Pearls from a fish's eye—how dare you aim to outshine the stars?"
Day four: he did not leave the house.
Day five: he did not leave the house.
Day six: he did not leave the house.
Rumors spread that at temples like the Violet Cloud Nunnery and the Sky Splendor Shrine the chief counselor had been seen with unkempt hair and bare feet, raving and asking about ways to resurrect the dead. Those who spread such tales were arrested by Westmore city guards as sowers of chaos.
Day seven, the emperor sent a handwritten edict to the counselor's household: It had been reported that the counselor mourned day and night, wailing himself to death. Such deep sorrow threatens one's lifespan; how could the people be at peace? Bury Lady Bennett soon so her spirit might rest and the realm be stable.
On the eighth day, Ethan picked a maple grove and personally buried his late wife. He wept into the soil, lamenting her with a grieving eulogy: "My dearest, I would keep faith with you until death. To grow old together under heaven I could not achieve. I recall our midnight talks, our mutual care that brightened my life. I never believed in ghosts—now I wish there were. I cannot leave you; I pray to meet you in dreams always. O woe: under the earth, when you hear my cries, answer with yours."
Every word bled sorrow; when he looked at others he could not bear their gaze.
Ten years—life and death span without reckoning; even when one tries not to dwell, it clings.
Licorice candy had long since gone bland. Merchants shaped licorice into salty-fish forms; these blue-green sticks became a characteristic snack of the south.
When a child demanded candy, the mother tugged him away, "That's salted-fish candy—if you eat it you'll turn into a salted fish."
I glanced up and saw a man nearby in a hood, pale and thin as a ghost, staring at me. A chill ran down my spine.
After the mother and child left, Ethan bought a stick and held it between his fingers, chuckling, "After you died, no one remembered you—but this candy caught on. The ignorant now call you 'salted fish.' You were the only fool who still talked about lofty things like 'establishing a heart for heaven and earth,' 'setting a fate for the people'…"
A cold wind blew; he began to cough harshly, blood flecking his lips.
Back at the mansion, his longtime friend Chief Physician Morgan visited. Seeing him wasted and gray, Morgan hurried to take his pulse. Ethan allowed it and murmured, "I suffered for skin and bone and never felt it. I suffered through cold windows and long study and never felt it. Now she's been gone over ten years and my mouth tastes nothing but bitterness. My grief is a sea without shore. I don't know how to ease it."
The old man checked his pulse; his face changed. "You are ill at the liver—your organs burn. Medicine won't cure this."
Mrs. Morgan stood in the doorway, tears clinging to her lashes. Ethan hadn't remarried in ten years; she had become one of the capital's notable spinsters. "Master Ethan's illness is hard to heal. I'd serve him—be his maid—bring his decoctions—if only—"
Ethan cut her off. "If I make you my servant, where would that leave my wife?"
To avoid suspicion he turned his face away, his gaze colder than ever. "I promised my lady one life and one love. I will keep one wife."
When the Morgans left, Ethan sat at his desk and inhaled the mugwort scent from a sachet under the table. He drew a little sketch: two figures on a swing. He stared at it longingly and then wrote in tiny characters by the drawing: "This person has gone; only this humble room remains. Books and poetry lost; regrets for the world."
Only ten years, and gray had already gathered at his temples. His light was nearly spent; he would soon follow her.
He strove to fulfill her wishes: stabilize the nation, leave wise successors—he gave every ounce of himself to Westmore. Even if he now went to the underworld to find her, he'd have the right to do so.
Sensing that day coming, he opened the window wide and let the cold wind hit his peculiar, fever-tinted face. In his mind he was still that crimson-lotus youth at sunset.
"Xun Nan donated his fortune—millions in coin, thousands of acres—no desire for immortality. He only wishes for another mortal life to reunite with his wife."
In the twenty-seventh year of Yuan, in bitter midwinter, Ethan's chronic cold returned. He lingered on the sickbed and after three months he died.
A great minister of Westmore had fallen.
I had barely opened my eyes when Lily Tanaka's round face hovered inches from mine. I nearly died of fright.
My niece Lily—remember her? She's the inspiration behind my pen name, Yuki Tanaka. She peered at my face slick with sweat. "Auntie, you look like you haven't slept."
"Can you speak like a human?" I snapped, hopping out of bed to dress. "I had a dream. I woke up inside a novel—nearly couldn't escape it."
"What novel?"
"The one where I spent a month arguing with that male-aimed author and roasted his book fifteen thousand times."
"Oh!?"
Lily is a book addict, too. Her eyes lit up. "I know it! That book was just overhauled—the male lead was just rewritten to die. Readers can't access it anymore and they're furious; they're calling the author a hack and the site might get sued to shutdown!"
"No way—it was that crazy?"
Curiosity won. I opened the link on my phone. Sure enough, a 404. Luckily screenshots of the uproar were all over microblogging—longtime readers left scathing comments.
"The male lead commits suicide for a woman? Over a dead wife? Really?"
"I thought with so many supporting women the author was setting up a harem! Is this fraud?"
"I thought it was a son-in-law trope—was expecting the male lead to slay and level up. Turns out he's a coward."
Amid the male readers' scorn, some women fired back.
"When a woman dies for love it's 'true devotion'; when a man dies for love it's 'manly virtue'?
"Killing a wife to 'prove' something? If you're so capable, go castrate yourself!"
I scrolled a while and then tossed my phone behind me. "So what do you want, spit it out."
"Oh—your dad wants you to come home for blind dates."
I lit a cigarette, inhaled, and frowned. "My dad? Since when do I have a dad?"
"Auntie, it's Third Uncle. He called me—said both your younger sisters have been married off. It's your turn."
Me? So I'm leftover stock to warm up someone else's dinner?
"Alright, alright. You can leave now."
Seeing I'd opened my laptop and clearly didn't want to talk, Lily dawdled out.
After a spell of writing the phone rang. A clear male voice asked, "Are you Yuki Tanaka, the writer?"
"Yes."
"Hello. We're a newly launched women's fiction site. We know you have some titles with freelance rights. We'd like to meet and discuss buying some at a good price."
"Okay."
After we hung up I felt lighter. Money still eases everything.
They'd arranged to meet at a new bistro on the Bund. From the terrace you could see all of Pudong's skyline and the row of old international buildings by the river.
I tidied my makeup and wore a pearl-white dress to show respect.
The private room was quiet and the night view gorgeous. But the man across from me wore dark sunglasses, and a young man who looked like an assistant poured tea. It felt off.
Sunglasses indoors—either blind or putting on airs.
In Shanghai it never hurt to make connections, so I got up and greeted him politely before sitting.
"Miss Yuki Tanaka?"
"Ah, that's my pen name."
"So what's your real name?"
"Claire Bennett."
The man slowly repeated my name like tasting it, his brows arching over the black shades. "Claire Bennett."
He turned the name over again in that slow way, then suddenly asked, "What did you think of that son-in-law novel that got taken down a few days ago?"
"Me?" I said. "I read it on my phone."
Silence filled the room and I felt a prickle along my spine.
Why did you have to be mouthy?
Of all times!
The assistant snickered and then smiled to smooth things over. "Shall we proceed with the meeting?"
The man nodded. Before I could ask what the procedure was, he clapped his hands and dozens of staff filed in. Plates and plates of tamagoyaki appeared—more than twenty varieties!
Wait, tamagoyaki with seaweed salad flavor?
I’m a sweets person; I don’t usually do savory. Seeing a savory tamagoyaki for the first time made my heart skip—and thump—a little faster…
As my pulse pounded louder, the man across from me finally spoke, his voice slow: “That book’s author made a lot of money from writing, but he’s full of rage. He was humiliated as a child and turned to humiliating the characters he wrote. We found the angrier he was, the better the book sold.”
“Readers cursed him and devoured his work. Some even sent him razor blades.”
My heart hammered so hard it felt like it might leap out of my throat. His words grew deeper: “Those small humiliations don’t vanish. No matter how successful you become, the shame follows like a shadow—slithering at night, crawling through your bones and organs…”
I couldn’t hold it in any longer; I wiped the cold sweat from my brow. “So… how does this involve me?”
“I drafted the outline for that book.”
He leaned back against the tall chair, hands folded. His long, elegant fingers were knuckled and defined; I found myself staring at the pale veins and faint lines at those joints. He continued, unhurried: “Then, at my suggestion, he did a wholesale revision. It got so bad with reader complaints that the site had to temporarily shut down.”
“That… must’ve cost a fortune?”
“Not really. We run dozens of sites like that.”
Me: …
He didn’t press me when I didn’t speak. Instead he produced a contract and handed it over. “I’m done with that site. I want to start a new reading platform that runs original works and film adaptations simultaneously, and I’d like Miss Tamagoyaki’s help. Don’t worry about traffic—we have thousands of upstream media partners to push readers our way.”
I glanced at the contract; the clause copies looked like agency deals with big platforms. A few were places I’d worked with before. Not a scam.
“You can join as a shareholder and receive equity and dividends, or you can be a star author with long-term chart dominance. We only plan to sign ten ace authors like this.”
“With great terms comes lots of obligations, I assume?”
“One year you only need to deliver two hundred thousand Chinese characters—enough to fulfill the task. The only condition is you write exclusively on our site for ten years. We can give an advance.”
“No offense, I don’t sell myself…”
He clapped once. His assistant opened several huge sealed trunks. When stacks of crisp bills—old-school paper money—were spread out, I couldn’t stop the tears at the corner of my eyes.
“Of course, unless it’s for money.”
Afraid he might change his mind, I signed the contract and, trying to be polite, added, “Ten years feels a little short. I feel bad—really.”
He gave a slight nod. “Reasonable.”
The assistant, reading the tone, adjusted the contract on the computer, printed a new copy, and slid it over. Huh—copyright extended fifty years after death? Or signing the person? Fifty before life is another hundred years… so living or dead, it’s his either way?
I broke into a sweat reading the revised contract. The man in the black shades stood up. “I’ll step out to take a call.”
As if on cue, his return coincided with a call from my white-lily stepmother.
“Claire, your dad arranged a great match, didn’t he? Mr. Hale is very pleased and wants the engagement this week. I already said yes for you—”
I hung up. The man propped his chin with his hand, a small smile lifting his lips. His laugh grew louder and more delighted, which made my spine prickle.
“There’s something funny I want to share,” he said. “Before today, I learned your father has three daughters. Besides you, the two stepsisters also claim to be Miss Tamagoyaki—because they heard I’m searching the whole internet for a girl with that name. They hope to jump in and grab something.”
Me: …what am I supposed to say?
I’d just accidentally signed a contract that looked like selling myself.
“You were obvious when you spoke. The style—your little 15,000-character essay you sent, how you kept messaging me for a month—your perseverance and resolve were impressive.”
He took off the sunglasses welded to his face.
Beneath them was a face that unsettled the heart: cool, indifferent eyes, slightly reddened lids, and two bright vermilion moles that seemed to glow.
“Now I’ve found you.”
[Side story: Family Dinner] Knock, knock, knock.
“Miss Claire Bennett?”
I set the washed fruit on the table and went to the door. “Yes?”
“You have a delivery.”
“Leave it outside.”
“Sorry, ma’am, this one’s too big to leave at the door.”
He was polite and sincere, so I opened it. It was that familiar delivery guy from our neighborhood—he even helpfully unboxed the huge package.
Inside was something exquisitely made and shimmering…
A silver swing? Where on earth did a silver swing come from?
After he left, I stared at it for a while, washed my face with cold water, and when I looked up the mirror reflected two people standing very close behind me.
One face—cool, world-weary, possibly a striking beauty. The other was handsome in a languid, dangerous way. His eyes tilted like ink, the lids stained red, and the same pair of dazzling vermilion moles drew the eye.
“Don’t like it?”
A long, cool hand settled on my waist. I froze, my spine locking like a kitten grabbed by the scruff.
“When the wind blows it swings and shakes. It’s fun.”
Could you not grin at me like that when you call it fun…? He seemed to sense my embarrassment; his gaze darkened. He grabbed me and pulled me into the bedroom.
“How long does Mr. Hale plan to stay with me?”
“Forever.”
He mimicked how I’d said things before, flopped down like a lazy fish. His long limbs nearly overflowed the tiny 5-foot bed. “I like your bed. Two people snug together are so warm.”
Me: …
Bro, don’t do that.
He yanked me onto him so hard I toppled against his chest. Our eyes met. His lips were dewy and close—poppy-red, kissed by dew—so tempting that the whole world felt sweet: breath, scent, touch, kiss…
My phone buzzed in my pocket. The caller ID—my white-lily stepmother.
A few curt words and I hung up.
“Who was that?”
He toyed with my hair, a hand brushing my shoulder now and then, watching me with a quiet pressure in his gaze.
“My stepmother. She heard you were here and invited you to dinner.”
“How does she know where I am?”
“Women have great noses.”
Seriously, if a diamond bachelor like Mr. Hale fell into my lap, my stepmom would be frantic—she probably hired someone to shadow me all day.
At dusk, Mr. Hale’s assistant came to fetch us. A flashy red Bugatti nearly blinded me.
I thought silently: flashy car, flashier human.
“What did you say?”
“I said the car has the same vibe as him.”
“Mwah~~~”
Since my parents' divorce I hadn’t been back home in about ten years. My dad had met me maybe two or three times. He hadn’t improved—once loud about ‘true love conquers all,’ now all a little defeated. In the ostentatious gold-and-marble living room sat my father, my two half-sisters—Claire Jinghao and Claire Jingshu—and at the head of the table, my stepmother smiled saccharine.
At a prospective in-law meeting, other moms would gush: “You’re my daughter’s first boyfriend!” My stepmother instead said, “Our Claire’s always been popular—out of all the boys she brought home, Mr. Hale is the best.”
As she finished, someone at the table pinched the loose flesh at my waist so hard I nearly swore. “Aah—easy, easy!”
White-lily’s words were all poison. I hollered for help inwardly and clarified quickly: “I did bring guys home, but they were losers!”
“Huh?”
That rare “huh” told me he didn’t like it. I leaned close to his ear and whispered, “I only chatted with a couple. My two sisters secretly added them on WeChat and turned them down within days.”
He gave me a meaning look. “Don’t worry. This time it won’t fail.”
We hadn’t eaten much when the two sisters started up a duet routine, yammering non-stop from both sides.
“Is it true sister’s been making a living writing books?” Claire Jinghao asked.
“I don’t know if she can even afford meat after paying rent…” Claire Jingshu sniffed.
“If it’s really hard, you can move back home. Your husband can also live with us. Wouldn’t that be nice? The whole family together?”
Oh, is that a cue for me to play along?
I smiled modestly. “No, I did okay. In five years I earned two properties.”
Claire Jinghao: … Claire Jingshu: … One strike!
My stepmother jumped in, playing the benevolent matriarch. “That must’ve been so hard for you.”
Oh, come on. Do you think I’ll let you off that easy?
“No big deal. I get up at noon, write two hours, then shop and eat. Then back to bed. Very comfortable.”
Double strike!
My fake-mother’s hand trembled and knocked over wine—spilling it across the table.
My dad hurried to smooth things over. “Why would a girl need so much money? She’ll get married someday…”
Oh, eager now, are we?
I shot him a look of sympathetic condescension. “Heard your company’s heading toward bankruptcy? Look at that receding hairline—midlife crisis, huh?”
Triple strike!
The veneer of that perfect family began to crack. Mr. Hale cleared his throat beside me. “If your father needs help, I can—”
Before he finished, I pinched his thigh hard enough to force a strained expression.
“…speed up the process.”
My father’s raised brow fell—delicious. I was elated. All the humiliation from my parents’ divorce and my stepmother’s scheming burst out today. One word: satisfying.
Overflowing with glee I couldn’t contain, I pulled the handsome man down and kissed him hard.
From across the table someone muttered under their breath, "Shameless."
It was my sister-in-law’s younger sister, Jenna Moore, who always loved stealing my thunder with the brother-in-law. Her makeup looked overdone today, so I kindly warned her, "Before you pick a fight with me, you might want to check your lipstick shade."
She froze, then ran off in tears.
The atmosphere at the table grew even more awkward. Across from us, Grace Bennett slipped away halfway through the meal to quietly change colors.
The dinner ended quietly, each honored guest carrying a different mood.
As we were leaving, Jenna tried the old "let’s swap WeChat" routine again. "Brother-in-law, can we exchange WeChat? It’d be nice to hang out with you sometimes!"
But this time her target was Ethan Hale.
"I don't have WeChat."
"Huh?"
She faltered, and under her mother's encouraging look, forced out, "What about your phone number?"
"I don't have a phone either. But if you need something, you can contact my assistant—though he gets a lot of calls, so you might not get through."
With that, he pulled a stack of business cards from his bag and politely handed one to each person.
The Bennetts: …We left the Bennett House and only once we were back in the carriage did I finally relax.
Ethan stretched out his arm and let me rest my head on his shoulder. His tone held a hint of surprise. "I really thought you were a slacker, but you make a lot of money."
"I had a few books adapted early on, and back when the Westmore market was better, I bought two small condos with staggered mortgages."
"Little rich lady—guess I'll be living off you from now on," he teased.
He said it shyly, burying his face briefly against my chest.
"Hey, there're people in front—"
"No one~~~~"
Of course, in the miserly capitalist's eyes, commuting office drones weren't even human.
That thought hit me with a sudden pang of melancholy.
In that other life, we'd been entwined for years, tried almost every position. The novelty was long gone. Next would have been marriage, kids, sleeping in separate rooms, midlife crises, emotional distance.
For a moment I felt oddly wistful.
"By the way, Ethan, don't you think we're out of surprises with each other?" I asked.
He lifted his head; his eyes were slightly wet. "No."
"Yes."
I gave him a pitiful look, my eyes glossy with tears. "Unless we change our environment. Ideally a luxury duplex with an open-air pool, a fifty-square-foot walk-in closet, and a bed so sturdy you could tumble ten times and never fall off."
He went quiet, thinking. "An open-air pool? That's one of your hobbies?"
"Is that not allowed?"
"I don't have an outdoor pool. Only an indoor one."
"That'll do. I'm not picky."
"Shall we go tonight?"
"Sure!"
"Ethan, as long as you always stand by me, you'll be my good partner."
"My good husband," he corrected.
"Right, good husband."
"The wavy line?"
"Good husband~~~~"
"Kiss~~~"
In the dark, the scarlet Bugatti shot forward like an arrow released, racing down the wide avenue.
The road ahead was clear; the long night was finally drawing to a close.
– The End –
□ Zern
