“Ugh…”
Late at night, when everything outside had gone quiet, a faint groan slipped from the rickety wooden bed.
The cold, pale moonlight squeezed through the little window high up on the wall and spilled over the girl lying there. Her pretty face looked almost ghost‑white under it, and the cut on her forehead was still bleeding, the dark red trickling down and making the whole scene look even more unsettling.
Right outside the doorframe sat two men, both with red armbands pinned to their sleeves.
Their cigarette tips blinked in the dark—bright, dim, bright, dim—and the stale smell drifted inside through the cracks of the door. From time to time, a few muffled words slipped in with the smoke.
Cecilia Whitmore’s head was spinning; her temples throbbed like someone hammering inside her skull. Her eyelids felt weighed down by bricks—no matter how she tried, she couldn’t get them open.
All she could hear was a low buzzing in her ears. Beneath it, a couple of voices were whispering, just loud enough to grate on her nerves. If she had the strength, she’d whip them both into next week.
But her body wouldn’t move at all. And then, out of nowhere, a wave of stabbing pain hit her head, sharp enough to feel like her whole self was being torn apart.
…
“Hey, think this capitalist princess really kicked the bucket? She’s been quiet for way too long.”
“What’re you worrying for? If she’s dead, she’s dead. Doesn’t matter. If she doesn’t die today, once she’s sent off to that northwest farm tomorrow, she’ll be done for anyway.”
The man’s tone was lazy, like none of it had anything to do with him. “Brandon Fletcher, pass me another cig.”
A match scraped. Maxwell Knight took a long drag, then rubbed his fingers absently, replaying in his mind the feel of her skin earlier—smooth like silk.
He clicked his tongue, licking his lips. “Still acting like some fancy young lady even in a dump like this. She needed a lesson.”
A little hardship, then she’d know her place.
He had figured she’d be the type to cry at a shove, easy to push around, maybe cop a little advantage off her without trouble.
Didn’t expect she had a spine. Sweet talk, threats—nothing worked. Instead she fought back, even rammed her head into the wall.
The blood… bright, thick—so red it made their stomachs flip. It scared both of them so bad their legs nearly gave out.
If she really died and the higher‑ups looked into it, they’d be finished.
So the two of them dragged the unconscious girl back onto the bed, wiped away all signs of the scuffle in the room, and slipped out in a panic, pretending nothing had ever happened.
As long as she didn’t die by their hands, a capitalist lady losing her own nerve had nothing to do with them.
"Man, that Whitmore girl is really useless," Brandon Fletcher muttered, curling his lip. "And isn’t her family supposed to be some big medical clan? Look at her—fragile as glass. Touch her and she’s done for. You can’t even get close without worrying she’ll break."
He snorted, then chuckled. "Now the Cole girls, that’s different. Soft, pretty, and they know how to squeal. Just thinking about it makes my legs weak."
Grinning from ear to ear, Brandon flicked away his cigarette butt, leaned back against the wall, folded his arms, and let out a long yawn, his eyes drifting shut.
Maxwell Knight clicked his tongue. The Cole family? Please. Their whole family rose by marrying off women. Knowing how to please men was basically their family trade.
How could they compare to the Whitmores?
The Whitmores were real capitalists; their ancestors had served as imperial physicians for two generations.
Seeing Brandon’s stupid grin widening, Maxwell lifted a boot and kicked him. "Don’t fall asleep. Keep your eyes open."
"I know, boss, I ain’t asleep!" Brandon mumbled, eyes still closed, right on the edge of dozing off.
Maxwell took a few hard drags on his cigarette, then flicked the butt away into a muddy pit nearby. He leaned against the wall as well, folding his arms, letting himself drift off.
The last ember faded into the darkness.
Inside the room.
The woman on the bed suddenly opened her eyes, sharp and clear, fixed on the cracked wooden beams overhead.
Sensing two unfamiliar presences nearby, she lifted her hand on instinct, ready to summon her vines and restrain them.
But in her pale palm, only a faint streak of green light flickered—and vanished in an instant.
"…!!!"
Where’s my ability?
Cecilia Whitmore jerked upright in shock.
She moved too quickly. A wave of dizziness hit her, and the wound on her forehead throbbed sharply.
She lifted a hand to her forehead, and it came away smeared with blood.
Her palm felt sticky, and the mix of metal‑sweet blood, damp mold, and old smoke in the air made her wrinkle her nose.
At least the people outside the door were just regular folks. Once she confirmed that, her nerves loosened a bit, and she finally took a proper look around.
Her gaze drifted across the walls. Splashed all over them in thick red paint were slogans like “Down with capitalist exploitation” and “Sweep away all monsters and demons,” the characters crammed together like someone was afraid they’d run out of space.
Cecilia Whitmore just stared.
Her hand slid beneath her, brushing across the rough straw mat. It was so coarse it felt like needles.
“Hss—”
She pulled her hand back. A thin scratch stretched across her pale finger, courtesy of a single straw barb.
“So fragile?”
Her hands had always been fair, sure, but with her max‑level abilities, her defense was rock solid. Forget a straw mat— even a knife wouldn’t have broken her skin.
That thought made her stomach drop.
This wasn’t her body.
Right— she’d blown herself up.
Blew herself up along with the whole base, during the tenth year of the apocalypse when they were rebuilding the new one. Took everyone straight to the sky.
It happened right after they’d taken down the mutant zombie king. Everyone thought the worst was over.
The base leader didn’t want her, a so‑called space‑type ability user, holding any leverage anymore. So he waved extra supplies as bait and got everyone riled up to attack her.
But none of them knew— she wasn’t a space ability user at all.
Her “space” came from the Whitmore family’s old white jade ring.
She’d awakened it by accident years before the world ended, after a car crash she barely survived.
The space was tied to her spirit—those people wanted to dig out her core and steal her space? Keep dreaming.
The problem was, there were too many ability users in that base. She couldn’t take them all on. Sure, she could slip into her space to catch her breath, but they’d gone and hired some mutated space user from another base. The guy couldn’t pin down her exact location, yet he’d fling space blades everywhere like a lunatic, shaking her whole space every now and then. It drove her up the wall.
And the worst part? The man was also a max-level lightning user.
Cecilia Whitmore had fought him several times and still couldn’t bring him down. So she threw caution to the wind—used her earth and wood abilities to seal off the entire base, buried a bunch of new-type mega bombs underneath, and planned to send everyone off together.
She’d meant to slip into her space at the last second, but something went wrong halfway through, and that lightning maniac chased her down again. Fine, then. If she couldn’t live, nobody would. She dragged him with her and blew the whole place sky-high.
"So… I actually ended up inside someone else’s body?"
Cecilia never imagined that she wouldn’t die. Instead, she popped into a parallel world!
Her mind slowly cleared, and she replayed the voices she’d vaguely heard earlier. A capitalist’s daughter. The Whitmore family. Looked like those messy images that suddenly flooded her head were the original girl’s memories.
That girl had been pampered since childhood, had never seen real trouble. Then came the raid—her whole family gone—and she still got bullied by those red armband kids. She’d been scared out of her wits, her thoughts all jumbled.
No wonder Cecilia first thought those extra fragments were scenes from some novel she’d read before.
She shut her eyes and sorted through the chaotic memories one more time.
Pain stabbed at her in steady waves, like a handful of thin needles pricking all at once.
It took her a long moment before she managed to open her eyes, a faint chill flashing across them.
The girl hadn’t died of fright at all—she’d been driven to death by sheer rage.
Maxwell Knight had told her that the one who set up the whole scheme against the Whitmore family was none other than that ever-so‑loving stepmother of theirs, Sybil Winters—the same woman who used to act like she was part of the family.
As for what exactly Sybil had done, he wasn’t too sure yet.
But he’d said if the girl was willing to stick with him, he’d dig out every detail for her, maybe even help her get even.
She might’ve been timid, but she wasn’t stupid. She was still the Whitmore family’s eldest daughter—she had her pride. Even if she wanted revenge, she would never stoop to something that filthy.
She’d wanted to slam that foul‑mouthed Maxwell Knight against the wall, but her body was too weak, and he’d dodged.
Instead, she’d misjudged her strength and crashed into the wall herself.
Blood poured out right away, and for half a day no one bothered to bandage her.
Drifting in and out of consciousness, she still couldn’t believe it—
the stepmother who once said she’d die for the Whitmore family had turned on them so ruthlessly.
Her father gone, her grandfather gone—one blow after another, each one twisting her heart with grief and hatred.
She couldn’t catch her breath under all that, and just like that, she was gone.
And then Cecilia Whitmore—this Cecilia—arrived.
