Six days later...
Late Night, Osmanthus Courtyard
The moon was high and cold, casting silver shadows through the latticed windows. Everyone in the estate had long since retired. Only the distant call of a night bird broke the silence.
Inside the dimly lit study, Shen Yuhan sat cross-legged on the wooden floor, a single oil lamp burning beside her. Her long hair was tied back, her robes plain, and her eyes calm. She had dragged the rug aside to feel the grounding of wood beneath her palms.
The first step—breathing.
Not the shallow, demure breaths of a noble girl raised in silk and rules, but the kind of breath that started in the gut and filled the body like a river flowing into every meridian.
Inhale.
Her chest lifted faintly. She felt a dull ache—her diaphragm had weakened. Her body lacked the discipline to even hold in a full breath for long.
Exhale.
Slow. Steady. Again.
This won't do.
She shifted position, pressing two fingers lightly against the pulse point of her wrist. Weak. Untrained. This body had never even run more than a few steps before collapsing into a servant's arms.
It was almost laughable.
And yet—it was hers now.
She laid out her nightly schedule with precision. Every evening, after Ming'er went to sleep, she would wake again. Light stretches, deep breathing, tendon work. Slowly rebuild her balance, her spine, her posture. It wouldn't be enough for martial arts—not yet—but it would make infiltration and speed possible again.
She began to move through a simple set of flowing motions.
Raise the arms. Twist the spine. Shift the weight. Balance.
By the third motion, a bead of sweat rolled down her brow. Her limbs ached as though iron had been poured into her bones. Her breath came ragged.
She did not stop.
Instead, she adjusted. Slower. Smaller movements. Every angle memorized. Every joint aligned. She couldn't afford injury. Not now.
An hour passed.
The lamp dimmed. Her knees were sore. Her body trembled. But her eyes—those remained steady.
You've crawled through broken glass and fire in your past life. You won't lose to your own body now.
At last, she sank into a seated posture again, holding it with shaking arms. A cool wind drifted through the half-open window, carrying with it the faint fragrance of osmanthus blossoms.
Ming'er's voice stirred faintly from the outer room.
"Miss...?"
Shen Yuhan immediately blew out the lamp. Like a ghost, she moved to the bed and lay down, covering herself with the quilt just as Ming'er peeked in through the curtain.
Seeing her mistress seemingly asleep, Ming'er mumbled sleepily and returned to her mat.
In the dark, Shen Yuhan let out a long, quiet breath.
Day six... complete.
Day Seven
Morning – Osmanthus Courtyard
The first light of dawn filtered through the bamboo blinds, casting a pale golden sheen across the study table. Ming'er stepped in with a tray of warm porridge and pickled vegetables, only to pause mid-step.
Her young miss was already seated at the desk, a stack of old ledgers open before her, brush in hand. The ink was still fresh.
"Miss, you woke early again," Ming'er said softly.
Shen Yuhan didn't look up. Her fingers moved with care, copying a particular section from the ledger into a thin notebook she had created from scraps. "Earlier than usual. The breathing exercises cleared my mind faster than expected."
Ming'er blinked. "You… you look better today."
She wasn't lying. Though her frame was still slender, there was a faint flush to her cheeks, and her posture had subtly shifted—less fragile, more controlled. There was purpose in the way she sat, the way she breathed.
"I'm regaining control of this body," Shen Yuhan said plainly. "Slowly, but steadily. What I need now is focus."
She gestured for Ming'er to set down the tray and brought forward another stack of records—servant rosters, household expenses, lists of missing items over the years.
"Your task," she said, eyes gleaming with clarity, "is to observe quietly who enters or leaves the inner storage rooms. Especially the ones near Madam Su's wing. Do not get caught. Ask no questions. Just remember faces and times."
Ming'er nodded, solemnly clutching the instructions to heart.
---
Late Night – Osmanthus Courtyard, Day Seven
The moon was partially veiled tonight, casting softer shadows over the training floor.
Shen Yuhan had added a new layer to her regimen—balance on one leg, while controlling the breath and movement of her arms. The pain in her calves bit deep, her core trembled, but her form held for longer than yesterday.
She began incorporating low kicks, flowing like water rather than striking like fire. The key was discipline, not power. Not yet.
Each breath grew stronger. Each movement smoother.
When her body reached its limit, she didn't collapse—she simply returned to seated form and practiced stillness.
"Endurance before action. Foundation before speed."
---
Day Nine
Afternoon – Osmanthus Courtyard
Shen Yuhan poured over a crude map she had sketched of the Shen estate. Her sharp eyes flicked between the notes and the layout.
Ming'er entered with fresh parchment and whispered, "The maidservant named Caiqin was seen moving a red lacquered box from the west storeroom near Madam Su's quarters. She did it quietly, during the kitchen's midday bustle."
Shen Yuhan's eyes narrowed. She added the detail to a side column marked suspicious movements.
"Good," she said softly. "Keep an eye on her. That storeroom hasn't been accessed in over a year, if I recall correctly."
She tapped her brush against her chin. The phoenix hairpin may not have appeared yet, but clearly, something was being prepared.
---
Late Night – Day Nine
Tonight, Shen Yuhan practiced silent movement. No sweeping sleeves. No creaking floorboards. She moved across her courtyard like wind over water. Her footwork was clumsy at first—but it improved.
A minor slip against a stone. A twitch of muscle too soon. But by the time the moon reached its peak, she could cross from the outer wall to her chamber with only the faintest rustle of fabric.
She ended her practice with a quiet smile.
---
Day Ten – Noon
Shen Yuhan sat in the garden, eyes closed beneath the osmanthus tree. To any outsider, she looked idle—perhaps even lazy. But inside her mind, she was replaying the map of the Shen estate, cross-referencing it with the known patterns of the servants.
She was building a mental net. A trap for the past. A path for the future.