All these days Viktor lived as if in a dream, drifting along and just trying to recover. The body he landed in was definitely a girl's. It was hard to determine the age due to her skinniness and short stature. Who knew if this body was fourteen or twenty? Especially when you're talking about an Asian girl—here, appearance depended more on life circumstances than on age. He'd seen his reflection in bronze mirrors a few times—none of them particularly clear—and every time, it was nothing special. Just a girl, plain and simple.
All the more curious, then, why Elder Wen Mi, Lord Baoshu, had bailed her out of the cangue in the town square. Mysterious are the depths... Yet right now, Viktor didn't regret failing to analyze Lord Baoshu's motives, or that he ended up in this body and this place, or even that he caught the eye of young Liling at exactly the wrong moment. What he regretted was spending this week in a kind of daze, without any goals or plans, failing to observe the specifics of social relationships or make any kind of road map for the future. He'd relaxed too much, having gone from the cangue to a place with regular meals and a soft bed—relaxed too much after dying, subconsciously treating this world as some kind of afterlife. A place to rest.
Enough. He had to pull himself together. If he didn't want to get his hide ripped apart by a whip, he'd have to act fast. Analyze.
What did he know? Sometimes servants were whipped behind the stables, on the skinning blocks. Viktor had seen it—servants, heads down, followed Auntie Cho out back to receive their punishment. Usually, it meant one or two lashes. Twenty—the number he'd been sentenced to—was way too much, even for a strong guy, let alone this scrawny body. It was practically a death sentence. That's why Auntie Cho had protested so hard. Scars on the back—who cared, but if Xiao Tai died… Auntie Cho would be in deep trouble for sure. After all, Elder Wen Mi, Lord Baoshu himself, had paid the fine and ordered her to be raised and taught, so he clearly had some plans for her. And now, suddenly, dead from a whipping at the stables? The local mentality wasn't forgiving—not like in Europe—no one cared for "objective circumstances." Was there an order? There was. Was it followed? No? Then someone screwed up, and "there was nothing I could do" was never an excuse. That was why Auntie Cho, a plump woman in her middle years, was so anxious.
At least for now, he and Auntie Cho were on the same side, Viktor thought as he followed her to the stables. After all, he didn't want to be whipped either. That meant it was time to use every bit of negotiation skill he had. His back—and those twenty lashes—were on the line.
He hurried, overtaking Auntie Cho, nearly running though his body still wasn't fully recovered.
"Honorable Weidun!" he called, waving, "What a joy to see you!"
"Huh?" The old man in front—a graying butcher in a leather apron, with a still-sturdy physique and muscles gleaming under sun-darkened skin—turned their way, putting aside his work, a small animal half-skinned in front of him.
"Honorable Weidun! My name's Xiao Tai! I came with Auntie Cho for my lashes!" Viktor said cheerfully. That was important: most people brought to butcher Weidun came sullenly, reluctant, dragging their feet, heads bowed, shoulders slumped, already suffering in anticipation. You couldn't act like that. The old man—local executioner—had seen it all. He subconsciously treated all these servants brought to be whipped like livestock, not equals. In this world, you could even get your own servants executed in a great house; any way you liked as long as it wasn't the Thousand Cuts—that was reserved for Imperial Executioners only. The title "Executioner" for Old Man Weidun was no joke. And an executioner couldn't see his "clients" as people—there had to be a barrier. Some servants were just meat, to be whipped or hung by the ribs if ordered. There was himself and a few "elites"—like Auntie Cho or Master Cook Ling—who formed a kind of inner circle. Maybe, though, Weidun had no close group. Maybe he was simply alone.
But that wasn't the issue. The key was to stand out from the usual crowd of servants brought for punishment. To show that this wasn't just another ordinary case—one more back to whip.
Normally, those awaiting lashes kept their eyes down, heads lowered, backs hunched. With a profession like his, Weidun had a guaranteed social distance, and probably suffered from it, even if he'd never admit it. Conclusion? He needed contrast—a different tactic. Act totally unlike the others. And what could be more different than a cheerful greeting and open admission that she had come for her whipping? The innocence and candor of a young girl.
"What?" Old Man Weidun wiped sweat from his brow with an arm and set his knife aside. "Lashes? Lady Cho?"
"That's right," Auntie Cho sighed. "You heard correctly, Weidun."
"But there's a problem," Viktor said downcast. There was no point pretending—he wasn't some innocent little girl and couldn't play coy, but that was fine; such a serious tone from a girl like this sounded half-comic anyway—that was part of his strategy.
"What problem now?" the butcher-executioner said, scowling as he wiped his hands on a rag. Viktor's eyes fell on the "whip" hanging nearby under the shed—more like a full-on battle lash than a whip. With one of those, you could take a snake's head clean off if you knew how to use the tip! The kinetic impact at the very end could split skin on contact. Viktor exhaled. Now was not the time for fear. It was time for negotiations. He'd already accomplished the first critical step: he stood out. In Weidun's eyes, unlike the endless rows of whipped backs, Viktor had become an individual, a subject that one could actually talk to. Negotiations could only happen between subjects—not between a human and an object. That was step one—an incredibly important one. Without it, you're just meat.
Second, he'd not only established himself as a subject but as an equal, too. There were now two clear statements: they'd come for Xiao Tai's whipping, and they had a problem. Viktor had gotten both out before Auntie Cho, meaning he was already established as a subject in the conversation. If he'd kept quiet and let Auntie Cho do all the talking, as custom dictated, the butcher would have barely noticed the young girl at all—no more than the cries of the others he flogged.
"There is a problem," Auntie Cho echoed, and Viktor relaxed a little. The most important foundation was set. Auntie Cho would confirm his words—putting him, for this moment, on the same level as both of them. For a minute, there were no major-domos, executioners, and servant victims—just three equals, talking.
He quickly assessed the scene, searching for more data. When you're already a subject in negotiations and talking as equals, the next step is consensus. Ideally, he should have collected more data earlier, but oh well, he'd make do. What did he see? Butcher Weidun: about fifty or sixty, a commoner, no "youth cultivation" for eternal health here. The work area: a shed with a big wooden chopping block, a table with knives, hooks, the nearly-skinned carcass of a goat. The whip on the wall—made him uneasy just to look at it. The skin was cleanly removed, no extra cuts, and Weidun's hands were clean. He preferred order. He wore his leather apron on bare skin—after all, it was summer, but this was a puritan place where even an ankle showing beneath a dress could cause a scandal, yet here was a shirtless old man. His muscles stood out against his bronzed, tanned skin, and he was clearly proud of them. He liked order—perhaps complimented by flattery. It was worth a try...
"You have impressive muscles, Honorable Weidun!" the words tumbled out, cutting off Auntie Cho and making an awkward pause. The elders went silent; Auntie Cho looked poised to scold him for speaking out of turn, but...
"Ahem," Family Executioner Weidun said, stroking his thick beard. "What was that, girl?"
"Such muscles! I'd like to have muscles like that, too," Viktor confessed, sincerely. When you want to connect with someone and say something nice, you have to mean it. And in this scrawny female body, such muscles truly were absent.
"Well, it's not easy, girl," Weidun replied slowly, smoothing his beard. "I've always been this way. Lots of manual labor, and I ate meat. Plenty of it. Doubt you'll get the same."
"A shame," Viktor said, shaking his head. "It's unfair, Honorable Weidun. Some people get muscles and beards, and some get neither."
"Oh, you want a beard, too?" Weidun squinted at him. "You trying to talk your way out of the whipping, young missy?"
"No," Viktor shook his head. "If it's supposed to be twenty lashes, then it's twenty lashes. It's not out of malice you'll beat me—it's your job, right? And a job's a job. Order must be maintained." He used exactly the words Weidun himself would have said, tying Viktor to the post and swinging his whip. Nothing personal, just the job. And above all, order—something Weidun clearly valued in his tidy workspace.
"Is that so!" the butcher-executioner nodded. "Can't say I've ever heard sense like that from one so young. Hope you don't change your mind after—"
"Twenty lashes," Viktor supplied, watching the old man's face shift—just a little. If anyone knew what twenty lashes meant, it was this man.
"And, you say, without leaving any marks?" he asked Auntie Cho, who sighed and spread her hands. Auntie Cho was great in many ways—conscientious, tidy, remembered everything and everyone, kept track of all the names and all the tasks. Almost the perfect manager. But her major flaw: she hesitated to make decisions herself. Taking orders—no problem. Making a choice—she froze. She spoke little, always worried. That worked to Viktor's advantage: it left him in charge of the conversation. The old man had to talk to Viktor now.
"That's right," Viktor agreed, spreading his hands. "If it was just a matter of giving lashes, we wouldn't bother you, Honorable Weidun. If only there were Imperial Executioners here..."
"And what have they got to do with it?" the old man grumbled, pride stung. He prided himself on his work, on doing everything "right." That's why he never held back when whipping. He took satisfaction in both his grand, bristly gray beard, thick black leather apron, and bare, muscled chest. He liked to show off—and so was vulnerable to praise. He did not like anyone doubting his skill.
"I heard some of those masters can whip so skillfully, with full strength, that they couldn't even harm a fly. Or the opposite—break a back in one stroke," Viktor said, sighing dramatically.
"How could that be?" the old man muttered. "It's still a whip. You'd kill the fly, no matter how."
At that moment, Viktor caught Auntie Cho's eye—a careful, searching glance, as if she was only just truly seeing him for the first time. She filled her lungs to speak. Would she support him, or not?
"I've heard the same," Auntie Cho said. "That some masters can whip so hard it looks like skin and blood are flying, but the person just gets up and walks away. Or, if they want, they can hit so the skin stays whole, but the bones break."
"What nonsense you all are talking," Weidun grumbled. "I always whipped with full strength. Always have, always will. That's my duty as Wen Mi's family executioner."
"And it must be done," Viktor jumped in, "because order must be kept, right?"
"Exactly!"
"So there's nothing to think about," he continued. "Where should I stand to get my hands tied? And do I have to undress, or—?"
"Wait, hold on—" Weidun held out his hand. "Don't rush, young goat. There's time for your whipping. Lady Cho, could you repeat exactly what Elder Lord Baoshu told you, and what young Lady Liling said?"
Auntie Cho began to recount, and inside Viktor rejoiced. The intermediate goals were achieved—no one thought this strange girl was trying to escape punishment; all anyone was concerned about was complying with conflicting orders. And here, care was needed—not to look too eager to avoid punishment (even though that was Viktor's main goal), but also not to allow the discussion to devolve into a simplistic "the little people don't matter—if they say 'whip,' we whip; if they say 'leave her alone,' then after the whipping she'll be left alone." Most importantly, it needed to sound like Old Weidun had the idea himself, not anyone else's suggestion. There were many options: twenty lashes—there was no instruction to do it at full power. He could just tap with the whip. If striking a real blow was needed, he could whip with full force through a blanket—twenty times. Strictly speaking, that fulfilled the order, though in practice it was a mockery. If someone found out, there'd be trouble. A compromise: lash through several layers of cotton, painful but leaving no marks.
He had relaxed too soon when he left the cangue. This world was not quite so sunny and welcoming as it first seemed. For a young girl of the lower class, there was nowhere to go. The lesson was simple: don't stay in place. He'd have to grow—get strong, get rich, get powerful—otherwise, they'd just keep whipping him at the stables, and once he got past skinny and developed a figure, he'd be used, too. No one talked about that openly, but he wasn't blind. To the highborn, servants barely counted as people at all. So—enough drifting. It was time to take control.
"So?" he asked. "Will we get on with the whipping or not?"
"Wait, you impatient thing! Can't you see we're thinking here…"