Junwei lasted exactly twelve seconds in the Lotus Pavilion before noping right out of there.
The moment he'd stepped through those ornate doors and seen Prince Wei Qing's absolutely devastating face, his brain had gone into full panic mode. This wasn't just any random historical setting this was definitely, 100%, without a doubt the same Prince Wei Qing from that trash otome game. Which meant he was Shen Moli, the disposable concubine scheduled to die horribly in approximately 72 hours.
Nope. Nu-uh. Not today, death flags.
He'd done what any reasonable person would do when faced with their own imminent fictional demise. He bowed quickly, mumbled something about feeling unwell, and retreated faster than his roommate running from student loan officers.
Now, back in his ridiculously fancy room, Junwei was having what could generously be called a strategic planning session but was really just pacing in circles while having a mild breakdown.
"Okay, think." He muttered, nervously rubbing his hands. "In every transmigration story, the key to survival is changing the original plot. Don't follow the script, don't hit the death flags, and definitely don't give the main characters any reason to notice you exist."
It was a solid plan. Foolproof, even.
Which was probably exactly why the universe decided to mess with him immediately.
Knock knock knock.
"Young Master Shen?" Mei's voice came through the door, but it sounded... weird. Higher pitched. More frantic than before. "Young Master, are you quite alright?"
"I'm fine!" He called back, maybe a little too loudly. "Just, uh, resting!"
Silence. Then whispered voices outside his door. Multiple voices.
That can't be good.
More knocking, this time more urgent. "Young Master Shen, please, we must see you!"
Junwei sighed and opened the door to find not just Mei, but three other servants huddled there, all looking like someone had just told them the world was ending.
"What's wrong?" He asked, genuinely confused.
"Young Master." Mei said, folding her hands anxiously. "You left the morning gathering so suddenly, barely touched your evening meal yesterday, and now you say you're ill…"
"I didn't say I was ill, I said I was—"
"We're worried you might be seriously unwell!" another servant blurted out. "What if it's the wasting sickness? What if it's consumption? What if—"
"What if it's WHAT now?" Junwei cut in, his voice shooting up to a pitch that probably scared small animals nearby.
The servants exchanged terrified looks.
"Young Master." Mei said carefully, "perhaps we should summon the Imperial Doctor?"
"NO!" Junwei said immediately, because if there was one thing he'd learned from reading terrible novels, it was that getting medical attention in ancient times was usually worse than whatever was wrong with you in the first place. "I mean... no, that's not necessary. I'm just tired."
But it was too late. The servants had already set off some kind of palace emergency protocol, because within minutes, Junwei's room was filling up with people.
First came more servants. Then a serious looking lady in elaborate robes apparently the harem supervisor. Next, several concubines who'd clearly come to watch the unfolding drama. And finally, like the final boss of Junwei's rapidly worsening morning, an elderly man in grand medical robes appeared, carrying a bag that probably contained medieval torture devices disguised as medical instruments.
"Imperial Doctor Zhang." The e harem supervisor announced formally. "Young Master Shen Moli appears to be suffering from a sudden decline in health."
Junwei wanted nothing more than to crawl under his expensive silk blankets and pretend none of this was happening.
Doctor Zhang approached with the confidence of someone who'd probably diagnosed everything from demonic possession to chronic drama queen syndrome. He was ancient, with a long white beard and eyes sharp enough to make Junwei uncomfortable.
"Young Master Shen." The doctor said, settling beside the bed. "I hear you've been refusing food and avoiding your duties. May I examine you?"
"I'm really fine." Junwei protested weakly, but the doctor was already doing… doctor things. Checking his pulse, inspecting his tongue, and asking him to say "ah" while peering into his throat like he was searching for the secrets of the universe.
"Hmm." Doctor Zhang murmured thoughtfully. "Very interesting."
Interesting is not what you want to hear from a medical professional in ancient times.
"Your pulse is steady, your color is good, your breathing is clear…" Doctor Zhang continued, stroking his long white beard thoughtfully. "Yet you show clear signs of fatigue, loss of appetite, and withdrawal from social activities."
Junwei blinked at him. Maybe because I have no idea what the hell I'm doing here? he muttered under his breath.
"Ah!" The doctor's eyes suddenly lit up like he'd just solved the mystery of life itself. "Of course! Young Master Shen, you are suffering from melancholy."
"Melancholy? I'm suffering from what now?"
"Melancholy." Doctor Zhang repeated, clearly pleased with his diagnosis. "It is a condition of the refined spirit, often affecting those of artistic temperament and sensitive nature. The soul becomes overwhelmed by the weight of existence, leading to withdrawal from worldly pleasures."
Junwei stared at him like he'd grown a second beard. "So… you're telling me I'm just… sad?"
Not merely sad, Young Master. You suffer from a deep melancholy that affects only the most thoughtful and introspective individuals. It's quite fashionable among scholars and poets."
"Fashionable." Junwei repeated softly, feeling the absurdity of it all.
"Indeed! I've been seeing more cases lately. Just last month, I treated Lord Chen's third son for the same condition. And the Minister of Culture's nephew. A condition much spoken of among scholars."
Oh no. Oh no no no. This quack just turned my social anxiety into a designer disease.
The harem supervisor looked impressed. "How should we treat Young Master Shen's... melancholy?"
"Gentle care, peaceful surroundings, perhaps some creative activities to soothe his troubled spirit." Doctor Zhang prescribed with the confidence of someone who'd probably never experienced actual depression. "No pressure to perform his usual duties until his delicate constitution recovers."
Wait—did this medieval fraud just excuse me from concubine obligations by diagnosing me as too deep and intellectual?
"Of course." The doctor continued, "Young Master Shen should be monitored carefully. Melancholy can be… inspiring for artistic souls. I wouldn't be surprised if this leads to important new ideas in his creative work."
The other concubines in the room started whispering among themselves, and Junwei caught fragments like "so mysterious," "creative personality," and "no wonder he seems different."
Different? How different? How much has this body's behavior changed since I got here?
"I prescribe rest, contemplation, and gentle exercise of your mental powers," Doctor Zhang announced, packing up his medical bag with the satisfaction of someone who'd just solved world hunger. "Perhaps some poetry, or philosophy text."
"Poetry." Junwei repeated weakly.
"Yes! Exercise that wonderful thoughtful mind of yours, Young Master. I suspect you'll create works full of richness and meaning."
After what felt like seventeen hours but was probably twenty minutes, everyone finally filed out of his room, leaving him alone with his thoughts—and his apparently fashionable mental health diagnosis.
Junwei flopped back onto his silk pillows and stared at the ceiling.
"Well." He said to no one in particular. "That went about as well as expected."
His plan to avoid attention had lasted exactly one morning before a medieval doctor accidentally turned him into the palace's newest trendy intellectual. At this rate, he'd be dead—not from the original plot—but from the sheer stress of trying to live up to his reputation as a deep, artistic soul.
Maybe I should've just eaten the damn breakfast.
From outside his window, he could hear servants chattering excitedly about "Young Master Shen's melancholy" and how "romantic and mysterious" it was.
Junwei closed his eyes and silently prayed to any deity listening that tomorrow would be less ridiculous.