Mu Qingyue turned her face slightly to the side and caught sight of the long, unmistakable scar that cut across her cheek. The moment she saw it, a heavy gloom settled in her heart, as though the mirror had not merely reflected her appearance but had thrust a needle straight into an old wound.
Rebirth was one thing. She could accept being granted another chance—she could even be grateful for it.
But why, of all possible moments, had fate dragged her back to this point in time?
Why return her to the days after disfigurement, to a version of herself already marked, already damaged, already bearing evidence of pain that could not be erased with a simple change of clothes or a sweetened smile?
The scar was not small. It was a cruel line, pale at the edges and still faintly raw in the center, a reminder of how fragile flesh could be and how easily one could be ruined by a single incident. Back then, she had believed it was an accident—an unfortunate slip, a moment of carelessness on a staircase. She had even blamed herself, swallowing the shame and pain in silence, too naïve to question what she did not yet understand.
But now?
Now that she had been granted the strange clarity of a second life, the memory replayed with new meaning.
That stair tread had been loose. She remembered the slight wobble beneath her foot, the way the wood had seemed to give way with a delayed betrayal. And she remembered, too, how Mu Xiaonan had insisted she pass through that corridor, how she had offered a reason that sounded harmless at the time. When Mu Qingyue had crashed down the steps, skin splitting against a sharp edge, she had thought only of her own misfortune.
In hindsight, the truth was chillingly obvious.
A loose stair tread did not happen at random in a house where servants polished every surface until it shone. Something had been tampered with. Someone had arranged it.
Mu Qingyue's fingers tightened around her phone as she checked the date.
September 12, 2016.
So this was it—the day she had been injured, humiliated, and then, in a storm of anger and despair, had run away from the Mu household again. This was the time when her relationship with that family had become even more fractured, when her position there had turned from fragile to nearly impossible.
Mu Xiaonan had always been quick with lies, especially in front of the Mu family. She had spoken in sorrowful tones, painted herself as concerned and helpless, and spread rumors as easily as one scatters seeds. After Mu Qingyue left the house, Xiaonan had claimed she was living with "shady people," consorting with the wrong crowd, doing shameful things that could not be spoken aloud in polite company—stealing, cheating, living in filth and sin.
It was all a performance designed to rot Mu Qingyue's reputation from the inside out.
The truth, however, was far simpler—so simple it made the lies feel even more vile.
Every time Mu Qingyue "ran away," she had only returned to the countryside to see her foster parents. She had gone back to the small village where she had been raised, back to the only people who had ever offered her steady warmth without demanding she earn it. She had never done anything disgraceful. She had only sought comfort in a place that still felt like home.
Mu Qingyue had always remembered the kindness her foster parents had given her. She remembered every bowl of rice porridge when she was sick, every patched-up coat in winter, every callused hand that patted her head and told her to endure. Gratitude, to her, was not a decorative word—it was a debt written into her bones.
Mu Xiaonan, by contrast, had never returned once after her rise.
Once she had become the Mu family's pampered "daughter," she had cut ties with the village as though it were a stain. She draped herself in designer brands from head to toe, carried luxury bags, wore jewelry that glittered like frozen light—yet she had never once sent money back to the villagers who had fed her and sheltered her. She had never once looked back.
The difference between them, Mu Qingyue realized now, was not merely circumstance.
It was character.
Having lived and died once already, Mu Qingyue found herself unusually calm. The anger was still there—coiled deep within her like a sleeping snake—but it no longer exploded at the slightest touch. The old version of herself had been too easily provoked, too quick to lash out or despair, too desperate for approval. That desperation had made her pliable. It had made her easy to manipulate.
This time, she would not be so easily shaken.
She decided that, for now, she would remain in the village. She would stay with her foster parents for a few days, repay their kindness with the simplest form of devotion: presence. She would help around the house. She would cook, clean, work, listen—do the ordinary things that carry quiet meaning. She owed them that much and more.
With that thought settled, she opened the door and stepped outside, intending to go to the backyard and feed the chickens and ducks. The air was damp and fresh, the kind of rural scent that city streets could never reproduce. Her body still felt weak from fever, her limbs heavy, but there was a steadiness in her steps—an intention that had not existed before.
Then, without warning—
A voice rang out inside her mind.
It was not a human voice, not in the usual sense. It sounded childlike—soft and milky, like the babbling of a very young child—yet it carried an uncanny clarity, as if each word were carved in crystal.
"Talent: 98. Fortune: 100. Spiritual affinity: 99. Comprehensive score: 99. Celestial Physician Spatial System—binding confirmed!"
Mu Qingyue froze mid-step.
For a heartbeat she thought the fever had returned, that her mind was drifting again into delirium. But the words were too precise, too structured, too unnatural to be a hallucination born of illness.
Before she could even form a question, a bright white light flashed in front of her eyes.
It was as if the world itself blinked.
And in the next instant, the humble farm courtyard vanished.
Mu Qingyue found herself standing somewhere else entirely—a place so serene, so unreal, that it felt less like a location and more like a dream made solid.
The ground beneath her feet was not dirt, nor wood, nor stone, but a lush carpet of grass—so soft it yielded like velvet. The air was fragrant, filled with the gentle, layered aroma of medicinal herbs: clean bitterness, sweet root, the faint sharpness of dried leaves and resin. Somewhere nearby, water murmured.
She turned slowly, taking in her surroundings.
A small bridge arched over a narrow stream that wound through the landscape like a ribbon. On either side, ponds reflected the sky in quiet pools, and lotus blossoms floated on their surfaces—white and pink petals unfolding with graceful patience. Along the banks, peach trees leaned forward as if offering shade, their branches drooping with leaves and blossoms, some petals drifting down like gentle snowfall.
And in the distance, nestled against the mountains as though it had always belonged there, stood a palace.
Not a gaudy, ostentatious mansion, but something refined and tranquil—an elegant compound of halls and courtyards, its architecture balanced and flowing, like a poem written in wood and stone. Mist curled around the mountain slopes, giving the palace a faintly ethereal outline, as if the entire place hovered somewhere between earth and immortality.
It looked like an earthly paradise—an isolated realm untouched by time.
Mu Qingyue's breath caught.
She walked forward almost unconsciously, drawn toward the palace gates. When she reached them, she lifted her hand, intending to test whether the doors were real—whether they would resist her touch or dissolve like a mirage.
Before her fingertips could land, the gates swung open with a thunderous, effortless sound, as though they had been waiting for her arrival.
The same childlike voice rang out again, bright with pride and delight:
"Welcome to the Celestial Physician Space! From now on, you are Xiaosu's master!"
Mu Qingyue blinked.
"Xiaosu?" she echoed, bewildered.
She lowered her gaze.
Only then did she notice the speaker—because something small was hovering in front of her, bobbing slightly in midair like a lantern in a gentle breeze.
It was a chubby little child, impossibly cute, with round cheeks and shining eyes. Two small braids stuck out from its head, tied neatly, and it wore a bright red bellyband like the plump "immortal children" painted on traditional New Year prints. The most astonishing part was that it did not walk. It floated, feet dangling above the ground, completely unbothered by gravity.
Mu Qingyue stared for a long moment, caught between disbelief and a strange, wary fascination.
Finally, she asked, carefully, "Who… are you? And what is this 'Celestial Physician Space' supposed to be?"
The little figure puffed out its chest, clearly pleased to be addressed. "Didn't I just say it?" it replied in that same milky voice. "I'm called Xiaosu! My name comes from the Huangdi Neijing—the Suwen section. You can think of me as a little book-spirit created to help you study medicine."
"Study medicine?" Mu Qingyue repeated, as if tasting the words.
"Yes!" Xiaosu nodded vigorously, braids bouncing. "This space contains many ancient medical texts—lost manuscripts from remote ages, knowledge that ordinary people can't even comprehend. There are also seeds of spiritual herbs, the kind that can't be grown in normal soil. These things have been waiting for someone destined to inherit them. Because if you're not the right person, you won't be able to learn the techniques, and you won't be able to cultivate the herbs."
Mu Qingyue's mind whirled.
Xiaosu continued, speaking faster now, as though thrilled to explain. "And there's more! Every time your medical mastery levels up, you'll unlock more functions of the space. You'll be able to open more areas, use more tools, and refine more kinds of medicinal pills—alchemy, formulas, elixirs, all of it!"
As the words poured into her, the pieces began to settle into place.
Mu Qingyue understood, at last, what Xiaosu was implying.
She was the "destined one."
The chosen heir to this strange realm.
Strangely, she was not entirely unfamiliar with the concept. In her previous life—before everything shattered—she had loved reading novels. She had devoured story after story of protagonists who carried secret "spatial systems," who cultivated miraculous herbs, unlocked hidden realms, and rose above their enemies with powers that seemed absurd until they became inevitable.
She had never imagined she would become one of them.
Yet here she was, standing in a misty paradise, confronted by a floating child-spirit claiming to be her assistant, her guide, her subordinate.
Xiaosu had mentioned her "fortune value" was a perfect one hundred.
No wonder she had been able to return from death.
But then another thought rose, heavy and bitter, like sediment stirred from the bottom of a river:
If her fortune was truly that high…
Why had her previous life been so wretched?
Why had she been trampled, deceived, discarded, and destroyed so easily—while the one who stole everything had lived like royalty?
Mu Qingyue's gaze hardened slightly, the softness of wonder giving way to a colder, more deliberate intensity.
Perhaps fortune was not something granted freely.
Perhaps it was something that had to be claimed.
And if Heaven had truly offered her a second life—if this Celestial Physician Space had truly bound itself to her—then she would not waste it.
Not again.
Not ever.