Mushiyu spent the entire day in the carriage, utterly bored. She lay on the bed for three hours, sat by its edge for two, paced around the small table over twenty times, and stood blankly for another two… all completely naked. It felt like stepping back into primitive times.

*Even at home, I’ve never been this careless!* Mushiyu thought, nearly tearing her hair out.

Truth was, she couldn’t afford to be careless back home. Living as a guest at Uncle Luo’s place meant constant restraint. Now, finally free of all rules—it should’ve been a rare, precious moment.

*Yeah, right.*

*Let me out! I need air! This carriage is suffocating!*

Desperate for distraction, she’d occasionally ask Melissara—who dropped in now and then—for books. The answer was always no. Worse, the elf loved teasing her while maintaining an icy, expressionless mask, as if silently declaring, *"You’re just a pillow with no rights."* It was maddening!

Mushiyu swallowed her bitterness. Fighting back was pointless—she’d lose anyway. This was their territory; as a stranger, she had to endure it. Suddenly, she sympathized deeply with migrant workers back in her world: leaving home, toiling endlessly for heartless bosses, struggling to survive on withheld wages.

With a sigh, she murmured, "Fellow wanderers in this cruel world…"

She popped another grape—or something very like one—into her mouth. *Well, I’ll call it a grape.*

Reaching for more fruit, her gaze snagged on her own arm. She froze. Holding it up, the phrase *"skin like fresh cream"* flashed in her mind—a poetic exaggeration, she’d always thought. No one’s skin could be *that* perfect. Yet here it was, real as the arm before her: smooth, luminous, impossibly flawless.

*…*

Mushiyu swore she wasn’t being vain.

Her skin had always been good—no fancy creams, just natural care. Even Aunt Luo had praised it. But *this*? This was unreal. She knew her body well: fair yellow-toned skin, not this… milk-white silk that looked almost edible.

*Edible?* She shook her head sharply, banishing the weird thought.

Her skin *was* far more delicate now. Pale blue veins traced faintly beneath translucent skin. She pinched her arm lightly.

"Ow!"

A purple mark bloomed instantly where she’d pinched.

*This tender?* She wasn’t some pampered noble—she rarely skipped PE, even jogged kilometers with Luo Ke’er sometimes. A light pinch shouldn’t bruise like this.

Standing, she examined herself head to toe. Everything felt alien. Not just the skin—her waist was slimmer, hips narrower, chest… smaller. Tears welled up. *Why is this happening to me? Waaah…*

*Wait.* Was she… shorter too?

Rumors said transmigration came in two types: soul-transfer or body-transfer. Had her soul landed in someone else’s body?

Nausea twisted her stomach. She loved her original body. Using another’s felt like handling secondhand goods—utterly unacceptable for someone with her slight germophobia.

*A mirror. Is there a mirror here?*

She searched frantically. No mirror. Water in the flask was too murky to reflect.

Wrapping herself tightly in a blanket, she tiptoed to the door and tapped softly. "Hello? Anyone there?"

The door opened swiftly. Loran stepped in, closing it behind her.

"What is it?"

"Do you have a mirror?" Mushiyu asked.

"A mirror?" Loran frowned.

"Just say if you have one." Mushiyu didn’t have the patience to explain.

Loran’s brow furrowed deeper. *What an attitude.*

"No."

*Like hell you don’t!* Mushiyu seethed inwardly. These elves looked immaculate after days of travel—they *had* to have one. Otherwise, they’d look like cavemen!

Normally, she’d match Loran’s rudeness. But desperate to confirm if she was in a borrowed body, she forced herself to soften.

Sighing, she looked down, twisting the blanket’s edge. Cheeks flushing, she peeked up at Loran through her lashes and mumbled, "I… I’m sorry for my tone earlier. But I really, *really* need a mirror. Just for a moment. Please?"

To Mushiyu’s shock, Loran didn’t reply. She simply turned and strode out, slamming the door hard enough to make Mushiyu jump.

Standing frozen, Mushiyu finally exploded. She flung herself onto the bed, pounding the boards. "Damn it, Loran! Stupid, arrogant Loran! Who do you think you are?! Aaargh! I hate you!!"

Outside, Loran pressed a hand to her racing heart. Her breath came fast and uneven. An unfamiliar flush stained her usually stern cheeks. Hearing Mushiyu’s furious shouts, she nearly turned back to explain—*I’m fetching a mirror. I was just… flustered.*

*What’s wrong with me?*

As Captain of the Elven Forest Guard, Loran had seen far more of the world than even Elven King Melissara. Years of handling crises had hardened her calm. If Melissara’s stillness came from detachment, Loran’s came from having witnessed too much to be surprised. Yet now… a human slave’s shy, girlish gesture had unraveled her completely.

*This isn’t right.*

Something was off, but she couldn’t think straight. The sounds from the carriage tangled her thoughts, sparking restless irritation.

*Just get the mirror.* Jaw set, Loran quickened her pace toward the human carriages.