Su Che lay in bed, watching the girl sleeping beside him with drowsy eyes.

The sun had already risen. She’d forgotten to draw the curtains again last night, letting sunlight spill in and bathe her youthful, pretty face.

She felt the glare but wasn’t ready to wake. After a slight frown, she turned over and kept sleeping—accidentally pinning Su Che’s arm beneath her.

Finally, she opened her eyes and met his gaze.

"Morning," she said flatly.

"Morning," Su Che replied just as casually.

She didn’t speak again. Shifting her position slightly, she closed her eyes once more. Her breathing evened out as sleep pulled her back under.

Su Che shrugged, freed his arm, and got up to wash.

When he returned from the shower, she was still asleep.

Ignoring her, he dressed, gathered his things, and murmured, "See you next time," before leaving without checking if she’d heard.

Stepping out of the apartment into the morning sun, he breathed in the crisp air laced with a faint sweetness. It was intoxicating.

"Gotta learn to live properly," Su Che sighed softly, watching the flow of traffic. "If I don’t learn now, I’ll end up miserable later."

How to describe his current life? Being kept?

The difference between being kept by one woman or many.

His hand instinctively reached for his pocket. Remembering he’d quit, he found it empty. He looked up at the sky instead, exhaling an imaginary puff of smoke.

The sky hung like a giant blue lid over the world. And this vast world—he had no idea where to go.

"It’s not that I want to be kept," he murmured, gazing up with a melancholy that somehow suited his handsome face. "I just wanted a home."

His brooding didn’t last. A truck suddenly swerved out of control, veering off its lane straight toward him as he stared at the sky.

After spinning seven hundred twenty-five degrees and landing headfirst, Su Che found perfect, eternal peace…

…

He woke to a new world. Before him loomed a stunningly beautiful woman—and two enormous, soft, pale curves.

Everyone spoke an incomprehensible language. Only one word kept repeating from their lips: *Lanche*. The pronunciation felt odd, but it must be his name.

He gurgled and waved his tiny hands, trying to climb those twin peaks. Instead, someone plucked him from the woman’s arms.

A tall, stern nobleman stood nearby. Ignoring his wife’s exhaustion after childbirth, he immediately ordered a ritual prepared.

Lanche blinked his big, innocent eyes as they bustled about. A man who looked like a charlatan priest approached, holding a crystal mirror to his face.

The mirror reflected a chubby baby.

Lanche was busy admiring his own cuteness when a sharp pain shot through his finger. Those sneaky bastards had sliced his tiny fingertip!

He wailed in pain, wide-eyed as they squeezed blood onto the crystal mirror.

*Is this some paternity test?* Lanche thought. *This guy’s paranoid enough for the modern age.*

Just then, the mirror blazed with light—nearly blinding his sapphire-blue eyes.

"WAAAAAH!" Lanche shrieked, flailing wildly in the maid’s arms.

*Magic!* He was certain of it.

He’d transmigrated to a world of magic! That ritual wasn’t a paternity test—it was a talent assessment!

As the mirror’s glow faded, Lanche strained to see. Strange symbols now covered its surface.

Unable to read them, he studied the adults’ faces. Every expression looked like they’d just buried their only son.

The nobleman stared at him with chilling indifference—no warmth for his own child.

Lanche’s tiny heart sank. *This is worse than a paternity scare?*

*Don’t blame me! Everyone’s born from a mother!*

Thankfully, they didn’t drown him on the spot. The nobleman just waved a heavy hand, as if ordering him thrown into a manure pit.

Lanche panicked, wailing louder.

Relief came when the maid carried him to another room and began feeding him. His fear melted away as he drank his fill, then drifted into sleep.

His infancy passed in a blur of milk and naps.

The tall man often watched him with an expressionless face, filling Lanche with dread that he might be drowned any day. The man never held him—not once. The beautiful woman held him a few times, sighing as if nursing a deep loneliness. Worse, she never breastfed him herself.

Amid this complicated household, Lanche slowly learned the language through constant exposure.

Maids loved cuddling him—he never cried and was adorably quiet. Lanche enjoyed being held too: they smelled sweet, and he could grab their chests, making them burst into giggles. Being a baby had its perks; no one minded his antics.

With nothing but eating and sleeping, time blurred. He guessed he was about one year old.

Then a boy ran up, grinning down at him. "Wow! So this is the worthless brat that woman gave birth to?"

"Young Master Wedley—" the maids started to protest.

*Calling my mom ‘that woman’ is rude enough,* Lanche thought, waving his tiny fists indignantly, "Gah! Gah!"

"What? It’s true! Someone with talent levels stuck at 0 or 1—isn’t that worthless?" Wedley scowled, his face a miniature copy of his father’s.

Lanche began to hate him.

"Haha! Worthless! Worthless!" Wedley made a grotesque face, gloating. "My swordsmanship talent is level 3! I’ll be a grand swordsman someday!"

Lanche yawned, giving him a deadpan stare.

When Wedley finally grew bored and left, the torment didn’t end. The brat kept returning to mock him.

Fed up, Lanche would wail until maids carried him away—but that only encouraged Wedley.

Only when an older sister intervened, using her bloodline authority to scold him, did Wedley finally huff away.

This sister—also Lanche’s sister—was gentler. She liked pinching his cheeks and cooing over him.

Lanche realized he had many older brothers and sisters, plus several "mothers." A huge family.

*Openly having multiple wives? I like that,* he thought. *But I’ll never get the chance. My talent’s too trashy.*

He’d absorbed this truth from everyone around him: low talent meant worthlessness. It was simply how things were.

All he could hope for was to grow up handsome—maybe then he could fall back on his *old line of work*.