Tinkle… tinkle…
The wind chimes’ ethereal chime drifted in gentle waves, disturbing his peaceful slumber.
Morning sunlight bathed his face in a warm, cozy glow.
Mo Xuan groggily opened his eyes, his vision spinning upside down. It took a moment for clarity to return. Blinking with dull, lifeless eyes, he scanned his surroundings in confusion.
Outside the window, lush greenery flourished. A towering locust tree stood verdant and full.
Wait—this place… A shiver shot through him. Instinctively, he jerked backward.
The chair beneath him wobbled, then tipped. Flailing his arms, he yelped and crashed to the floor—chair and all.
Pain flared in his backside. Grimacing, he cursed while struggling upright. Only then did Mo Xuan take in the room.
A simple space: bed, desk, wardrobe—compact but tidy. Anime and movie posters lined the walls. A dusty basketball sat in the corner.
The window stood wide open, books haphazardly stacked on the sill. Leaning closer, Mo Xuan blinked. Thick Huanggang practice test books.
“What the hell?” he muttered, utterly bewildered.
Suddenly remembering, he frantically patted his stomach and throat. Intact. His racing heart slowly stilled.
Fragments of memory surfaced: Yun Jiumo, bloodstained and smiling, slitting his throat—then embracing him tightly, vowing never to part.
“Am I… reborn?” Mo Xuan froze. A plot straight from fiction, happening to him? A wave of sheer absurdity washed over him.
He bolted into the living room.
Everything matched his memory: the modest, slightly shabby space stood empty. The secondhand sofa leaned against the wall. A street-market rug lay under the coffee table. Fresh fruit filled a bowl, peanuts scattered nearby.
The kitchen door hung ajar. The bathroom lay dim.
His gaze drifted to the wall calendar. He stepped closer, breath held.
A twitch tugged his eye. He kept date records—and this confirmed it. First day of senior year at Qingyuan High.
“Oh my god—” He stumbled back, hands flying to his cheeks. *Really reborn!*
A full-length mirror stood nearby. He looked. A vibrant youth stared back—around 180 cm, sturdy from years of training, jet-black tousled hair, healthy tan. Sharp features. Bright eyes that seemed to hold a constant, cheerful glint.
Mo Xuan knew this face. He brushed aside his bangs. A faint scar traced his hairline.
Even rebirth couldn’t erase the scar from age ten.
Memories before that were hazy—only a severe accident, doctors fighting to save him. Afterward, gaps. Blurry faces. Fragmented moments.
He ran a hand along the wall, heart swelling.
This apartment was bought before his parents’ bankruptcy. He recalled wealth, business-owner parents, life as a pampered son. That comfort ended after elementary school. Their business collapsed—capital gone. His mother vanished to Europe. His father fled to Southeast Asia. Before leaving, they used their last savings to buy this worn apartment and leave funds for his education. Then… gone.
From middle school onward, he lived here alone—until meeting Yun Jiumo, marrying her, moving out.
He felt little toward them now. Memory loss blurred their faces, their past. Honestly? He didn’t care. Living solo had its peace.
As rebirth’s shock faded, Mo Xuan breathed deep and assessed.
Yun Jiumo. Shen Bingyao. Shen Bingjing.
This was heaven’s mercy—a chance to rewrite tragedy.
Last life: Shen Bingyao’s suicide. Shen Bingjing left utterly alone. Yun Jiumo drugging him, clinging to a twisted “forever.” He’d known nothing. An accident sealed their joint end.
Do nothing now? History would repeat: he’d chase Yun Jiumo. Shen Bingyao, heartbroken, would act rashly—be gravely hurt by Yun Jiumo—then leap from a mental hospital rooftop. And he? Likely another victim of her obsession.
A violent shudder racked him.
“No way. Absolutely not.” Heaven pitied his suffering and granted this rebirth. How could he waste it?
*Change the ending. Must change it.*
Arms crossed, brow furrowed, he paced the living room.
Where to start? Still a senior at Qingyuan High. School awaited. Yun Jiumo—his classmate—would be there. What then?
Just picturing his wife’s beautiful face made him gulp.
Not desire. Pure trauma.
In high school, Yun Jiumo was the model student: quiet, diligent, solving problems without a hint of malice. Yet that very calmness unnerved him now. What terrifying patience hid beneath?
He faintly recalled her wedding-night confession: three years of silent scheming to draw him in. After their intimate moment, exhausted in bed, she’d chattered excitedly, poking his cheek with a finger, eyes sparkling with a hunter’s triumphant glee.
Back then, he’d felt lucky. “Even a trap,” he’d thought, “I’d jump in for her.”
Now? He saw his foolishness.
So… what now? Keep distance?
Mo Xuan fell silent.
Deep down, he still liked her. Just not her methods. If she could change… she’d be genuinely lovely.
Could he help her become less obsessive? Less dangerous?
Lost in thought, he stepped onto the balcony for fresh air.
The apartment faced the street—no elevator, external stairs. Like neighbors, he kept potted flowers here too.
Perfect weather. Brilliant blue sky. September’s breeze carried sweet floral scents against his skin.
He gazed at the familiar, bustling street below. Mind drifting.
“Huh? Mo Xuan?”
A light voice from the right snapped him alert.
He turned. On the neighboring balcony stood a pretty girl with a curvaceous figure. Pale cyan spaghetti-strap nightgown. Damp, freshly washed curls gleaming. A top hung from her hand, ready to dry. Her wide, round eyes were fixed on him.
