In the room, Yijiu Feng helped Man Cen pack her things. Normally, someone as lazy as Yijiu would never volunteer for chores—but exceptions exist.

Simply put, Man Cen was just *that* good.

Yijiu glanced at the afternoon tea on the table and happily patted her little belly.

Man “the Cook” Cen had utterly conquered her stomach. Not just main meals—Man was a master of desserts and baking. With the promise of premium afternoon tea for good behavior, Yijiu’s motivation soared.

Call it “food-powered motivation”—work feels effortless when your stomach’s happy. Or less politely: a carrot dangling right before your eyes, impossibly tempting.

The only thing Yijiu almost wanted to complain about? Man’s obsession with dairy and papaya. They appeared constantly on the menu. Only Man’s incredible skill kept them from becoming tiresome.

But facts spoke louder: Man understood Yijiu’s stomach better than Yijiu herself.

“Mango fresh milk pudding today,” Yijiu murmured, mouth watering.

“Meow~” A fluffy orange rear shot forward. Little Orange’s tail nearly swiped Yijiu’s face as his chubby cheeks pressed against the pudding container, peering through the lid with pure longing.

True, ever since the cat fully embraced the name “Little Orange,” he’d channeled all his grief into appetite. His figure steadily evolved toward “the heavier the orange, the better.” Lately, Yijiu even considered shortening it to just “Orange.”

Though honestly, credit might go to Man Cen, the “professional breeder.” Glancing at Man pondering tomorrow’s menu, Yijiu admitted—even *she’d* gained five pounds.

Thankfully, the weight settled evenly. Previously slender, she now looked healthier, cheeks rosier.

Old man Feng Mingdong, inspecting his “pure and tender cabbage”—ahem, *pseudo-pig*—was so pleased he raised Man’s salary, making her the family’s full-time doctor.

If Yijiu had any dissatisfaction, it was herself.

Not the food—she adored it. What gnawed at her: she was… *developing*.

A betrayal from her own body. Her chest now held a subtle curve; those two little “cuties” protruded unmistakably. Man no longer reminded her to wear a camisole—without one, the “points” were painfully obvious.

Worst of all… why were they so *sensitive*? Sighing, Yijiu prayed the changes would stop here.

Sure, she’d always liked girls—but she wanted access, not ownership.

“What’s wrong? So gloomy?” Man chuckled, emerging from the kitchen. “Nervous about school tomorrow?”

“Kind of,” Yijiu mumbled evasively. Her gaze drifted up Man’s apron, lingering a heartbeat too long on those “melons.” She shuddered imagining her own chest matching that scale.

“Relax,” Man said, ruffling Yijiu’s hair. “You wore boys’ clothes for a walk before—no one noticed.”

“Mm.” Yijiu’s reply was barely audible.

…

Splash… Warm water cascaded from the showerhead, steam curling through the bathroom.

Yijiu’s fingers brushed a small bud on her chest. Baring cute little fangs, she muttered in an adorably fierce tone, “You stop right here. Understood?”

Stepping out, she faced the mirror. Stripped of pretense, the girl reflected—skin flushed pink from the shower, utterly delicate—held zero trace of boyhood.

Weeks of rest had softened her lean muscles. Arms felt plush, like gummy candy. Her silhouette curved gently below the ribs, forming a soft waistline. Pinching the soft flesh there, she wondered why those five pounds hadn’t filled the dip.

Her fair, pink-tinged feet were perfectly sized. Legs? Just right—not sickly thin like “compass legs,” nor thick like elephant or radish legs. Simply elegant.

The mirror held a natural-born beauty.

So why was her ideal type… *herself*?

Regret surged. If only she hadn’t messed around and finished her novel… Even transmigrating as Feng Yiqiu, *she* would’ve been the little sister—a stunning beauty to admire, even if untouchable.

She wiped the foggy mirror, then gently pressed the “little bun” on the reflection’s chest.

Icy glass.

Reluctantly pulling back, she hesitated—then rested her palm on her own chest. Cool hand, warm soft skin beneath.

She rubbed lightly. A strange flutter stirred.

*Wait… this is my body!* Guiltily withdrawing her hand, she froze. *Did I… feel something?*

But logically—any guy would react to such a flawless form. *Proof!* Mentally, she was still male!

*Long live the male spirit!* Joy erupted. Shame vanished. She stood straight, wiped the mirror again.

“If I treat myself… is that ‘internal circulation’?” she mused. “A little treat for my ‘little brother’ down there?”

Hands tucked under her arms, she gently pushed inward. Skin folded softly, creating a subtle lift—as if whispering: *squeeze hard enough, and something appears*. Time… or…

A warm trickle seeped from her nose.

Self-indulgence halted. Tissue stuffed, head tilted back.

Perhaps this *was* the universal “sorrow of manhood.”