By September, the heat still clung stubbornly to the air.

In Minghai City’s old district, a bedroom sat on the 21st floor of an apartment building tucked inside a quiet residential complex.

The room was simply furnished. The only standout detail? Light blue wood-grain wallpaper covering all four walls—applied with such care that not a single seam showed, every wood pattern perfectly aligned.

Untidy from neglect, the space still felt forgivably boyish.

So why did I say “*former*” boy’s room?

Simple. It wasn’t his anymore.

The air conditioner hummed, sealing the room in a cool pocket worlds away from the sweltering outdoors. In the corner, a large bed held a quilt kicked messily aside. Shu Yuxin sat motionless at its center, staring blankly at the mirror embedded in the wardrobe wall facing the foot of the bed.

The glass reflected a girl.

Pajamas slightly too loose draped her frame. Silky black hair tumbled over slender shoulders. Her face held nearly every classic trait of East Asian beauty. Bare-faced like this? With just a touch of makeup, she could step straight into a campus romance drama as the female lead—at the very least, her features had already scored a perfect ten. Soft contours and that vacant expression made her look like a high school freshman.

Don’t be fooled. Our heroine was nineteen. And that “innocent” look? Not innocence. She was just spacing out.

Why was she staring like this? The story began a year ago.

Back then, she wasn’t *her* yet. She—well, *he*—was Shu Yumo. The Shu family’s only child, doted on for over a decade. His father indulged his every whim, hoping the boy would grow into someone remarkable.

They say six out of ten kids raised like this turn out poorly—and that’s being generous. But young Master Shu defied the odds. Cheerful, sociable, free of vices like smoking, drinking, fighting, or dyeing his hair. The textbook “kid every parent wishes they had”—except for grades.

Mr. Shu couldn’t have been prouder. He gave his son remarkable freedom. Even during senior year, when Shu Yumo snuck out nightly after study sessions to surf the web, his father turned a blind eye.

Life was ordinary—until the third month of his final high school semester. A hospital diagnosis: terminal illness. Doctors gave him less than two years.

The news struck like a bolt from the blue. Mr. and Mrs. Shu scrambled desperately for treatments, traveling far and wide. At their lowest, they went three days without eating. Just as collapse loomed, hope appeared.

A medical research institute approached them, claiming they could cure their son. Desperate and grasping at straws, the Shus handed over their life savings without hesitation. In return: a spot in an experimental trial.

Yes—Shu Yumo would undergo a medical experiment. Using genetic material from relatives and advanced cultivation tech, they’d grow a new body. Then transfer his consciousness—or soul, or *something*—into it. The specifics? Beyond them. But one thing was clear: this was no simple brain transplant.

The institute raved about revolutionizing medicine. They spouted technical jargon—I won’t repeat it; you wouldn’t get it. Honestly? I don’t either.

Before proceeding, the lead researcher warned them: high failure rate. Seven terminally ill patients before Shu Yumo had fallen into permanent slumber on the operating table.

After deep thought, the couple agreed.

During prep, Shu Yumo asked his father what would happen if it failed. Mr. Shu didn’t hesitate: “What choice? Even with empty pockets, we could still buy two bottles of pesticide.”

Luckily, the experiment succeeded—otherwise, this story wouldn’t exist. The institute celebrated, but one success wasn’t proof. More trials were needed. Our protagonist? No longer involved.

Back to him. The life-saving procedure began five months ago. For four of those months, while the backup body cultivated, Shu Yumo had nothing to do. He later called it the most comfortable stretch of his short life. Boredom even drove him to take the national college entrance exam. Shockingly, despite missing nearly all of senior year, he snagged admission to a second-tier university. Mr. Shu was overjoyed.

Ten days ago, the final surgery commenced.

Watching his parents weep uncontrollably and the researchers’ solemn, hero-sendoff expressions, Shu Yumo was certain he was doomed.

Then—fate intervened. Lady Luck and the Goddess of Fate both lifted their skirts for him. The experiment succeeded.

…Though Lady Luck apparently felt she’d overpaid. As her skirt dropped, she kicked the kid.

Just like that—he became she. Shu Yumo became Shu Yuxin.

Rumor said a tiny error flipped the Y chromosome to an X during initial cultivation. Logically, they could’ve restarted. But the researchers hid it. The Shu family only learned the truth after success. Assuming the new body would mirror his original form, they’d never asked to see it. Through a chain of misunderstandings, it was sealed.

Why hide it? Two reasons: one, they thought the girl too beautiful to destroy; two, they never expected success.

*That’s* why the researchers wore such grave faces that day.

Thus, the threads of fate are truly mysterious.

Staring at her reflection, Shu Yuxin finally felt the weight of those words.