Chapter Text
Zhou Mingrui woke up to a horrible headache. As per habit, he reached to his bedside table for his glasses. His hand, instead of reaching a table, hit a soft cushion.
Odd.
His bed was not that big.
Finally prying his eyes open, he was met with a place that was definitely not his room.
Why was he on a four-poster bed…?
The room was huge; certainly not the kind he could afford to live in. Everything was meticulously kept; from the ceiling to the floor, not a speck of dust was visible.
He finally looked down at himself and those were definitely not there when he went to sleep.
He had somehow become a woman in his sleep.
He rushed out of the bed, tripping on his bedsheets and almost falling face first.
He was met with a vanity and the face reflected on the mirror was – unfamiliar.
The person in the mirror had long black hair – a bit messy due to just having woken up. Her lips were pink and curved perfectly. Her face was symmetrical and her greyish-blue eyes seemed tired. She was in a simple dress – sleepwear.
She was certainly beautiful, but she looked exhausted.
Every time Mingrui blinked, the person in the mirror did so as well.
He had read enough novels to recognize the situation immediately. Even as he tried to deny it – the evidence all pointed to the same conclusion.
He had been transmigrated.
But as his luck would have it – he became a woman. A noble woman.
As his mind caught up memories began flooding in.
It was the year 1145.
Claire Lichtenberg – 19 years old. She had her coming of age almost a year ago. She was the daughter of Viscount and Viscountess Lichtenberg, and she had an older brother – heir to the viscounty.
Her family was rather normal – one could even say they were one of the better noble houses. They co-habited under the same roof with no actual warmth, hatred or curiosity. The family only saw each other twice a day – for breakfast and dinner. Lunch was eaten according to the person’s schedule. Rarely, they would see each other at other times.
They lived in the Intis Kingdom.
Claire was allowed freedom to do whatever she wished – as long as the family name was not trifled with. Claire occasionally met up with other noble ladies and even more sparsely met up with a group of people dressed in a way to hide their identity.
Two years ago, through that anonymous group, she had become a beyonder – a seer.
Mingrui quickly learned what a beyonder was through her extensive but rather superficial knowledge of mysticism.
Hence, he could conclude that she had never been presented with the opportunity to advance – she did not even know what the name of the sequence 8 potion is.
Mingrui took in the room he was in –
The room was spacious without being ostentatious. Tall windows occupied one wall, draped in layered curtains - sheer white beneath heavier fabric in muted jewel tones, drawn back with tasselled cords. Daylight filtered in softly.
The bed dominated the space, with carved wooden posts and a half-canopy. The linens were pristine - cream and pale gold - clearly expensive but chosen for comfort rather than spectacle. Several pillows were messily arranged as a result of sleep.
A writing desk sat near the window, angled to catch the light. It was well kept but not decorative for decoration’s sake. Ink bottles were stoppered, papers stacked neatly, a blotter resting where a hand would naturally fall. This was the desk of someone who spent a lot of time writing.
Against another wall stood the vanity with a tall mirror framed in dark wood. Brushes, pins, and perfume bottles were arranged precisely, each item returned to its place after use. A small jewellery box sat open just enough to reveal modest pieces - functional, tasteful, not sentimental.
There were also two chains with Citrine pendulums that were kept alongside the jewellery.
Mingrui recalled that no one knew Claire was a beyonder. She kept them together, so they wouldn’t stand out – hide the leaf in the forest as the saying goes.
The walls were decorated sparingly: a few framed paintings or landscapes, perhaps one portrait done years ago that no longer quite matched the woman who slept here. A bookshelf held a restrained collection - novels deemed appropriate, etiquette manuals, perhaps a volume or two that seemed slightly out of place if one looked closely enough.
A faint, clean scent lingered in the air - soap, pressed fabric, and the ghost of something herbal or floral. Not overpowering. Simply… present.
The herbal scent - assumed to be tea - came from a displaced piece of flooring. That was where she kept her other mysticism items.
Inside her closet was a concealed compartment holding loose cash, a dark cloak, and a full-face mask.
Overall, the room felt controlled. Private, but not intimate. Comfortable, but not indulgent. It was the space of a young noblewoman who had been given freedom - but had learned, early on, not to leave traces of herself too boldly behind.
Mingrui turned away from the mirror – it was weird to look at – almost as if one of those gender changing filters but real.
He paced around the room gathering his last thoughts back from Earth.
He tried a luck enhancement ritual before dinner last night.
He had done so due to his recent streak of bad luck.
Last night, nothing happened.
But now not only had he been transmigrated, but he was also a woman. This was awfully disorienting.
He would have to try it again – it was quite likely that he would get to return.
Hopefully, it would work.
He would either have to pick a time at night to sneak in the kitchen and steal staple food or he could have someone bring it to her without sounding too odd.
∆
A soft knock sounded at the door.
Mingrui froze.
It wasn’t loud. Not urgent. Just polite - expectant. The kind of knock that assumed it would be answered.
“Miss Claire?”
A woman’s voice. Young, but practiced.
Mingrui exhaled slowly, steadying his breath. Panic would solve nothing. He had already confirmed the memories were there. That meant habits were there too.
“Come in,” he said.
The voice that left his mouth was not his.
It was softer. Lighter. A touch husky with sleep. Perfectly natural.
The door opened.
A maid stepped inside – Maya, his brain supplied - dressed in a neat uniform of muted colours. She carried herself with the quiet efficiency of someone used to moving through noble spaces without being noticed. Her eyes flicked briefly to the bed, then to Mingrui standing by the vanity.
No surprise registered on her face.
“Good morning, Miss,” she said, inclining her head. “I hope you rested well.”
So, this was normal. Claire woke late enough to still be in her nightdress when the maid arrived.
“Mm,” Mingrui replied noncommittally, turning slightly away as if embarrassed to be seen like this. The motion came instinctively - memory guiding posture before thought.
Maya didn’t comment. She merely moved toward the curtains, drawing them back a little more to let the morning light in.
“Shall I prepare your bath?” she asked. “Or would you prefer tea first?”
Mingrui’s mind raced. What would Claire choose?
Bath meant being seen. Too dangerous.
Tea bought time.
“Tea,” he said. Then, after a half-second pause, added, “Please.”
The maid nodded, satisfied, as if that answer fit expectations perfectly.
“I’ll have it brought up at once. Breakfast will be served in an hour. The Viscount and Viscountess will be present.”
Of course they would be.
As the maid turned to leave, Mingrui spoke again, carefully casual.
“And… leave the door closed when you return.”
Maya stopped for a fraction of a second - so brief it might have been imagined - before bowing her head.
...Did he mess up, already?
“As you wish, Miss Claire.”
The door shut softly behind her.
Mingrui waited. Counted to ten. Then to twenty.
Only when he was certain he was alone did he let his shoulders relax.
He stared at his reflection again.
A noble lady.
A Seer.
A role with witnesses.
“…This is going to be exhausting,” he muttered.
And somewhere deep in his mind, Claire Lichtenberg’s memories offered no disagreement at all.
...
Stealing the food at night would be easier and arouse less suspicion. He already knew how to do it – Claire was experienced at sneaking out.
∆
The bathroom looked oddly well decorated.
When he saw the toilet – he was reminded that it was only invented a year ago. A year ago!
The guy who invented it was called Roselle Gustav – he had raised his house from a baron household to a viscounty household. His name was heard a lot around Intis, these past two years.
Mingrui was just grateful that toilets actually existed. How weird it would be to be transmigrated to a world without them.
The bath was drawn, steaming, fragrant with herbs Mingrui couldn’t name. He stepped in cautiously, toes first, then the rest of him. His hands trailed along the edge of the tub and the smooth tiles, memorizing the space. Eyes closed, every motion was measured, every step deliberate.
He bit his lips when he shifted weight - muscles unfamiliar, curves in unexpected places, balance off. He cursed silently, just as a loose strand of black hair brushed against his shoulder. Not that it matters, he told himself, eyes closed. Nothing to see.
He let the warm water flow over him, carefully washing, combing fingers through hair, trying to move gracefully. His mind catalogued everything: length of arms, stretch of legs, where the water pooled, the way balance shifted on the tub’s slick floor. Everything is different - but still… under control.
And in the quiet, warm space, he realized with a pang: the body, elegant and delicate, was far more capable than he had expected. Too capable. And I have to act like Claire while using it.
He stepped onto the towel, water dripping faintly from his hair. Eyes still closed, he let the maid guide his arms into the sleeves, adjust the bodice, and lace him in the morning dress.
Every touch was a reminder: this body was not his, the movements were not intuitive, but he had to perform perfectly. He could feel the fabric tug in unexpected ways, the weight of the skirts around his waist, the snugness of the bodice. Each adjustment was a silent negotiation between his instincts and Claire’s memory.
“Hold still, Miss,” Maya instructed softly, methodical, almost automatic.
Mingrui stifled a hiss, stepping lightly as she guided him through each layer. The high collar, the delicate buttons, the gloves - it was all unfamiliar, and yet, he had to move as if it were second nature. Eyes closed. Don’t look. Don’t panic. Don’t -
A faint scent of perfume floated past, and for a moment he flinched, imagining the look on the mirror.
When the last glove was slipped over his hands, he inhaled, steadying himself and finally looked. Fully dressed. Fully in character.
He really hopes he get to go home soon.
∆
The maid stepped back, inspecting her work with a professional eye.
“You are ready, Miss,” she said, bowing slightly. “Breakfast will be served in fifteen minutes.”
Mingrui nodded and moved carefully toward the door. Each step was calculated, skirts swishing, gloves snug, every movement pretending to be effortless.
The hallway stretched before him, polished wood gleaming under the morning light. The faint echo of servants moving in the distance reminded him: he was no longer alone. Every step would be observed. Every gesture judged.
He took a slow breath. This is a noble lady’s life. One wrong motion and I’m…
The maid caught his wrist lightly. “Your fan, Miss,” she said, placing it delicately in his hand.
Mingrui’s fingers closed around it. It felt absurdly heavy in this body, but he held it with practiced elegance. Perfect, he thought. Nothing could go wrong if I just… pretend.
The door opened to the main hall, and immediately, he was greeted by the faint aroma of breakfast - fresh bread, fruit, subtle hints of tea. The Viscount, Viscountess and her brother were seated, distant, polite, perfectly unaware of the tiny internal panic behind Claire’s eyes.
Mingrui swallowed, straightened his back, and stepped forward. Act natural. Act like Claire. Act like you belong here.
And somewhere deep in his mind, he could hear Claire’s memories whispering: they won’t notice either way.
∆
He took his seat with precise grace, letting the fan rest lightly against his skirt, hands folded neatly. The bread was fresh, the fruit perfectly arranged; the tea steamed gently in its delicate cup. Mingrui noted the faint scent of herbs from the teapot - Chamomile? Mint? He didn’t know, but it didn’t matter.
The Viscount cleared his throat. “Good morning, Claire.”
“Good morning, Father,” Mingrui said, his voice soft, even, completely natural.
“Sit properly,” the Viscountess added, eyes briefly flicking to the skirt. Mingrui straightened imperceptibly, feeling the weight of silk shift against him.
No one spoke much after that. The routine was simple: eat, sip tea, glance occasionally at the papers or trays. Mingrui moved each forkful with careful deliberation, eyes tracking nothing in particular but his mind cataloguing everything: hand positions, table spacing, subtle body cues.
A servant placed a small dish beside him, and Mingrui adjusted his posture instantly, suppressing the tiniest wince as the skirt caught on the chair. He kept his face neutral.
Breakfast passed in almost total silence, punctuated only by polite murmurs or the soft clink of silverware. Mingrui’s mind, however, was anything but silent: calculating, observing, memorizing. Even the Viscount’s faintest nod was recorded; the Viscountess’ subtle tilt of her head cataloged. He felt great appreciation for the seer’s enhanced memories.
Finally, the meal ended. Trays were whisked away. The hall returned to its quiet rhythm, and Mingrui exhaled ever so slightly. He had survived the first public test of Claire’s body.