For a few hours, Cassandra Feng decided to do anything to wake up to reality.

Like banging her head, pinching herself, slapping herself, pouring the cold water over her head. And with a heavy mind realized that she was already dead. Or her original body was already dead. Only her soul or consciousness remained and now she was inhabiting the body of a girl who died after being drowned by her step siblings.

Through the strange flood of memories that weren't hers, she realized with mounting disbelief who these people were. The Boltons-rulers of the underworld, their name whispered like a curse in the Rowan Empire. A clan of villains who fed on blood and fear, cloaked in elegance but rotting with cruelty. And she... she had reincarnated into the body of their weak and bullied youngest miss.

Her breath caught In her throat. Did she... turn into an evil ghost? After dying so wretchedly, did her soul crawl into the body of a stranger?

The thought was absurd. Insane. Completely unscientific. Yet here she was, alive inside a body that was not hers, surrounded by memories that tasted of smoke, blood, and crime.

Cassandra Feng's mind reeled. I escaped one dungeon only to wake up in hell itself.

Her chest tightened, the bitterness suffocating. Even death offered her no release. What kind of twisted fate was this? What rotten luck chained her to misery across lives?

Rage, grief, and disbelief coiled in her chest until her delicate new frame shook. Her beautiful borrowed face distorted into something almost feral as her aura turned sharp and bloodthirsty, vengeful enough to chill the air.

A raw scream tore out of her throat as she hurled her fist at the marble floor. The sound cracked like thunder. A thin spider-web fissure appeared beneath her knuckles... yet the ground held firm.

She froze, staring.

What the hell?!

In her old body, that punch would have shattered stone like glass. But here-barely a scratch.

Cold realization struck like lightning.

This wasn't her body. Not her strength. Not her qi. There wasn't even a flicker of energy flowing through her veins.

"No..." she whispered, trembling, horror widening her eyes.

She had gone from being a tempered blade, a great cultivator unmatched among her peers to now a commoner- to a fragile porcelain egg that could crack at the slightest touch.

The indignation clawed through her veins, setting her blood alight. How could she, Cassandra Feng, once feared across continents, now be forced to crawl in such a weak, powerless shell?

Her fists clenched, nails digging into her palms as a violent rage rose within her. She wanted to tear this cursed fate apart, to smash someone's smug face into the floor that dared defy her strength.

But all she could do was seethe. Seethe, and resign herself to the cruel irony of being alive-yet stripped of everything that once made her formidable.

She had not escaped death. She had been sentenced to a worse fate.

Cassandra Feng realized with urgency that she was now in the body of the weak, bullied and helpless Cassandra Bolton, and if she wanted to survive in this strange new world, she would have to wear that mask convincingly.

Unfortunately, Cassandra Bolton was not just anyone. She was the infamous youngest daughter of House Bolton-grounded, despised, and loathed by none other than her own mother. And watched by many eyes.

She was no longer Cassandra Feng. She has become Cassandra Bolton.

First Madame Karmilla Visent Bolton, the mighty and dignified first wife of Ragnos Renatus Bolton, held the household in an iron grip. Her word was law, and her presence could silence even the most ruthless underworld killers. To the outside world, she was the untouchable queen of House Bolton. To Cassandra Bolton, she was a towering shadow that pressed down with suffocating authority.

But instead of warmth or protection, First Madame reserved for her daughter only disdain and disgust. Her unconditional love was poured into her son-the Eldest Young Master-leaving Cassandra as little more than a shameful burden in her eyes.

And shame was exactly what had ignited her fury this time. Cassandra Bolton had gone to fight the Ninth Young Miss, Jessica Bolton, daughter of Third Madame-her mother's most bitter rival-and not only lost but been beaten and tossed into a pond like a stray dog. The humiliation cut deeper than the bruises, and for Karmilla, her daughter's disgrace was intolerable.

Now locked away in confinement, Cassandra sat on the bed, her face pale but her mind racing. The words of the guard echoed in her ears:

"...until the Eldest Young Master returns..."

Her stomach sank. The Eldest Young Master-her so-called brother, the only person tied to her by blood. From Cassandra Bolton's inherited memories, she knew him well enough to shiver. He was a cruel, heartless man who carried the authority of House Bolton as easily as one carried a dagger. He never spared his only sister a glance, let alone kindness. To him, she was just an embarrassment that even his mother disdained.

"When will my villainous big brother return?" Cassandra murmured with a heavy sigh, irritation pooling in her chest.

Two days passed by since Cassandra Feng awoke inside the frail body of Cassandra Bolton. She had sworn-sworn with blood and fury-to lock away her past, to bury the betrayal, the heartbreak, the unforgettable cruelty of her Master who had shattered her dantian and her life with one merciless strike. She told herself it was nothing but a nightmare, a phantom stitched from pain, one she would never drag into this new existence.

A past she would forget and erase as she started her new life given by fate.

But forgetting was a lie she told herself.

Every moment, every breath reminded her of what she had lost. The way her weak fists trembled when she clenched them, the helplessness of her fragile body, the fever simmering through her veins-it all pulled her mind back to what she once was: a blade sharpened by blood and discipline, not this pitiful porcelain doll in a viper's nest.

Living in the Bolton House was no different from being caged in a pit of serpents and wild beasts. One wrong move, one careless glance, and fangs would sink into her throat.

And still... she could not forget.

The man whom she gave her heart and soul to.

The man who put an end to her life with his own hands.

It had been two days since she was locked inside her room without food, or water. Her body burned with fever, her lips cracked, and her stomach twisted with hunger. She could only drink the water from the sink in the bathroom to quench her parched and burning throat.

Not even a servant came to check. From Cassandra Bolton's inherited memories, this neglect was nothing new-her mother, Karmilla Visent Bolton, loathed her very existence, reserving all her love for her precious son.

The fever grew worse. Her body shook with chills though fire coursed beneath her skin. She tried to drag herself to the window, but her limbs were lead, her vision spinning.

Never, not even when hunted by assassins or abandoned in blood-soaked battlefields, had she been reduced to this wretched state. Not after her Master rescued her and brought her back to the Sect with him.

And then, the thought slipped from her hazy mind-Master would never have let her...

Her heart clenched. Her lips bled as she bit down hard. No. She would not think of him. She would not think of the betrayal.

That life was dead.

They don't owe each other anything anymore.

She was Cassandra Bolton now.

And yet, no matter how fiercely she tried to lock it away, her memories clawed at her like chains dragging her deeper into despair.

Her fevered thoughts were broken by the sudden slam of her door.

The sound echoed like thunder in her skull.

Footsteps. Slow, deliberate, heavy with intent, closing in on her bed.

Her instincts screamed danger. Her body tried to rise, but it betrayed her-too weak, too frail, too broken to defend itself.

She could only weakly slip her hands underneath her pillow and clutch the dagger hidden underneath to protect herself.

The room seemed to grow darker, colder, shadows stretching unnaturally across the walls. Cassandra's blurry gaze fixed on the advancing figure, a silhouette swallowing the dim light.

The footsteps halted by her bedside. Cassandra's fever-clouded eyes struggled to focus, and when her vision steadied, she froze.

It was him.

Theodore Bolton.

Eldest son of House Bolton.

The undisputed Crown Prince of the long standing Bolton dynasty.

The Blood Prince of the underworld.

Her villainous big brother.

From Cassandra Bolton's inherited memories, he was a man of shadows-cruel, ruthless, untouchable. He had never spared his only sister more than a glance in their seventeen years of blood-bound relation. A stranger in the skin of family.

But now, as his gaze fell upon her burning, shivering figure, something shifted in the air.

Theodore Bolton's eyes, icy blue, cold and sharp as honed steel, lingered too long on her face-on the beads of sweat rolling down her temples, on the lips bitten bloody in defiance. His jaw tightened as though he were holding back words-or perhaps an emotion-that had no place here.

It was not pity. It was not care. It was something far more complex, far more dangerous.

A flicker of disdain crossed his expression, gone so quickly it might have been imagined. And yet beneath it lay a strange undercurrent... almost like recognition.

But recognition of what?

His fingers twitched at his side, as if suppressing the urge to reach out-to strangle her or to steady her, even he seemed uncertain.

Among the countless siblings born from his father's four wives, the frail figure lying fever-stricken before him was the only one who shared his 'blood' in full-their bond tied by the 'same mother'. And yet, even that truth had never stirred much warmth in him.

But, that also turned to be one of his mother's secret. And why she despise her only daughter.

Oh, Mother. I really am your son, Theodore Bolton mused as he looked down upon his so called little sister.

With an eleven years age gap between them, he never even glance twice at this weak creature called his sister.

He remembered, dimly, a scene from four years ago. A fourteen-year-old girl, small and trembling, half-hidden behind a bush as though the world itself was too much for her. She had watched him as he prepared to board the waiting chopper for his mission.

Her wide eyes had been a confusing mix of fear, awe, and desperate longing. He hadn't turned back then. He hadn't even slowed his step. That yearning gaze-her silent plea for him to acknowledge her-was something he had brushed aside without a second thought.

And now, four years later, he had returned to find her nearly drowned by the bastard child of the Third Wife, then locked away to rot in her fever by the hand of their own mother.

After effortlessly disposing of the guards stationed outside, Theodore entered her room. The girl before him was no longer the child hiding behind bushes, but a fragile young maiden with long, tangled hair fanned across her pillow like seaweed drifting in the tide. Her lips were bitten and bruised, her face flushed with fever, her body burning and shivering as if life itself was slipping away.

To Theodore Bolton, she was a responsibility-an obligation born from blood, not affection.

That was all. Or so he told himself before he discovered his mother's secret when he was on a mission this time. The reason he returned earlier than he originally intended.

The sleeping girl stirred bringing Theodore Bolton out of his deep thoughts. Her lashes fluttered weakly, her feverish gaze blurred as it sought him out. And with the faintest breath, she whispered, "Big brother..."

Her voice was fragile, but it clung to him.

The words hung in the silence, trembling yet piercing, and something inside Theodore snapped.

His eyes widened-just slightly, but enough to shatter the polished mask he always wore. For an instant, raw shock cracked across his face, like a blade of lightning across a midnight sky. His breath caught, his pupils constricted, and in that heartbeat he looked less like the untouchable heir of House Bolton and more like a man dragged back into a memory he could not escape.

But then it was gone.

The mask slammed back into place, colder than before, his expression carved into steel. Yet that single, fleeting break had already betrayed him.

Theodore Bolton's gaze turned sharp, too sharp, as if her words had clawed into his chest and left something bleeding. He loathed weakness, but the way her voice clung to him-like a ghost whispering from the grave-unsettled him more than her fevered state ever could.

He leaned closer, his shadow falling over her frail body, his voice a low hiss that brushed her ear with venom and something she couldn't name.

"You should not be alive."

The words dripped like poison, yet behind them trembled an emotion he had buried so deep it frightened even him.

And then, as if fleeing his own weakness, Theodore Bolton turned sharply, his steps retreating into the dark, leaving Cassandra with nothing but her racing heartbeat and the unbearable weight of his gaze that still lingered, even in his absence.

When Cassandra Bolton stirred awake, the first thing she felt was the cool press of a damp cloth against her fevered skin. Relief seeped into her burning body, and she instinctively leaned into the sensation, savoring the fleeting comfort. Slowly, her lashes fluttered open-and froze, her breath caught in her throat.

Sitting casually by her bedside, one long leg crossed over the other, was a man whose beauty seemed carved from the heavens themselves. Blond hair caught the sunlight like threads of molten gold, falling in slightly tousled waves that only added to the maddening perfection of his face. His eyes-icy blue, piercing and cold-regarded her with an unreadable expression, the way a predator might study its prey before deciding whether to pounce.

He was tall even while seated, his broad shoulders draped in a simple black coat that contrasted sharply with the pale, almost ethereal glow of his skin. Everything about him screamed refinement and power... and something darker beneath the surface.

Cassandra froze, her heart skipping a beat as if the air itself had thinned around him. This was Theodore Bolton-her infamous elder brother. The one whose name was spoken in hushed tones, a man both revered and feared.

Fear and anxiety gripped her.

Their eyes met for the first time.

His lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile, though it held no warmth.

"So," he said softly, his voice deep and smooth yet edged with something dangerous, "the little sister finally wakes."