A dull ache pulsed behind Sū Wǎntáng's eyes. This unfamiliar body felt like a lead weight, each joint stiff, each muscle protesting. The horror of yesterday—the disfigured reflection, the crushing bulk—still clung to her like a suffocating blanket. She was no longer the lean, agile medical prodigy, her senses sharp, her movements precise. This was a crude prison of flesh, grotesque and sluggish. Weak sunlight, thick with dust motes, struggled to penetrate the grimy windowpane. It cast a sickly, yellowish glow on the room’s meager furnishings: a lumpy mattress sagging onto the floor, a cracked washbasin, and a single, broken chair. Despair, a cold, insidious serpent, coiled in her gut, threatening to squeeze the life out of her renewed existence. But Sū Wǎntáng had stared death in the face and laughed. She had orchestrated her own fiery demise, not out of weakness, but out of a fierce desire for autonomy. She would not let this new, repulsive existence, however daunting, claim her. A cold, unwavering flame ignited in her core. She would endure. She would rebuild. She would, against all odds, rise again. Her spirit, forged in the crucible of betrayal, was unyielding. A harsh, insistent pounding vibrated through the thin door, rattling the cheap wood in its frame. "Rent! Pay up, you ugly sow! Or get out!" The woman's voice, shrill and laced with venom, pierced the fragile quiet of the morning. Sū Wǎntáng flinched, not from fear, but from the sudden assault. Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. That was the landlady, the same woman whose sneer had echoed the disgust Sū Wǎntáng felt for her own reflection just hours ago. "I know you're in there, fatty! Don't pretend to be dead! You owe me two months! If you don't open this door in five minutes, I'm calling the police!" The threat, blunt and immediate, hung heavy in the stale air. Another furious bang punctuated her words, making the entire door frame tremble. Sū Wǎntáng pushed herself up from the mattress, her limbs protesting with a chorus of groans and aches. Every movement was a monumental effort, burdened by the excessive, unfamiliar weight. A wave of nausea washed over her. She hated this weakness. She despised this helplessness. The body was a betrayal. Silence. She remained still, her gaze fixed on the vibrating door. She had no money. Not a single coin. Her previous life's wealth, her family's fortune—all gone, left behind in the flames. Here, in this new, impoverished existence, she was utterly destitute. A snort of pure disgust drifted from the hallway. Heavy footsteps receded, each one imbued with resentment. Then, the distinct, sharp click of a phone being dialed. The clock was ticking. Her time in this meager sanctuary was rapidly running out. She needed a plan. A deep, cavernous rumble echoed from her stomach. It wasn't just the gnawing anxiety of the landlady's threat; it was a primal, ravenous hunger, a desperate demand for sustenance. Her new body, accustomed to a life of excess and indulgence, screamed for food. Her own, original body, had been disciplined, almost ascetic. This foreign, monstrous craving felt alien and terrifying. She clenched her fists, her knuckles white against the pale, pudgy skin. This situation was untenable. Starving would only weaken her, make her prey. She needed to cultivate. She needed to purge the physical and energetic filth that this body had accumulated. This was not just about survival; it was about reclaiming herself. Memories surfaced from her past life, not from the formal medical texts she had mastered, but from ancient, esoteric scrolls she had secretly devoured. Lore about qi cultivation, internal alchemy, the subtle art of harmonizing the body's hidden energies. Her former clan had dismissed such practices as superstitious folklore, but Sū Wǎntáng, ever the seeker of forbidden knowledge, had experimented, quietly and diligently, in the solitude of her private chambers. Her core principles were simple, yet profound: purity and flow. The body was a vessel for life force. Toxins, both physical and energetic, blocked this vital flow, leading to stagnation and decay. The excessive weight, the sluggishness, the disfigurement – these were all manifestations of deep-seated blockages. Settling onto the worn, dusty floor, she crossed her legs, a challenging feat given her current bulk. Her back straightened, a difficult posture to maintain, but her will was absolute. She closed her eyes, shutting out the squalor, the hunger, the looming threat outside her door. Breaths deepened, slow, measured, and rhythmic. She focused inward, envisioning the intricate network of energy pathways, the meridians of the body, as illuminated rivers. Her mind, sharp and disciplined, ignored the burning discomfort in her muscles, the relentless gnawing in her stomach, the dull throb behind her eyes. Minutes bled into an hour. Then two. A faint warmth began to bloom in her lower abdomen, a subtle, persistent hum. It was not the dramatic, explosive inner fire spoken of in legends, but a gentle, undeniable awakening, a spark in the deepest core of her being. She pushed, gently but firmly, at the perceived blockages within her energy channels. She imagined the stagnant, murky energy dissolving, transforming, and then, slowly, exiting the body. Sweat beaded on her forehead, not from physical exertion, but from the profound, subtle internal shifts occurring within her. Three hours passed. The warmth intensified, spreading through her torso, down her limbs. Her muscles quivered, aching with unfamiliar strain. This new body resisted, untrained, unused to such rigorous discipline. But her will, forged in the fires of rebirth, was absolute. She forced it. She would not yield. Finally, she opened her eyes. The room, though still grimy, seemed clearer, the air less oppressive. Her mind felt sharper, less foggy, the chaotic thoughts of earlier now streamlined and focused. A deep, cleansing exhalation escaped her lips, carrying with it a faint, almost imperceptible metallic scent, a sign of the toxins being purged. --- She needed water. Stumbling to the cracked washbasin, she turned the tap. A rusty trickle emerged, cold and uninviting, but she didn’t care. She splashed it on her face, then drank deeply, letting the cool liquid soothe her parched throat, a small victory against the burning thirst. Her reflection stared back at her from the cloudy mirror above the sink. The monstrous disfigurement from yesterday was still evident, but something had undeniably shifted. The puffiness around her eyes had receded, just slightly. The grey, sallow pallor of her skin had lessened, replaced by a faint, almost imperceptible flush of life. The acne, thick and angry, still peppered her face, but a few of the inflamed, angry red spots seemed to have flattened, their vividness dulled. It was a minuscule change, almost imperceptible to anyone else, but to Sū Wǎntáng, it was a profound victory. It was proof. Hope, fragile yet fiercely persistent, flickered within her. This body, this wretched vessel, could be salvaged. She could, with enough effort and discipline, reclaim some semblance of her former self. Stripping off the grimy, oversized clothes she had worn to sleep, she stepped into the tiny, communal shower down the hall. The cold water shocked her skin, making her gasp, but she endured it, welcoming the sharp sting. She scrubbed vigorously, letting the cheap, harsh soap lather away layers of accumulated dirt, dead skin, and the lingering odor of neglect. As the icy water streamed over her, she continued her internal focus, pushing the awakened energy, imagining it cleansing her from the inside out, washing away not just physical grime but energetic impurities. The physical scrubbing helped, but the internal work was paramount. When she emerged, wrapped in a threadbare towel, she felt lighter. Not just physically, though some of the bloat seemed to have diminished, but spiritually, as if a great weight had been lifted from her soul. Her skin, though still scarred and blemished, felt smoother, less rough. The puffiness around her eyes had diminished further, revealing eyes that, though still set in a swollen face, held a new, steely glint of determination. Her stomach, however, was a bottomless pit, growling with renewed ferocity. The intense cultivation session had burned energy, not magically created it. She was ravenous, a primal, insistent need. She had to eat. She had to survive. Survival, in this harsh new world, meant money. Money meant work. Slipping on the least offensive of the ill-fitting clothes she found in the wardrobe – a faded, shapeless dress that smelled faintly of mildew – Sū Wǎntáng stepped out of the dingy apartment building and into the bustling street. The city assaulted her senses. Loud honking of vehicles, the acrid smell of exhaust fumes mingling with the enticing aroma of cheap street food and the pungent odor of damp refuse. This was the Ren Dynasty, a world so vastly different from the quiet, dignified courtyards of her past life, yet brutally familiar in its struggle for existence. People stared. Their gazes were dismissive, sometimes openly scornful, at her sheer bulk, her still-blemished face. She ignored them, her jaw set. Their petty opinions meant nothing. Her focus was singular: food and survival. She walked, her steps slow but infused with an iron determination she hadn't known this body possessed. Pawn shops. Bakeries. Small restaurants. Each storefront seemed to scoff at her silent, desperate plea for employment. Who would hire someone who looked like this, a walking advertisement for destitution? A small restaurant, greasy and bustling, caught her eye. 'Liang's Noodles'. The owner, a portly man with a perpetually sweaty brow and a permanent scowl, was yelling at a young dishwasher, his voice like grinding stone. "Lazy! Get back to work! If you can't handle it, I'll find someone who can! There are plenty of useless people starving on the streets!" Sū Wǎntáng approached, her resolve hardening. "Excuse me," her voice was rough from disuse, but firm, steady. "Are you hiring?" The owner turned, his eyes narrowing as he took in her appearance. A flicker of blatant disgust crossed his face, quickly replaced by a calculating glint, like a shark spotting a wounded fish. "You?" he scoffed, his gaze sweeping over her bulk, lingering on her face. "What can *you* possibly do?" His tone dripped with contempt, dismissing her worth with a single word. "Anything," she stated, her voice devoid of emotion. "I work hard. I learn fast." He laughed, a harsh, grating sound that grated on her ears. "Look at you. You'd break my dishes just walking through the kitchen. Can you even stand for more than an hour without collapsing?" Her jaw tightened, a muscle jumping in her cheek. "Try me." He sneered, a cruel twist of his lips. "Alright, fatty. I need a cleaner. And a dishwasher. The previous one ran off. You can start now. No pay until the end of the day. If you break anything, it comes out of your... non-existent salary." It was an insult. A blatant exploitation. A test of her desperation. But her stomach twisted, a burning void. She needed this. She needed to eat. "Deal," she said, her voice steady, her eyes meeting his without a flicker. --- He led her to the kitchen, a chaotic realm of steam, clatter, and grease. The air was thick with the smell of old oil, simmering spices, and something vaguely metallic. "Start with these pots," he grunted, pointing a stubby finger at a mountain of encrusted cookware, a graveyard of burnt-on food. "And don't you dare slack off. I'll be watching." Sū Wǎntáng didn't reply. She simply took the rough sponge, its surface already worn, and began to scrub. Her hands, unaccustomed to such manual labor in her previous life, quickly grew raw. The hot water scalded her skin, leaving it red and tender, while the grease clung stubbornly, resisting her efforts. Hours blurred into a monotonous cycle of scrubbing, rinsing, and stacking. Plates piled high with leftover scraps, saucepans crusted with burnt-on rice, woks blackened with layers of cooked-on grime. Her back ached, a constant, dull throb. Her legs screamed in protest, unused to standing for so long. Every muscle in her body screamed its exhaustion. Her hunger, a dull ache before, now raged, a fiery torment in her gut, sharpening her senses to an almost painful degree. Other kitchen staff, mostly young men and women barely older than herself, eyed her with a mixture of pity and barely concealed contempt. They whispered, their glances furtive and dismissive. She ignored them all, her mind a fortress, her focus unwavering. This was a test. A trial of endurance. And she would not break. She would survive. The sun began its slow descent, painting the grimy kitchen window in fleeting hues of orange and purple. The frenetic dinner rush died down, the clatter of plates diminishing, the shouts of the cooks softening to murmurs. The owner, Liang, waddled back into the kitchen, wiping his hands on a greasy apron that looked like it hadn't been washed in months. "Alright, that's enough for today, fatty," he said, his voice devoid of warmth, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. "You're slow, but you didn't break anything. Yet." Sū Wǎntáng straightened, her body screaming for rest, her stomach screaming for food. She extended a hand, palm up, waiting for her meager pay. Liang sneered, his eyes glinting with malicious amusement. "Pay? For what? You think you earned a full day's wage with that performance? Besides, I still feel disgusted just looking at you." He walked to a bin overflowing with scraps, mostly untouched noodles and vegetables, destined for the trash. With a flick of his wrist, he scooped a handful of the cold, congealed leftovers onto a crumpled piece of newspaper. "Here," he announced, his voice dripping with condescension, tossing the pathetic bundle at her feet. It landed with a soft, sickening thud, scattering a few greasy noodles onto the grimy floor. "Consider it a gift. Now get out." Sū Wǎntáng stared at the discarded food, then at Liang's smirking, triumphant face. A vein pulsed visibly at her temple. Her eyes, usually calm and calculating, now glinted with a dangerous, icy fire, a fury so profound it felt like a cold stone in her chest. Her breath hitched, not in despair or humiliation, but in controlled, simmering rage. He thought he had humiliated her. He thought she was just a fat, ugly girl he could kick around, an easy target for his petty cruelty. His mistake. A profound, irreversible mistake. She bent slowly, deliberately, picking up the soiled newspaper. Her fingers tightened around it, crushing the discarded food, a silent promise solidifying in her heart to take revenge on him .

Evil boss