Lu Manman stares at the tablet screen, the System interface glowing faintly in the dim light of her study. Li Cuan’s profile looms large. "Li Cuan, Child #1. Age: 17. Original Plot: Ruthless CEO, ruined and imprisoned by male lead. Current Hostility: 85%. Original Plot Deviation: 0%." The numbers burn into her vision. Eighty-five percent. It is a wall, cold and impenetrable. Her throat tightens. She remembers the original novel’s description of him: a prodigy, sharp-witted, but hardened by neglect and betrayal. His mother, the original Mrs. Lu, a phantom presence who provided lavishly but never truly saw him. The blank check strategy worked for a time in some transmigration novels. Buy their goodwill. Show you care through tangible means. But Li Ming’s terrified rejection of the expensive toys still echoes. "Invalid emotional expenditure." The System’s voice, devoid of judgment, yet chillingly accurate. She pushes a stray strand of hair behind her ear, her fingers trembling slightly. This is different. Li Cuan isn't a toddler. He is a young man, almost an adult, capable of understanding complex emotions, and therefore, complex resentments. A blank check, a symbol of freedom and opportunity, might appeal to his logical, ambitious nature. Or it might be the ultimate insult. She closes her eyes, a familiar knot forming in her stomach. This is the same fear she felt as Han Min-seo, facing impossible corporate deadlines, knowing one mistake could unravel everything. The fear of being powerless. The fear of failure. This fear drives her. It is why she transmigrated, why she fights this predetermined fate. She has to save them. She has to find a way. The untraceable withdrawals, the chilling whisper—"The threads are tightening, little pawn"—all of it screams at her. She is a pawn, but a pawn who fights. And to fight, she needs points. To get points, she needs emotional expenditure. And to get that, she needs to connect. She rises, her resolve hardening like steel. The library. That's where he always is in the evenings, according to Old Wang's hushed reports. Buried in books, escaping the gilded cage of his life. She smooths down the silk of her robe. Practical. Unemotional. This is a negotiation, not a plea. She will offer him a path, and he will choose to take it. Or he will refuse. Either way, she will learn something. The alternative—doing nothing, letting him drift towards ruin—is simply not an option. Her heart pounds a slow, heavy rhythm against her ribs. --- The mansion's library is vast, a mausoleum of knowledge. Dust motes dance in the slivers of moonlight piercing the tall, arched windows. Shelf after shelf of leather-bound volumes line the walls, reaching to the impossibly high ceiling. Lu Manman hesitates at the threshold, the silence amplifying the thumping of her pulse. The air is cool, carrying the faint scent of old paper and polished wood. She spots him immediately. Curled in a deep armchair in a far corner, beneath the glow of a small, antique lamp. His dark hair falls over his forehead, obscuring his eyes as he stares intently at the open pages of a thick book. A programming textbook, by the looks of the complex diagrams and lines of code. His concentration is absolute, a protective shell around him. He does not stir. He does not look up. Lu Manman steps inside, her soft slippers barely making a sound on the plush Persian rug. She walks slowly, deliberately, giving him every opportunity to notice her, to acknowledge her presence. But he remains oblivious, or pretends to be. His shoulders are hunched, a posture of intense focus that also speaks of withdrawal. He is a fortress, built of intellect and solitude. She reaches a small, empty space near a tall bookshelf, perhaps ten feet from his armchair. She stops there, feeling suddenly awkward, like an intruder in a private sanctuary. The silence stretches, thick and heavy. She watches the slight twitch of his brow, the occasional shift of a page. He is completely absorbed, lost in a world of algorithms and logic, a world she can only guess at. A full minute passes. Then two. Her initial resolve begins to fray at the edges. This is worse than she imagined. Li Ming at least reacted, screamed, cried. This silent dismissal is a deeper cut. It implies she is so insignificant, so irrelevant, that she doesn't even warrant a glance. She clears her throat, a small, tentative sound that feels ridiculously loud in the vast quiet. He still doesn't move. Her jaw clenches. This won’t do. --- Lu Manman takes a deep breath, the scent of old paper filling her lungs. "Li Cuan," she says, her voice a little louder this time, but still soft. His head snaps up. His eyes, the exact shade of dark obsidian, meet hers. They hold no warmth, no curiosity, only a flicker of annoyance, quickly masked by a practiced indifference. He looks at her as if she is a minor inconvenience, a fly buzzing in his carefully constructed bubble. She sees the faint dark circles under his eyes, the subtle tension in his jaw. He is tired, she realizes, in a way that goes beyond lack of sleep. "Mother," he says, the word a flat, toneless utterance. He doesn't close his book, merely rests his finger on a line of code, marking his place. It is a clear signal: *you are interrupting something important.* Lu Manman walks the remaining few steps to the low, ornate coffee table in front of his armchair. She pulls a small leather-bound checkbook from her robe pocket, along with a sleek silver pen. The materials materialize in her hand, a subtle shimmer in the air that only she perceives. She sets them down on the polished surface of the table, the soft thud echoing slightly. "I understand you have a profound interest in computer science," she begins, choosing her words carefully. She remembers the System’s warning about inefficient spending. This needs to be about *him*, not just money. "Your academic reports mention your advanced aptitude, even for a pre-university student." He watches her, unblinking, his gaze unsettlingly direct. He waits, offering nothing. She uncaps the pen, signing her name with a flourish on a blank check. The signature, Mrs. Lu, looks alien to her. "I want to support your endeavors. Whatever they may be. Research, equipment, specialized courses, even starting your own project. There are no limits." She pushes the signed blank check across the table towards him, the crisp paper sliding smoothly. "This is for you. For anything you need. Consider it an investment in your future." She tries to soften her gaze, to convey a sincerity she isn't sure she feels. It's a pragmatic move, but she genuinely wants him to have what he needs. She needs to save him. --- Li Cuan’s eyes drop from her face to the check. He doesn't touch it. A faint, almost imperceptible scoff escapes him, a breath of air that carries more scorn than any spoken word. The silence stretches again, broken only by the distant hum of the mansion's cooling system. "An investment?" he finally asks, his voice low, a surprising depth to it. He pushes the programming book closed with a soft thud, finally giving her his full, undivided attention. It feels less like an honor and more like an accusation. "After seventeen years, you decide to invest." Lu Manman feels a cold dread creep up her spine. "I... I know things have been..." She struggles for the right words, for an explanation that doesn't sound hollow. "Difficult. I want to make amends." He leans forward, his dark eyes narrowing. "Make amends with a blank check? Is that how you quantify atonement, Mother? Is that how you've always quantified everything?" His tone is devoid of anger, which makes it far more cutting. It is pure, intellectual disdain. "Do you think a piece of paper can erase years of absence? Years of silence?" He gestures vaguely with one hand, a sweeping motion that encompasses the entire room, the entire mansion. "This house. These tutors. The expensive schools. They were always here. They were your investment, weren't they? Your way of buying off your responsibilities, of keeping us presentable for the outside world, while you were... wherever you were." He pushes the blank check back across the table, not with a forceful shove, but with a deliberate, almost delicate flick of his index finger. The paper slides to a stop just inches from her own hand. "I don't need your money, Mother. I've learned to provide for myself. To rely on no one but myself. A lesson you taught me exceptionally well." A sharp, painful sting goes through Lu Manman. His words find the raw nerve, exposing her deepest fear: that her corporate pragmatism, her transactional approach, is inherently flawed when it comes to human connection. The System flashes: *Li Cuan Hostility: 87%. Invalid emotional expenditure.* Her heart sinks. It's worse than Li Ming. He didn't just reject the gift; he rejected her entire premise. --- Li Cuan rises from the armchair, his movements fluid and unhurried. He doesn't spare another glance at the check, nor at Lu Manman. He simply walks around the coffee table, past her, towards the library door. His back is ramrod straight, his silhouette stark against the moonlit window at the far end of the room. Each step is deliberate, carrying with it a profound sense of finality. Lu Manman watches him go, her gaze fixed on the blank check lying between them. It looks so insignificant now, so useless. The crisp paper, the elegant signature, all meaningless. His words echo in the vast, silent space. *Years of absence. Years of silence. A lesson you taught me exceptionally well.* The familiar fear of powerlessness washes over her, cold and heavy. She *is* powerless here, in a way she never was in a boardroom. Money, her ultimate tool, is worthless. She closes her hand into a tight fist, her nails digging into her palm. How can she fight an enemy that wears the face of a child’s deep-seated pain? How can she earn points, unlock deviations, when every attempt to bridge the gap only widens it? The System, silent now, feels like a mocking presence. It gave her unlimited funds but no blueprint for a mother's heart. The library door opens with a soft click. Li Cuan pauses in the frame, his shadow stretching long and thin across the polished floor. His eyes, devoid of warmth, fixed on her, and he said, his voice a low growl, "You're too late. Some things can't be bought back."

Chapter 4: The Eldest's Scorn