Transmigrated as the Underdog Heir

Year 3 of Chengzong’s Reign On a snowy winter solstice morning, jade-like snowflakes blanketed Shencheng. In a dilapidated courtyard behind the Ningwang Manor’s western side gate, withered grass poking through cracked blue bricks glittered with icicles. Song Muzhou crouched under a drafty eaves, his thin underrobe fluttering in the wind to reveal bluish-purple skin. In one hand, he clutched a lotus-embroidered lilac silk bodice meant for a young maiden. With the other, he fanned a brazier of damp firewood using a palm-leaf fan. The firewood had been scavenged from the snow, its outer layers soaked through. Only after the flames burned away the moisture did the wood finally catch. Coughing through the smoke, Song Muzhou waved the fan to clear the air before settling by the brazier. He absentmindedly warmed the bodice over the flames, staring into the fire. Five days ago, he had awoken here—transmigrated into this world. The Flame Empire. Shencheng. The Ningwang Manor’s Song family. Third son. Illegitimate. A frail scholar. In this era, the gulf between legitimate and illegitimate heirs was vast. Worse still, he was the bastard of an unrecognized concubine. From the memories he’d inherited, he wasn’t even properly acknowledged as Lord Song Tian’s son. Three years prior, his mother had brought him to Ningwang Manor. Lord Song Tian had granted him the title of “illegitimate son” but refused to legitimize his mother. When she died suddenly last year, she hadn’t even received a concubine’s posthumous recognition. Servants whispered behind his back: “Some country bumpkin’s brat—look at his face! Not a trace of the master’s features.” “The master’s too kind. They should’ve been driven out as frauds.” What a joke—no one in this manor treated him as a true young master. Even the lowliest maids and servants disdained him. They wore finer clothes, burned proper charcoal in winter. Meanwhile, he huddled in a tattered courtyard during the Year’s coldest days, clad in coarse linen, burning soggy wood. Though a transmigrator, he’d merged completely with his host’s memories and emotions: humiliation, despair, bitterness… and hatred. Yes, hatred. His mother had been healthy at thirty-something, yet she’d abruptly fallen ill and died within two days—too sudden to be natural. And three days ago, the original Song Muzhou’s soul had inexplicably vanished, allowing his possession. Any fool could smell conspiracy. He knew noble families schemed and murdered for power. But to face such plots upon arrival? A carefree life as a pampered heir was impossible now. Yet as a powerless orphan, how could he break this deadlock? “Young Master! Young Master! I’ve wonderful news!” A girl’s voice pierced his thoughts. His sole maidservant, Hongduo, rushed into the courtyard clutching a half-basket of coal, snowflakes clinging to her twin braids. She froze upon seeing the bodice. “Y-You’re holding my…” The girl flushed crimson as her basket thudded onto the steps, startling sparrows from the eaves. Song Muzhou calmly folded the garment into a square and tucked it into Hongduo’s apron pocket. “The laundry sent it yesterday.” He exhaled white mist, poking the brazier as sparks crackled. “Add the coal.” Hongduo—his only loyal servant. Three years ago, she’d offended the First Madam and nearly been drowned in a well. His mother had saved her. Since then, despite regular beatings from other servants, she’d remained devoted. “What news?” Song Muzhou studied the frail girl. What “good tidings” could this manor offer him? Extra silver for New Year’s? A new robe to avoid shaming the Song family during festivities? Hongduo vibrated with excitement: “I overheard the master and First Madam discussing your marriage! You’ve come of age—they must be arranging a match!” Song Muzhou blinked. “Marriage?” In this era, nobles wed early. Marriage meant property, independence—a chance to leave this viper’s nest. But would the First Madam, Lady Liu, truly grant him such boons? As a bastard, he’d inherit little, yet even scraps from the Song fortune could buy freedom. But three years of slights warned him: this reeked of schemes. “Once you marry, we’ll move out!” Hongduo clasped her hands, envisioning utopia. “I’ll work thrice as hard to serve you and your bride! I wonder which noble lady you’ll wed? She must be beautiful, worthy of—” “Third Young Master!” A shrill voice cut through the snow. Second Steward Liu Fu stood at the moon gate, fox-fur collar dusted white, clutching a gilded hand warmer. “The master and First Madam summon you.” Liu Fu—Lady Liu’s relative and the manor’s consummate diplomat. Even toward Song Muzhou, the steward maintained impeccable courtesy. “Change your robes first,” Liu Fu smiled, bowing slightly. “You’ll meet an important guest.” “Which guest?” Song Muzhou trailed behind, affecting his usual meekness. The steward’s grin didn’t waver. “All will be revealed, Young Master.” Eyes narrowing, Song Muzhou asked no more.