Reborn to Be Spoiled: The Cold Lord's Transmigrated Girl

The cold rain of a late October night in the city didn’t fall so much as it slathered against the grime-streaked windowpane of the tiny, windowless basement room. It was a miserable room, measuring barely ten square meters, tucked away in the subterranean bowels of a dilapidated apartment complex that smelled perpetually of damp concrete, cheap cooking oil, and decaying trash. Inside, the light of a single, flickering fluorescent tube buzzed with a low, irritating hum, casting harsh, sickly shadows across the clutter. On the narrow, threadbare mattress in the corner lay Jenna. She was twenty-three years old, but if she looked in the cracked mirror hanging above the rusted sink, she saw the face of a woman twice her age. Deep, bruised-purple crescents dragged down the skin beneath her hollow eyes. Her cheeks were sunken, her lips pale and peeling from chronic dehydration. Her hair, once a vibrant, dark silk, was dry, brittle, and pulled back into a messy, utilitarian knot that she hadn't bothered to untangle in three days. Jenna stared at the water stains on the ceiling, counting the slow, rhythmic beats of her own heart. Thump. Thump. Thump. It sounded weak. Fragile. Like an old wall clock whose internal gears were stripped, scraping together in a desperate, final attempt to keep time. "Just ten minutes," she whispered to the empty room, her voice a raspy, papery thread. "Just let me rest for ten minutes..." But there was no time to rest. There had never been time to rest. Her phone—a second-hand smartphone with a shattered screen held together by strips of clear packing tape—vibrated violently against the stained particle-board nightstand. The sharp buzz rattled through her skull like a physical blow. With painful slowness, Jenna forced her stiff, aching fingers to unclench from the coarse blanket. Every joint in her body burned with a dull, throbbing inflammation. Her muscles felt as though they had been filled with wet sand. It took an immense effort of will just to lift her forearm and swipe the screen. "Hello?" she rasped, her throat dry as sand. "Jenna! Where the hell are you?!" a sharp, shrill voice shrieked through the speaker. It was Mrs. Zhang, the manager of the late-night convenience store where Jenna worked her second shift. "Your shift started fifteen minutes ago! Old Man Liu is waiting to hand over the register, and if he leaves, the store is unmanned! Do you know how much inventory gets stolen when the store is unmanned?!" "Mrs. Zhang... I'm sorry," Jenna breathed, trying to haul her torso up into a sitting position. The room spun wildly. A sudden, blinding wave of nausea surged up her throat, and she had to press her palm hard against her ribs to keep from vomiting. "I... I'm coming. I fell asleep. I was at the hospital earlier to settle the final paperwork for my mother's..." "I don't care about your paperwork!" Mrs. Zhang snapped, cutting her off without a shred of sympathy. "Everybody has problems, Jenna! You're not the only one struggling in this city! If you aren't here in ten minutes, don't bother coming in at all tomorrow. And don't expect me to pay you out for this week's hours either!" Click. The call disconnected. Jenna sat on the edge of the cot, her head hanging low, her thin chest heaving as she fought for breath. If I lose this job... I won't have enough to pay the final installment for the cremation. The thought was a cold iron band tightening around her ribcage. She didn't even have time to grieve. Her mother had died three days ago in the charity ward of the city hospital—a long, agonizing decline brought on by chronic liver failure. Jenna’s mind briefly flickered to her mother's face. Cold. Distant. Even on her deathbed, her mother hadn't looked at her with warmth. Jenna was an illegitimate child—the physical proof of a mistake her mother had spent twenty-three years regretting. Growing up, Jenna had never known a father. She had only known her mother's bitter, sharp tongue and the constant refrain: "You ruined my life. If I hadn't had you, I would have had a future." Yet, when her mother got sick two years ago, when the medical bills began to pile up like a mountain of crushing rocks, who else was there? The relatives turned their backs. The mysterious man who fathered her had never existed in their lives. It fell entirely on Jenna. At twenty-one, Jenna took on three jobs. From 6:00 AM to 2:00 PM, she worked as a line-prep worker in a fast-food kitchen, her hands constantly raw from boiling water and harsh industrial detergents. From 3:00 PM to 10:00 PM, she worked as an administrative assistant at a low-tier real estate agency, typing out listings until her fingers cramped. From 11:00 PM to 5:00 AM, she stocked shelves and worked the register at Mrs. Zhang's 24-hour store. She slept two hours a day, sometimes three if she skipped eating. She survived on leftover convenience store instant noodles, expired bread, and tap water. She gave every single penny she earned to the hospital, buying expensive medicines, paying for treatments, desperate for just one word of approval, one soft look from the woman who gave birth to her. She never got it. Her mother had passed away holding Jenna’s hand, but her final words hadn't been a thank you. They had been a bitter sigh: "Why couldn't you have earned more money sooner? They could have given me the better medicine." A dry, bitter laugh escaped Jenna's lips in the darkness of the basement room. Tears pricked the corners of her bloodshot eyes, but she forced them back. She couldn't afford to waste moisture on tears. "Get up," she scolded herself softly, slapping her own pale cheeks with cold, trembling hands. "Get up, Jenna. You have to work." She forced her legs to stand. Her knees buckled immediately, sending her crashing back down onto the bed. Her heart gave a strange, violent leap inside her chest—a sudden, erratic thump-thump-thump-THUMP that felt like a trapped bird slamming against her ribs, followed by a terrifying, hollow silence. Cold sweat broke out across her forehead. Her vision dimmed, black spots dancing at the edges of her sight. "No... not now..." she gasped, clutching her chest. "Just... a little longer..." She reached for her phone on the nightstand, intending to call her boyfriend, Mark. Mark. The one bright spot she thought she had in this miserable existence. They had been together for two years. He was handsome, soft-spoken, and promised her a future once he finished his master's degree. But Mark was unemployed, always complaining about his stressed mental state, always needing money for books, for clothes, for rent. And Jenna, stupid, desperate for love, had given him whatever little scraps of money she had left over after buying her mother's medication. She had skipped meals for weeks so Mark could buy a nice suit for an interview. She had worn shoes with soles so thin her feet bled on the winter pavement just so he could go out with his university friends. She dialed his number. The line rang once. Twice. Three times. Finally, a voice picked up. But it wasn't Mark's gentle tone. It was a woman’s voice—smooth, polished, mature, and dripping with condescension. "Who is this?" the woman asked, the sound of soft jazz music and clinking wine glasses humming in the background. Jenna froze, her breath catching in her throat. "I... I'm calling for Mark. Is Mark there?" There was a muffled sound on the other end, followed by Mark's voice in the background, hushed and nervous: "Who is it, babe? Just hang up..." Then Mark took the phone. His tone was cold, sharp, devoid of the warmth he usually faked. "Jenna? Why are you calling me right now? I told you I was busy with a group project." "Mark..." Jenna gasped, her hand shaking so badly she almost dropped the phone. "I... I don't feel good. My chest... my heart is beating weird. I think I need to go to the hospital..." Mark let out an exasperated, heavy sigh. "Jenna, please. Not this again. Your mother just died, I know you're stressed, but can you stop making everything about you? I'm at an important dinner. Sister Susan is a major investor in my project. You're being clingy and embarrassing." "Sister... Susan?" Jenna whispered. She remembered that name. Susan was forty-five, a wealthy divorcee who frequented the real estate office where Jenna worked. "Look," Mark said, his voice dropping into a flat, callous line. "I was going to tell you tomorrow, but since you're ruining my night anyway—we're done, Jenna. I can't do this anymore. You're always tired, you're always broke, you smell like grease, and you have nothing to offer me. Susan understands me. She actually has the means to support my dreams. Don't call me again." Click. The call ended. The silence that followed was absolute. Jenna sat there, the phone slipping from her numb fingers and hitting the cold linoleum floor with a sharp c***k. A heavy, suffocating weight settled over her chest. It wasn't just heartbreak; it was a physical, crushing agony. She looked down at her hands—calloused, yellowed, thin as twigs. Twenty-three years. She had slaved away twenty-three years of her life. She had given her youth, her health, her blood, her sweat, and every drop of her soul to a mother who resented her and a lover who used her like a rag. She had been stingy with herself, starving her own body, never buying a nice dress, never taking a single day off, never eating a meal just because it tasted good. And for what? What did she have to show for it? A damp basement. A broken phone. A failing heart. Ah... Jenna thought, a strange, profound clarity washing over her mind as her vision began to fade to grey. I was so stupid. I was so... incredibly stupid. Another sharp, explosive pain seized her heart. It felt as if a thick needle had been driven directly into her chest. Jenna collapsed sideways onto the bed, her legs curling up toward her torso. She couldn't draw air into her lungs. The room flickered, the fluorescent light blurring into a streak of pale white, then dying completely into darkness. If I could live again... she thought bitterly, her consciousness spiraling down into a cold, endless abyss. If I ever get another chance... I will never... ever... work myself to death for anyone else again. I will be lazy. I will eat until I'm full. I will live for myself... Her heart gave one final, weak shudder. And then, Jenna died. Splash! "Fey! Fey, my daughter! Open your eyes!" "Get the warm blankets! Hurry! She’s breathing water!" "Ah-Fey! Don't scare your mother! Please, merciful Heaven, don't take my little girl!" Voices. Loud, panicked, screaming voices echoed in Jenna’s ears, muffled as if she were underwater. Wait... water? Pain exploded in Jenna’s chest—not the dull, crushing squeeze of a failing heart, but a sharp, burning, suffocating sensation in her lungs. Instinct took over. Her eyes flew open, but all she saw was a terrifying swirl of murky greenish-brown water and sunlight filtering down from above. She was drowning! No! I already died! her mind screamed in sheer panic. Not drowning too! She flailed her arms wildly, but her limbs felt impossibly weak, small, and heavy, encased in soaked, heavy cloth that weighed her down like iron chains. Her lungs screamed for air. She opened her mouth to breathe, only to swallow a massive gulp of freezing, muddy pond water. Suddenly, a pair of large, rough, calloused hands plunged into the water, gripping her firmly under her armpits. With a powerful heave, she was yanked upward. Phooey! Cough! Cough! Jenna burst through the surface of the water, hitting the cold, muddy bank of a river. She collapsed onto her hands and knees, coughing violently, spewing up streams of dirty pond water and gasping for sweet, cold air. "She's alive! She's breathing! Praise the Gods! Praise the ancestors!" A tearful, trembling voice wailed right beside her. Before Jenna could make sense of what was happening, a pair of strong, warm arms wrapped around her shivering body, pulling her tightly against a chest that smelled strongly of woodsmoke, damp earth, and coarse cotton. "My poor Fey! My foolish, sweet child!" Jenna was coughing so hard her throat felt like it was on fire, but through her blurred vision, she tried to process her surroundings. This wasn't a hospital. This wasn't her basement room. This wasn't the city. She was kneeling on a muddy bank beside a wide, rushing river surrounded by tall, lush green reeds and ancient, sprawling weeping willow trees. Standing around her were several people—all dressed in strange, loose-fitting robes made of rough, faded cloth, their hair long and tied up in topknots with wooden pins or wrapped in simple linen cloths. What... what is this? A period drama set? Am I on a movie set? "Fey? Fey, can you hear your mother?" The woman holding her was weeping openly. Jenna blinked away the water in her eyes and looked up. The woman holding her appeared to be in her late thirties or early forties. She had a weathered, gentle face, etched with fine lines of hard work around her eyes and mouth, but her dark eyes were filled with an overwhelming, desperate tenderness that Jenna had never seen in anyone's eyes before in her life. Beside the woman stood a tall, broad-shouldered man with sun-darkened skin, wearing a patched brown tunic tied with a hemp rope. He had dropped a heavy bundle of firewood onto the grass, his thick hands trembling as he wiped tear-streaked dirt from his face. And standing next to him was a teenage boy, maybe seventeen years old, wearing a faded blue robe. He was soaking wet from the waist down, his chest heaving, his face pale with terror. "Sister..." the boy choked out, stepping forward and dropping to his knees beside her. He grabbed her dripping wet hand with both of his, squeezing it tight. "Fey, I'm sorry! I shouldn't have let you go to the river alone! I was only gone for a moment to gather wild herbs! I'm sorry!" Jenna stared at them, completely stunned. Her brain, trained by twenty-three years of modern logic, crashed like a cheap computer. Sister? Mother? Fey? What are they talking about? "Wait..." Jenna tried to speak, but her voice came out as a tiny, raspy squeak. "Who... who are you people? Where is the hospital? Where's the ambulance?" The crying woman—the mother—froze. She looked up at her husband, panic flashing in her tear-filled eyes. "Husband... what is she saying? What is a 'hos-pi-tal'? What is an 'am-bu-lance'?" The father knelt down hastily, placing a broad, calloused hand against Jenna’s forehead. His palm was warm, rough, and smelled of soil. "She's burning up! The ice-cold river water must have driven the cold air into her brain! Ah-Shan, quick! Help me carry your sister back to the house!" "Yes, Father!" the boy, Ah-Shan, immediately snapped into action. He stepped up, turned his back to Jenna, and dropped low. "Fey, get on my back! Brother will carry you!" "Wait! Hold on! Don't touch me!" Jenna yelled, trying to scramble backward in the mud. Who were these people in historical costumes?! Was this some kind of sick prank orchestrated by Mark and his rich mistress? Was she being filmed for a hidden-camera show? "I don't know you!" Jenna shouted, trying to sound authoritative, but her voice lacked all power. "I am Jenna! I live in City B! I... I work at the convenience store on 4th Avenue!" The family stared at her in utter, heartbroken silence. The mother burst into fresh, gut-wrenching sobs, burying her face in her hands. "Oh, Heaven! My daughter has lost her mind! The river spirit has taken her soul!" "Fey, stop talking nonsense!" the father commanded gently, though his voice cracked with emotion. He didn't yell; he looked terrified for her. Without waiting for her consent, he carefully swept his large arms under her knees and back, scooping her light body up into his arms as easily as if she were a child. Jenna gasped. He's so strong... "Hold on to your father, Fey," the man whispered softly into her wet hair, wrapping his old, patched cloak around her shivering shoulders. "We’re going home. Mother will make you warm ginger soup. Everything will be fine." As the man turned and began striding up a dirt path toward a small village nestled at the foot of green, mist-shrouded mountains, Jenna looked down at her own hands. Her heart stopped. The calloused, yellowed, rough hands of a twenty-three-year-old girl who worked three manual labor jobs were gone. In their place were small, delicate hands. The skin was pale, smooth, and unblemished, though clearly thin and undernourished. Her fingers were short and slender. The arms poking out from the wet, coarse fabric of her sleeve were tiny, like those of a young girl who had barely hit sixteen. No... no, no, no! Panicking, Jenna reached up and touched her face. Small nose. Soft cheekbones. No structural bone density of an adult woman. She looked past her father's shoulder and caught her reflection in a quiet puddle on the side of the dirt path. Reflected in the muddy water was the face of an unfamiliar, beautiful young girl—maybe fifteen or sixteen years old, with huge, watery dark eyes, fine eyebrows, and wet hair plastered to a small, oval face. I... I really died? Jenna thought, her mind spinning into complete chaos. And I... I transmigrated?! Into ancient China?! She knew about transmigration. She had read web novels on her phone during her brief five-minute bathroom breaks at the convenience store to keep herself from falling asleep. But those were stories! That was fiction! People didn't actually die of overwork and wake up in ancient history! "Ah!" Jenna shrieked internally, pulling at her wet hair. "Where are the subtitles?! Where is the system?! Where is my golden finger?!" Nothing answered her except the soft whistle of the mountain wind through the bamboo groves. The Li family's home was a small, three-room cottage made of rammed earth, timber, and a thatched roof made of dried straw. It was humble—extremely humble. The floors were packed dirt, swept clean of dust. The furniture consisted of a simple wooden table, a few low stools carved from tree stumps, and a large brick kang—a raised platform bed heated from underneath by a small stove. The moment Father Li carried Jenna through the wooden doorway, Mother Li rushed to the stove, stoking the dying embers with dry twigs, while Brother Li ran to the small side room to pull out the thickest, cleanest quilts they owned. "Careful, careful," Father Li murmured, setting Jenna down gently onto the edge of the brick bed. "Ah-Shan, go to the village doctor! Ask Doctor Zhang to come take her pulse!" "No need for Doctor Zhang!" Mother Li cried out, her eyes red as she rushed back with an armful of dry, coarse linen clothes. "Doctor Zhang charges twenty copper coins just to cross the threshold! We don't have twenty copper coins! I’ll dry her, feed her ginger soup, and sweat the cold out of her!" "I'll go anyway!" Brother Li declared, his young face fiercely determined. "If Doctor Zhang won't come without money, I’ll chop wood for his house for a month! I won't let Fey suffer!" Before anyone could stop him, the boy bolted out the door, his cloth shoes splashing through the muddy yard. Jenna sat frozen on the edge of the bed, wrapped in a coarse, dry blanket that Mother Li had thrown over her shoulders. She watched them. She watched the woman hurriedly set a small iron pot over the fire, slicing thin pieces of a wrinkled, dark ginger root with a notched knife, her lips moving in continuous, frantic prayers to the gods. She watched the father carefully remove Jenna’s soaked leather shoes—shoes that were little more than stitched cloth with worn soles—and gently rub her icy feet with his thick, warm hands to restore her circulation. "Does it hurt, Fey?" Father Li asked softly, looking up at her with eyes filled with pure, unadulterated concern. "Tell Father. Where does it hurt?" Jenna swallowed hard, the lump in her throat feeling larger than a stone. In her past life, if she fell sick, her mother would scold her for wasting money on medicine. If she was exhausted, Mark would complain that she was being lazy and unsupportive. No one had ever rubbed her cold feet. No one had ever rushed into the rain to chop wood for a month just to bring a doctor to her side. "I..." Jenna started, her voice shaking violently. "I don't... I don't know who you are..." Mother Li froze by the stove, the wooden ladle dropping into the pot with a soft clack. Tears immediately filled the woman's eyes again, spilling over her weathered cheeks. She walked over slowly, dropping to her knees right in front of Jenna. She reached out with trembling hands, taking Jenna’s small, cold hands into her own. "Fey..." Mother Li whispered, her voice breaking into a sob. "I know you're confused. The water was cold. You almost left us... But please, don't say you don't know us. I am your mother. This is your father. You are Li Fey, our precious daughter." "I... I fell into the water?" Jenna asked, trying to gather whatever clues she could. Father Li let out a heavy, painful sigh, rubbing his tired face. "It was my fault. I shouldn't have let you go down to the river to wash the vegetables. You're sixteen now, but you're so small... You slipped on the wet stones, didn't you? And you... you never learned how to swim." She drowned, Jenna realized with a sudden, tragic clarity. The original girl—the real Li Fey—had slipped, fallen into the deep river, and drowned. Her spirit had departed, leaving an empty shell. And at that exact same moment, thousands of miles away and centuries into the future, Jenna’s overworked, exhausted heart had stopped beating in a dark basement room. Two tragic souls. Two girls who had died pitifully. Except Jenna had woken up in Li Fey’s body. "Fey?" Mother Li pressed her warm, rough hand against Jenna’s cheek, wiping away a tear that Jenna hadn't even realized had fallen from her own eye. "Do you really not remember us? Not even a little bit?" Jenna looked into the mother's eyes. She saw fear, heartbreak, and an endless, bottomless ocean of maternal love. If she told them the truth—if she yelled, "I am a stranger from the 21st century named Jenna! Your real daughter is dead!"—what would happen? They would think she was possessed by a demon. They would burn her, or drag her to an exorcist, or simply collapse from the grief of knowing their child was gone forever. More than that... looking at this poor, loving family, Jenna felt a sudden, sharp ache in her chest. A sensation so sweet and painful it made her breathless. This girl, Li Fey, had lived in poverty, but she had been loved. She had a father who carried her, a mother who cried for her, and a brother who would trade his labor for her life. Everything Jenna had starved for in her previous life was sitting right in front of her. "I..." Jenna stammered, her lower lip trembling. She lowered her head, letting out a soft, confused sob. "My... my head hurts so much. Everything is blank. I remember... I remember waking up in the water. I remember being cold. But... everything else is gone." She decided to play the oldest trick in the book: Amnesia. Mother Li let out a loud gasp, then instantly wrapped her arms around Jenna, pulling her head tight against her shoulder. "Oh, my poor baby! It's okay! It doesn't matter if you don't remember! You're alive! That's all that matters! Heaven was merciful and spared your life!" Father Li wiped his eyes with his sleeve, letting out a long, ragged breath of relief. "Mother is right. As long as you are safe, we can teach you everything again. You don't have to worry about anything, Fey. Father is here." Jenna closed her eyes, resting her head against Mother Li’s shoulder. The rough fabric of the woman's dress scratched against her cheek, but it felt warmer than any designer blanket Jenna had ever bought for Mark. Li Fey... Jenna thought quietly toward the sky. If your soul is still out there... don't worry. I will take good care of your body. And I will take good care of your family. Ten minutes later, the door flew open with a bang. "Doctor Zhang! She's in here! Please, hurry!" Brother Li—Ah-Shan—burst into the room, panting heavily, his face red from running. Behind him came an elderly man with a long grey beard, carrying a wooden medicine chest slung over his shoulder. Doctor Zhang looked thoroughly annoyed at being dragged through the mud by a seventeen-year-old boy, but when he saw Jenna sitting wrapped in blankets on the kang, he huffed, adjusted his robe, and walked over. "Move aside, move aside!" the old doctor grumbled, sitting on the low stool Father Li hurriedly provided. "Let me see the girl." Doctor Zhang extended three bony fingers, pressing them firmly against Jenna’s wrist. Jenna watched closely. Ah, traditional Chinese pulse diagnosis. I've seen this in period dramas! The room fell dead silent. Mother Li held her breath, clutching Father Li’s sleeve. Ah-Shan stood at the foot of the bed, his hands clenched into tight fists, his knuckles white. Doctor Zhang closed his eyes, his grey eyebrows knitting together. He stayed like that for a long, agonizing minute. Then, his eyes snapped open, a look of profound confusion flashing across his face. He looked at Jenna, then back at her wrist, pressing harder. "Doctor Zhang?" Father Li asked anxiously. "How is she? Is the cold air trapped in her lungs?" "This... this is strange," Doctor Zhang muttered, shaking his head. "When Ah-Shan described it, she was underwater for several minutes. She should have a weak, scattered pulse, heavy with phlegm and dampness. But..." The old doctor looked up at Jenna with narrowed eyes. "Her pulse is strong. Exceptionally strong. In fact... her qi and blood are surging like a mountain spring! There is no cold air in her body at all. It is as if..." Doctor Zhang hesitated, frowning deeply. "As if what, Doctor?" Mother Li begged. "As if her entire life force was suddenly renewed!" Doctor Zhang declared, clearly baffled by his own diagnosis. He pulled his hand back, stroking his long beard. "She has no fever. Her lungs are clear. Aside from being slightly malnourished and suffering from temporary shock, she is healthier now than she was before she fell into the river!" Father Li and Mother Li looked at each other in awe, then fell to their knees toward the small clay incense burner on the wall, bowing repeatedly. "Praise the Gods! A miracle! It's a miracle!" Jenna, however, knew the truth. Her modern soul—a soul that had been forged in the fire of three jobs, relentless determination, and an stubborn refusal to give up—had slammed into this fragile, ancient body. Her intense vitality had completely overhauled Li Fey's weak constitution. Doctor Zhang stood up, gathering his bag. "Well, since she's fine, there is no need for medicine. Just give her warm water and let her rest. Ah-Shan, don't forget your promise. You owe me three cords of firewood by the weekend!" "I won't forget, Doctor! Thank you! Thank you!" Ah-Shan bowed deeply, almost touching his nose to the floor. After showing the doctor out, the family gathered around the bed again. Mother Li brought over a steaming wooden bowl filled with dark brown ginger soup, sweetened with a tiny bit of precious coarse brown sugar. "Here, Fey," Mother Li said gently, sitting beside her and blowing on the spoon. "Drink this. It will warm your stomach." Jenna looked at the spoon, then at Mother Li. In her past life, if she was sick, she had to crawl out of bed, boil her own water, and swallow cheap generic cold medicine alone in the dark. No one had ever fed her. No one had ever blown on a hot spoon for her.