I, Yu Qianqian, had transmigrated here three days ago. The morning sickness left behind by the original owner reminded me that this wasn't a game. Four years later, in the cellar of Yixiang House, I lit an oil lamp and taught Bao'er arithmetic. “Mother, why do we have to live underground?” he asked, looking up at me. I worked the abacus and replied calmly, “Because sometimes, the accounts up above can't put a price on human life.” Then one day, a “Young Master Qi” wearing half a silver mask walked into the restaurant. The dragon-patterned jade pendant at his waist swayed, and the abacus beads beneath my fingers snapped off their string with a sharp crack.
