My Soul Transmigrated into the Red Chamber: I Became Daiyu's Younger Brother

A second before his death, special forces king Lin Zhao was still thinking that he needed to replace his combat boots, whose soles had worn through.

The next second, he opened his eyes. He was three years old, burning with fever and lying in a broken-down carriage. Beside him was a little girl as thin as a sheet of paper. She wiped his sweat with her sleeve, crying, “Little brother!”

He recognized her. Lin Daiyu. He had transmigrated into the body of her younger brother, who was supposed to die at age three.

The fever broke. He survived. But the back of the jade pendant at his waist was engraved with: Born in the Year of Jiazi, died in the Year of Bingyin, lived three years.

It was the Year of Bingyin. He was supposed to die.

On his first day in the Jia household, Lady Wang felt the back of his neck for five seconds. It was a carotid pulse check, a technique only special forces soldiers would recognize. She was checking whether he was normal.

That night, a note was slipped under his pillow: “Midnight. The back garden. Someone is waiting for you. If you don't come, your sister dies.”

He went. There was no one waiting for him, only his own grave.

His tombstone read: Lin Zhao's Grave.

An old voice came from behind him. “I know you're not Lin Zhao. The real Lin Zhao died three years ago. I buried him myself.”

The old man handed him a ledger. “This contains twenty years of evidence of the Jia family's crimes. I don't have long to live. I'll trade it for one thing: take my daughter Yingchun away from here.”

Inside the ledger was a yellowed prescription. It was dated the day after he had supposedly “died.”

A remedy for heart disease.

Who was it for?

He clutched the ledger and looked back at Daiyu, fast asleep. Outside the window, a shadow flickered past.

In this man-eating household, some wanted her dead, some wanted her married off, and some treated her like a chess piece. But in this life, her little brother was here.