Qin Wan was an ordinary omega. She attended an omega school from a young age, and after differentiating at eighteen, she married the boy next door—a quiet, reserved alpha.
She went on to complete her university studies, giving birth to her first child, a girl who looked just like her, during that time.
She adored this child, but due to her studies, she had little time to care for her. Following the advice of a roommate who had given birth earlier, she placed the baby in an infant care center.
In the ABO era, families tended to maintain a deliberate distance after their children differentiated, due to pheromones and marking. Over time, this led to family relationships that weren’t particularly close. As children grew, the bond between parents and offspring would gradually weaken. This was why Qin Wan didn’t send her child to live with her elders.
At the time, they hadn’t been in contact for three months.
As for alphas, letting them raise children was simply a disaster.
Of course, there were exceptions to every rule, and Qin Wan had originally wanted to be one of them.
After graduating, she deliberately chose a relatively relaxed job as an imperial civil servant so she would have time to care for her child.
But for some reason, this child was solitary from a young age, seemingly taking after her father. She didn’t like to talk and would always hide in her room, doing who knows what.
Qin Wan was a little disappointed, but there was nothing she could do.
A few years later, she had a second child.
The second child was also a girl, sweet and well-behaved, like a little ball of cotton.
Qin Wan poured all her unspent maternal love onto her second child. This child grew cuter by the day, while her other child also grew up.
But she became increasingly gloomy.
Qin Wan tried many things, even enlisting her alpha’s help, but this child was like a mushroom, always drawn to dark, damp places.
It reached a point where Qin Wan had a terrible premonition that something would happen to her eldest daughter one day.
Now, it seemed that premonition was coming true.
The school called, saying Yun Chuji hadn’t been seen on campus for over half a month, even though she still had one class left to complete.
Qin Wan’s heart sank. It’s finally happened, she thought.
After hanging up, she sat at her desk in a daze for a long time. A colleague noticed her strange expression and asked what was wrong.
Qin Wan smiled, but it was a smile that failed to evoke any positive emotion. “It’s nothing,” she said.
The colleague left, looking suspicious.
With trembling hands, Qin Wan opened her comm-link and called Yun Chuji.
No answer.
No answer.
Still no answer.
She lowered her head in despair. A moment later, she stood up and went to her alpha supervisor to request a two-week leave of absence.
Qin Wan planned to go to S-District to find her daughter.
Yun Chuji’s family lived in A-District, nearly half the Imperial Capital Star away from S-District. Even the fastest maglev train would take a full day to get there.
Before leaving, Qin Wan explained everything to her alpha husband, Yun Cheng. As taciturn as ever, Yun Cheng thought for a moment before uttering a few words: “I’ll go with you.”
“What about Xiao Wan?”
“Xiao Wan is a big girl now.”
Just then, Yun Chuwan, who had been eavesdropping by the door, chimed in, “Yeah, I’m seventeen already. You two go find my sister. I can take care of myself.”
Qin Wan felt a wave of relief, unable to help but wish that Xiao Ji could be a little more sensible too.
She shook her head, dismissing the thought. Xiao Ji was Xiao Ji.
Two days later, Qin Wan arrived in S-District.
The first place she went was Yun Chuji’s apartment.
They had helped Yun Chuji with the paperwork when she bought the place and had even stayed there for a while, helping their daughter with furniture and decorations. In theory, they should be able to get in.
As long as Yun Chuji hadn’t deleted their information from the apartment’s main control system.
Qin Wan approached the door. With a soft beep, it opened.
She breathed a sigh of relief.
Stepping inside, Qin Wan was first surprised, then frightened. She turned to her alpha, her voice trembling. “This style… this isn’t our Xiao Ji.”
This clean, crisp, almost graceful atmosphere didn’t seem to belong to the daughter who would only ever look at people with her head down.
Yun Cheng put an arm around his wife, patting her back comfortingly. “If she had sold the apartment, we wouldn’t have been able to get in at all.”
They continued to look around and found that the furniture and decorations hadn’t changed much; most things had just been rearranged. Reassured, they decided to stay for a day to see if Yun Chuji would return.
But she didn’t.
Nothing was missing from the wardrobe either.
It seemed things were truly taking a turn for the worse.
Qin Wan sat on the sofa in silence. Half an hour later, Yun Cheng told her, “I’ve called the police.”
Tears streamed down Qin Wan’s face. She looked up at her alpha. “Xiao Ji… Xiao Ji will be okay, right?”
Yun Cheng’s expression was as stoic and impassive as ever. Qin Wan had once secretly complained that her alpha was too unromantic, but now, that expressionless face gave her immense support, suggesting her worries were unfounded.
“She’ll be fine. The police will find her,” the alpha said in a deep voice.
A day later, the police stood at Tang Jianxi’s front door, looking troubled.
According to the comm-link’s location data, the person was definitely here. The reason they had to resort to such a troublesome method of finding someone in this age of interconnected everything was that Yun Chuji had set her comm-link to rut mode.
Alphas in rut could not be disturbed by any sound or light, as it would trigger their aggression. Once this mode was activated, all incoming information was automatically blocked unless the alpha actively opened their comm-link.
But according to the system’s backend data, Yun Chuji’s rut had been going on for seventeen days.
The current record for the longest alpha rut was five days.
It was a very bad sign. After all, some criminal groups did exploit the comm-link’s rut mode for nefarious purposes. But that was usually for revenge killings; organ trafficking had disappeared 600 years ago when medical breakthroughs made it possible to replace a person’s brain without affecting their lifespan.
But Yun Chuji was a university student, quiet and withdrawn, with few friends. Who could she have made an enemy of?
Perhaps she’d had an accident?
With this thought in mind, the officers arrived at one of the most exclusive residential communities in the core district.
A young rookie who had just joined the force gaped in astonishment. “Chief, what’s going on?”
Their initial guess was that this young alpha had accidentally stumbled into a gang war in one of S-District’s outer rings. As for why she would be there… well, those rings had particularly booming red-light district industries.
But now, all clues pointed to the core district.
Judging by the comm-link’s activity log—and since comm-links were activated by bioelectricity, there was no chance of someone else using it—this alpha named Yun Chuji’s recent movements had all been centered around the core district.
The police captain tossed away his cigarette, glanced up at the luxurious villa, and put on his cap. “A young couple eloped,” he said irritably. “Honestly, what is the Imperial Education Department doing year after year? It’s either omegas running away from arranged marriages and going missing, or alphas eloping and cutting off contact. Didn’t their teachers ever tell them not to be so impulsive?”
The young officer had a sudden realization. That made sense. The rate of omegas fleeing marriages in the outer rings had been quite high recently, all educated omegas. It had completely changed the social climate in the outer rings of S-District; rumor had it that the lower an omega’s education level, the higher their bride price.
But alphas eloping was rare. He hadn’t expected to run into a case like this. What a mess!
The officers explained the situation to the villa’s central AI and were quickly let in.
Inside stood a reserved alpha, looking quite nervous.
Several housekeeping robots served the officers tea and desserts. The captain sat on the sofa, squinting at the alpha wringing her hands opposite him, and got straight to the point. “Your parents are looking for you.”
Yun Chuji stiffened. Parents. Those aren’t my parents.
“I… I know.”
“I’ll give them your address later, but I think it would be best if you contacted them yourself.”
“Yes, okay. I will.”
“You’ll need to do a verification check in a moment so I can close the case. It’ll be quick; you won’t have to go to the station.”
“Okay.”
The officer opened his comm-link, scanned Yun Chuji from head to toe, and then projected an electronic screen in front of her. “Just sign in the bottom right corner.”
“Okay.”
Yun Chuji reached out a finger. She subconsciously started to write in her original script, but after the first stroke, her hand trembled. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and let her body take control.
When she opened them, the signature was in the original owner’s handwriting.
In this era, the only time people used handwriting was for signatures. As a result, many people designed their signatures with great care, making it one of a person’s defining characteristics. If Yun Chuji hadn’t caught herself just now, the police might not have left so quickly.
After completing the procedure, the officer stood up. Before leaving, he offered a piece of advice. “Miss Yun, from my experience, no matter what the issue is, it’s always best to communicate properly with your family.”
Yun Chuji’s face paled. She bit her lip and said, “Thank you. I will.”
The officer sighed, said no more, and turned to leave.
Yun Chuji walked them to the door. Just before the officers stepped out, she hesitated and spoke up. “My… my parents, are they okay?”
“Not really.”
Yun Chuji’s hands clenched tighter. She lowered her head, hiding her trembling eyes.
The police were gone.
Yun Chuji stood frozen in place for a long time.
The guilt of having stolen someone else’s identity, the sense of injustice, the feeling of being utterly lost—it all tormented her relentlessly. She didn’t know what to do. She wasn’t their child. To lie and deceive them would not be the act of a virtuous person. But if she told them the truth, that the real Yun Chuji was dead, what identity could she use to face them in this body?
It wasn’t until Tang Jianxi came home.
She had heard the police had come to the house and ended her work early. Sure enough, as soon as she walked in, she saw a pitiful statue standing in the corner.
Tang Jianxi walked over, the afternoon light clearly catching the pair of red eyes on the figure.
Crying again.
Sigh. A well-bred lady from thousands of years ago, raised to never step out of the inner chambers… she really is like a delicate flower.
Miss Tang drew closer, stroking the alpha’s head. “It’s okay,” she said gently.
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