Chapter 777 --777

Chapter 777: Chapter-777

Heena stared at her ruined list, the sweet, sharp ginger melting on her tongue.

God, Heena sighed internally, violently scrubbing her thumb over the dried ink. I really, really miss ballpoint pens.

As she walked the rest of the way back to her East Market apothecary, her mind shifted from smudged ink to the broader, far more dangerous logistics of her new empire.

She had two hundred taels of silver, a syndicate protection contract, and a back-courtyard kitchen equipped to brew high-end cosmetics for the underworld. But she still had an entirely empty, two-story storefront facing the main street.

Originally, she had toyed with the idea of opening a public pharmacy or an open-market apothecary. But after brushing up against the sheer, suffocating influence of the capital’s upper rings today, a harsh reality had set in. The Lu family’s power was sprawling and deeply entrenched. If Heena opened a highly profitable, flashy cosmetic or medical storefront under her own name, the venomous Lu Matriarch would catch wind of it instantly. Without a private army, loyal shadow guards, or serious political backing, Heena simply didn’t have the brute force to stop her family from legally swooping in and seizing her assets.

To survive, her public face needed to be utterly, painfully boring.

She needed a cover business. Something so mundane and low-margin that the high nobility wouldn’t even spit in its direction.

A combined grocery and stationery store, Heena decided, her dark eyes gleaming with quiet satisfaction as she pushed open the heavy wooden doors of her shop.

In this era, commerce was rigidly specialized—the rice merchant only sold rice, the ink vendor only sold ink. A single shop selling daily household food staples alongside basic writing supplies would be considered a bizarre, low-class convenience stand for the surrounding commoners. It wouldn’t generate massive wealth, but it would provide a steady trickle of coppers, completely camouflage the heavy shipments of herbs and alcohol coming in through the back door, and give her a perfect excuse to sit quietly at the front counter all day.

It was the perfect disguise.

Yet, as she stepped into the quiet shop, a wave of profound, existential irritation washed over her.

It wasn’t the business logistics that annoyed her; it was the lingering emotional residue of the body she inhabited.

When a Host took over a vessel, they inherited the original owner’s final, driving wish. In most of the dimensions Heena had survived, those wishes were straightforward: bloody, spectacular revenge against the people who had wronged them.

But the original Lu Heena hadn’t possessed a drop of vicious ambition. Her final, pathetic wish hadn’t been to burn the Lu estate to the ground. It was simply to live a peaceful life until old age. The original owner wanted to find a good husband, have children, and build a warm, loving family.

Heena dragged a hand down her face, groaning quietly into the empty room.

For a veteran transmigrator like her, that wish was infinitely more complicated than plotting a murder. To survive jumping through endless, life-or-death worlds, Heena had signed a system contract that permanently suppressed her emotional attachments. Years of seeing endless cycles of life, betrayal, and death had left her with a severe case of emotional detachment. She operated on pure, calculating pragmatism.

The idea of genuinely finding love, settling down, and raising a family felt like a frustrating, incomprehensible pipe dream.

And I don’t even remember half of these people’s faces, Heena complained to herself, massaging her temples. The original owner’s memory limiter was infuriating. System, remind me later to pull up the file on the brother-in-law who got me kicked out. If I run into him in the street, I won’t even know who I’m supposed to be avoiding.

Meanwhile, roughly three miles away from the dusty East Market, the atmosphere was a world apart.

In the lavish, incense-filled inner chambers of the capital’s most exclusive pleasure pavilion, the man in the celadon-green silk finally stepped behind a painted privacy screen.

With a graceful, fluid motion, he reached up and pulled the bamboo hat and the sheer white veil completely off his head, tossing them carelessly onto a velvet-lined chair.

As the veil fell away, his true appearance was finally exposed to the warm glow of the room’s lanterns.

Thick, curly brown hair tumbled down past his shoulders in beautiful, untamed waves. His eyes, completely unhidden now, were a rich, warm, liquid brown, set against flawlessly fair skin. Unlike Ren—who possessed the quiet, delicate, and cold beauty of a sheltered scholar—this man’s beauty was vibrant, flamboyant, and dangerously sharp. He looked like a creature born to be looked at, possessing an aura that was equal parts intoxicating and lethal.

He walked over to a gilded chaise lounge, sinking into the plush cushions and crossing his long legs with casual, feline grace.

The gray-robed servant who had followed him into the room immediately dropped to his knees, pressing his forehead toward the floorboards.

"Master Rono, your tea—"

The man paused, his warm brown eyes narrowing into a sharp, amused crescent. He let out a soft, melodious laugh that held absolutely zero warmth.

"Call me Butterfly, idiot," he corrected, his voice dropping into a lazy drawl.

The servant flinched violently, his shoulders trembling. "My apologies, Master! I... I thought that since we were in your private chambers, you still needed to act under your birth name."

Butterfly didn’t bother looking at the kneeling servant. He casually raised his hand, inspecting the perfect, unblemished shape of his fingernails with an expression of utter boredom.

The servant swallowed hard, terrified.

This was the young Butterfly—the reigning, undisputed top courtesan of the Crimson Pearl pavilion. Raised in the cutthroat environment of the high-end brothels since childhood, his flamboyant beauty was said to surpass almost every noble son in the capital. But unlike the submissive, gentle men trained to please the matriarchs, Butterfly possessed a notoriously fiery, unpredictable temper. He did not take clients easily, he did not tolerate fools, and he had absolutely never been seen giving a passing woman a second glance.

Until today.

Kneeling on the floor, the servant couldn’t help but shiver as he remembered the scene in the vegetable market. For the most cherished, arrogant courtesan of the Crimson Pearl to personally intervene in a street haggle for a woman in a frayed black cloak...

The capital was a dangerous place, and the servant knew with absolute certainty that whoever that cold-eyed woman was, she had just caught the attention of the most dangerous butterfly in the city.

The terrified gray-robed servant remained kneeling, his forehead practically glued to the polished floorboards. "Master, should I bring fresh tea? Or... what about your evening bath?"

Butterfly didn’t even look at him. He waved his hand in a slow, dismissive arc. "No need. Do something else for me, Shiwan."

Shiwan swallowed hard, finally lifting his head just enough to look at his master’s silk-slippered feet. "Yes, Master? What is your command?"

"Find out who that woman is," Butterfly ordered, his voice dropping to a cool, calculating murmur as he began rhythmically tapping his manicured index finger against the arm of the chaise lounge.

Shiwan blinked, his confusion momentarily overriding his fear. "The... the woman we met at the vegetable stall?" he asked, his voice trembling slightly. "But Master, that woman was dressed in coarse linen and a frayed cloak. Do you feel there is something important about her?"