True Heir of Chaos: From Villainess to Empress

"Jian Dan, do you want me to come with you? I'm worried you'll get taken advantage of. He hasn't contacted you in years—why suddenly remember he has a daughter now? There's definitely something fishy going on!"

Du Yanran's analysis sounded perfectly logical.

And she wasn't wrong. It was exactly like the fox offering the chicken a gift—nothing but ill intentions.

"Yanran, don't worry. He's still my father, after all. I want to see him… if only to get some closure for myself."

"Fine. Just be careful, okay? Call me if anything happens!"

Du Yanran's voice came through the phone, tinged with feigned concern.

"Don't worry, when have I ever kept anything from you? I'll update you once I figure things out. Happy early birthday!"

"Alright, keep in touch. And remember—call me if you need anything!"

With one last thoughtful reminder, Du Yanran finally hung up.

The moment the call ended, Jian Dan didn't hesitate. Her fingers moved almost instinctively, dialing the number of the law office with practiced urgency, as if afraid that if she waited even a second too long, reality might shift again.

"Hello, is this Attorney Xu?" Her voice was calm, but her knuckles were white from how tightly she gripped the phone. "This is Jian Dan. You called me this morning—I'd like to schedule an appointment for this afternoon to handle my mother's inheritance."

There was a brief pause, the kind that held the weight of formality and protocol, then a brisk confirmation.

"Yes, understood. I'll bring all the necessary documents. See you this afternoon. Goodbye."

As the call ended, Jian Dan let out a sharp breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Her chest tightened. Despite everything, this part was happening exactly as she remembered. The familiarity was both a comfort and a silent dread.

She moved quickly, sweeping papers off her desk, double-checking her mother's household registry, the notarized documents, and her own ID. The bag snapped shut with a definitive clack. She flagged down a taxi, slid into the seat, and stared out the window as the city blurred by. Her reflection in the glass looked composed, but her heart beat fast and erratic, thudding like footsteps echoing down a long hallway she couldn't see the end of.

The law firm lobby was all polished marble and soft lighting—impersonal, like grief packaged in glass and steel.

"Hello, how may I assist you?" The receptionist smiled with professional warmth. "Do you have an appointment? Would you like me to recommend an attorney?"

"Yes, I'm here to see Attorney Xu Zhen."

"Right this way, please."

"Thank you."

Xu Zhen's office was quiet, clinical, prepared. The documents were already arranged on the table, and Attorney Xu went through them with measured precision. ID verification, household registry, inheritance papers—all reviewed, copied, filed. Jian Dan signed where indicated, her hand moving with detached efficiency. The routine was familiar.

Finally, he handed her an envelope and a small bank deposit slip.

Her fingers brushed the envelope's edge. The texture, the weight—it was the same. Just like before.

Inside was a single key.

Her chest gave a subtle twist. That key, from her last life, had unlocked more than just a safe deposit box. It had unlocked the lingering scent of her mother's perfume, the echo of a lullaby once sung to her in the dark, the feeling of being someone's entire world.

The next part moved quickly. She made her way to the bank, her motions fluid but distant. Everything felt dreamlike, as though she were walking through memories made real. When she presented the documents at the counter, the staff guided her through with smooth efficiency. A number card was issued. She waited. Then came the walk through the security doors, past the quiet hum of machinery, toward the steel vault.

They stopped at Box 77.

Jian Dan and the manager inserted their respective keys simultaneously, turning them in unison. The box opened without a hitch. The manager carefully retrieved the container and led her to a private viewing room.

When the lid was lifted, Jian Dan's breath caught.

"Exactly the same as before."

A red velvet jewelry box sat on top. She opened it with reverence. The magnolia jade pendant. The earrings. Her mother's favorite set. Beneath it, a smooth, unadorned white-green jade tablet in a carved wooden box. Its simplicity made it more sacred. And at the bottom—ten slender gold bars, each no longer than her little finger, gleaming faintly under the soft light.

"Ms. Jian, please verify the contents," the bank manager said gently. "If everything is in order, sign here."

"No issues," she replied automatically, though her voice was quieter than before. She glanced at the inventory sheet, confirmed each item, and signed her name.

"One more thing, Ms. Jian. There's a letter your mother left for you. Please sign for it as well."

Jian Dan's brows lifted.

"A letter? This didn't happen last time."

Her eyes locked onto the envelope being handed to her. It was cream-colored, slightly yellowed with age, but well-preserved. On the front, in flowing, elegant handwriting, were the words: To My Daughter, Jian Dan—in her mother's delicate, graceful handwriting, so like her gentle nature.

The signature alone undid something in her.

She took the letter with both hands, as if it might shatter. Her fingertips trembled. Slowly, carefully, she slid it open. Inside was a letter and another bank key—identical to the one from earlier, except with a different number.

Why…?

What was this?

Her heart began to pound, a dull roar building in her ears as she opened the letter, unfolding it with reverence. Every motion was slow, deliberate, as though her mother might speak again through the ink on the page.

She began to read.

And this time, she wasn't sure what she would find.