chapter 4

Yīchéng couldn't help but shake his head in disbelief. What kind of hypocrite of a protagonist was the original owner? The guy completely ignored a child smaller than him and acted like nothing was wrong. Here was a supposed "hero" who let bullying happen right in front of him without even lifting a finger.

It was laughable. The Mèng Yīchéng in the memories hadn't just been indifferent—he had actively chosen to do nothing. Not even a half-hearted attempt to stop the bullying. Maybe he thought ignoring the kid would make him 'mysterious' or 'cool.' But honestly, Yīchéng couldn't even tell if this was a case of arrogance or just pure apathy. Either way, it was a pretty pathetic display for someone who was supposed to be the hero.

So, somewhere out there, the poor little villain was probably enduring the full, unrelenting wrath of the protagonist's mother. Yīchéng shuddered at the thought, a cold shiver running down his spine.

The elegant young lady—who, at first glance, looked like someone who couldn't hurt a fly—unleashing her righteous fury on the poor villain was a terrifying mental image. It made him pull the luxurious blankets tighter around himself, almost as if he could shield himself from the wrath still hanging in the air.

Unable to hold back, Yīchéng's curiosity got the best of him. "So, where's Mèng Xīngyào now?" His voice had an edge, as though he were bracing for yet another bombshell.

Angella, the ever-cheerful guide, paused for a moment before answering, her tone suddenly shifting, almost like a car skidding on gravel. "Oh, about him... well, he's already had the worst of it. Picture this: he got a beating with sticks—nothing too obvious, no scars or anything, but definitely enough to make him wish he had a whole new life. And now? He's locked up, starving, no medicine, stuck in this cold weather. Yeah, he's probably on his last breath by now."

Yīchéng sighed deeply, shaking his head as he tried to shake off the unpleasant mental image. The thought that his own survival might depend on the fate of that poor guy—Mèng Xīngyào—was enough to make him feel lightheaded. He really didn't want to picture that.

Yīchéng sat up, groggy but steady after the brief rest. He didn't have the luxury of wasting time. "Angella, where exactly is this place where Mèng Xīngyào is being held?"

Angella's voice chirped in his head, sweet as ever but with a hint of urgency. "Oh, right, host! He's locked up in Jìngyī Courtyard, in some dingy storage chamber under Madame Wu's watch."

Yīchéng scoffed, his lip curling in disgust. "These people... real pieces of work, huh?"

"Absolutely," Angella replied, a little too cheerfully. "Poor villain. Hmph."

"And how long has he been in there?"

"Well, let's see. After you were shoved into the pond, Lady Mèng—oh, excuse me, your 'mother'—ordered him to be locked up immediately. Once she confirmed you were fine, she felt relieved and left. That's when the real punishment began. You've rested for almost five hours, and the original owner was unconscious for six hours before that. So... eleven hours in total."

Yīchéng dragged his hand down his face, muttering a string of colorful curses under his breath. If not for the system's idiotic profanity filter, he'd have let loose a tirade that would make a sailor blush.

"Fine. Can I just go and take him out, or are there restrictions?"

"Not really, host. Technically, no one will stop you. You can do as you please, but Lady Mèng—that is, your 'mother'—is the only real obstacle. She wouldn't let you rescue him so easily."

"Great," Yīchéng muttered darkly. "Now guide me there."

"Host, wait—"

"No more delays, Angella. Let's go."

Without wasting another moment, Yīchéng called for the one maid he could trust from the memories he had received. She wasn't the curious type, and he knew she'd follow his orders without unnecessary questions. After asking her to find him a cloak, he made his way to Jìngyī Courtyard.

The guards and servants at the courtyard greeted him politely and let him pass without hesitation. Yīchéng marched straight to the secluded storage chamber where Mèng Xīngyào was imprisoned. Two guards stood at the entrance, which made him pause.

What's the point of guarding a half-dead kid? he thought grimly.

"Open the gates," he ordered curtly. His attempt to mimic the original owner's cold, aloof demeanor wasn't perfect, but it did the trick. The guards exchanged glances but ultimately complied.

The heavy door creaked open.

And then he saw it.

The sight before him hit Yīchéng like a punch to the gut.

The boy lay curled up on the icy stone floor, a pitiful figure that barely looked alive. He was more like a battered rag doll than a human child. His small hands clutched his stomach—whether from pain or hunger, Yīchéng couldn't tell. Blood and saliva had dried at the corners of his mouth, leaving ugly, crusted marks.

His clothes were in tatters, filthy and torn, more befitting a beggar than the child of a wealthy family. His tiny feet were bare, his fingers and nose an angry red from the cold, and his stiff body showed no signs of movement.

Looking at the scene before him,

Yīchéng froze, his breath catching in his throat. In his past life, he had lived in a civilized society, surrounded by laws that protected even the most vulnerable. Sure, he'd read stories of cruel tropes like this—villains beaten and discarded for drama—but seeing it in front of him? This wasn't fiction. This was brutal reality, and it churned his stomach. He had never imagined such inhumanity could be inflicted on a child.

"Bloody hell," he muttered under his breath, his voice shaking with barely restrained fury. He crouched beside the boy and pressed two fingers under his nose. Relief washed over him when he felt faint breaths, though it did little to calm the storm raging in his chest.

Shrugging off his cloak, he wrapped it gently around the boy's frail frame. The anger simmering beneath his calm façade threatened to boil over as he stood. "Help me carry him out," he ordered sharply, his tone like steel.

The guards hesitated. One of them finally mustered the courage to speak. "Young master, Lady Mèng gave strict orders. Mèng Xīngyào's punishment isn't over. He fainted in the middle of it, so he was locked up until he could wake and finish. It's... it's for your safety, young master. If he's not disciplined properly, he might harm you in the future."

Yīchéng's jaw tightened, and his fists clenched so hard his knuckles turned white. For my safety? he thought bitterly, his mind ablaze with fury. What utter bullshit.

He took a deep breath, forcing himself to remain outwardly composed. Inside, though, he was seething. There was no way he was leaving this boy to die, no matter what asinine excuses these fools gave.

If only he didn't have to maintain his façade as the noble protagonist, he would've thrown his weight around or, better yet, just dragged Mèng Xīngyào out himself. But no, decorum demanded he play the part, which meant heading to his so-called mother's chambers to seek permission.

As he walked toward the chamber, Yīchéng clenched and unclenched his fists, muttering under his breath, "This better work, or I'm tearing this whole place down, 'protagonist dignity' be damned."

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