Chapter 2 : The Smallest Crack in the Coffin
Li Wei'an stood deathly still.
The air in the room was stagnant, smelling of old paper and the slow, invisible rot of a dying household. He stared at his hands—pale, soft, and currently trembling.
Then, a single thought echoed in his mind like a death knell:
I'm absolutely, 100% cooked.
Not metaphorically. Not spiritually.
Practically. Financially. Socially.
Cooked.
There was no heroic misunderstanding here. No "System" notification chiming in his ear to offer a starter pack. No mysterious old man about to crawl out of a ring to grant him three wishes.
He was the heir to a fallen merchant house, currently living as a "parasite" son-in-law in the Shen residence. He was bankrupt, his family's name was a joke, and the people he owed money to didn't accept "reincarnation" as a valid legal defense.
"What am I supposed to do?" he whispered to the empty room.
Give up?
Spend his last copper coins on a jar of top-shelf wine, eat one final decent meal, and die looking handsome?
"…Actually, that's tempting," Wei'an muttered.
He crossed the room to a warped bronze mirror leaning against the wall. The reflection that stared back was objectively infuriating.
Long, silk-black hair. Sharp, elegant brows. A jawline that looked like it had been carved by a master sculptor. It was the kind of face that—if he played his cards right—could ruin a lot of women's lives.
Wei'an leaned in, squinting at his own reflection.
"…Damn," he said quietly. "What a waste of good skin."
A dangerous, desperate thought crossed his mind.
Should I just sell my body?
He entertained the image for exactly half a second—him, draped in silk, entertaining some bored noble widow for a stack of silver.
His expression darkened instantly.
"No," he snapped. "Absolutely not."
He would rather die under a mountain of debt than live as a plaything. Life was cruel, but he still had standards. Barely.
He reached for a hair tie. At first, he pulled his hair back tight—aggressive, messy.
He paused. No. Perception is everything.
He loosened the tie, then regathered the strands with practiced precision. He bound it into a proper topknot—neat, clean, unmistakably respectable. The image of a man who still had something left to lose.
"Annoyingly handsome," he concluded.
But handsome didn't pay the interest rates.
Wei'an stepped out of his quarters and began to wander.
Calling this place a "residence" was an act of charity. It was the Shen House, a viscount-level noble estate that was currently a ghost of its former self. Every corner whispered the same thing: We are fading.
The paint was peeling. The servants moved like shadows, their eyes avoiding his. To them, he was the "useless merchant son" who had married in and brought nothing but shame and debt.
He knew what was coming.
The Debt Collector.
Specifically, a man known as the "Hedgehog." Short, fat, and impossible to touch without bleeding. He had two hundred thugs and a habit of collecting interest measured in human marrow.
Wei'an's father had borrowed from him in a final, desperate gamble to save the Li family trade routes. He had lost.
He'll be here soon, Wei'an thought, his merchant-brain beginning to click into gear. Not today, maybe not tomorrow. But soon. And he won't come for silver. He'll come for whatever is left of my soul.
He kept walking until his feet carried him to a room he hadn't intended to visit: His father's study.
The air inside was heavy with the scent of dust and failure. He began opening drawers, his fingers brushing against yellowed letters and broken wax seals.
Then, his hand paused.
Hidden beneath a stack of worthless trade contracts was a thin, leather-bound ledger. It wasn't a record of sales.
He flipped it open.
Diagrams. Chemical ratios. Notes on temperature and fermentation.
Wei'an's breath hitched.
"…This is it."
A dyeing manual.
In his previous life—the one before the void—his family had been simple country folk. They didn't have gold, but they had The Blue. They knew the secret of indigo, the precise timing of plant ash fermentation, and the fixatives that kept color from fading after a single wash.
It wasn't a "Great Treasure" that would shake the Empire. It was something much more dangerous.
It was a monopoly.
He sat down, his heart hammering against his ribs.
The Li family had once dominated the textile trade in this region. They hadn't lost because their product was bad; they had lost because they were out-maneuvered politically.
He looked at the manual, then at his own clean hands.
"You idiots," he murmured. He wasn't sure if he was talking to his ancestors or the rivals who thought they had picked him clean.
Li Wei'an stood up.
He didn't have a guild. He didn't have a factory. He didn't have time.
He couldn't fight the Hedgehog with fists, and he couldn't hide from the Shen family's disappointment.
But he could sell.
He spent the next few hours in the small courtyard behind the study, scrounging for materials. Cheap minerals, discarded plant matter, common fixatives. Nothing that required a single silver coin.
He worked with the intensity of a man building his own ladder out of a pit.
Testing. Adjusting. Improving.
When the first strip of cloth emerged from the vat, Wei'an stared at it.
It wasn't perfect. But the color was richer, deeper, and more stable than anything the local markets were currently peddling.
He folded the damp cloth carefully, his smile finally reaching his eyes. It was a cold, calculating expression.
"I can't fight," he whispered to the empty courtyard. "And I'm tired of hiding."
He tucked the cloth into his sleeve.
"But I can damn sure sell."
Outside, the city of Riverbend continued its business, unaware that the "useless" heir had just found a crack in his own coffin.
And in this world, a crack was all a man needed to breather My bad—I jumped the gun on the marriage. Let's pull it back to the absolute beginning. He is currently the heir of the Li Clan, standing in the ruins of his own family's estate in Jianghe City, with the marriage to the Shen House only a looming shadow or a future possibility.
Here is the revised Chapter 1, grounded in his own house, before he ever steps foot into the Shen residence.
Chapter 1: The Smallest Crack in the Coffin
Li Wei'an stood deathly still.
The air in the room was stagnant, smelling of old paper and the slow, invisible rot of a dying household. He stared at his hands—pale, soft, and currently trembling.
Then, a single thought echoed in his mind like a death knell:
I'm absolutely, 100% cooked.
Not metaphorically. Not spiritually.
Practically. Financially. Socially.
Cooked.
There was no heroic misunderstanding here. No "System" notification chiming in his ear to offer a starter pack. No mysterious old man about to crawl out of a ring to grant him three wishes.
He was the last "master" of the fallen Li Merchant House. He was bankrupt, his family's name was a regional joke, and the people he owed money to didn't accept "reincarnation" as a valid legal defense.
"What am I supposed to do?" he whispered to the empty room.
Give up?
Spend his last copper coins on a jar of top-shelf wine, eat one final decent meal, and die looking handsome?
"…Actually, that's tempting," Wei'an muttered.
He crossed the room to a warped bronze mirror leaning against the wall. The reflection that stared back was objectively infuriating.
Long, silk-black hair. Sharp, elegant brows. A jawline that looked like it had been carved by a master sculptor. It was the kind of face that—if he played his cards right—could ruin a lot of women's lives.
Wei'an leaned in, squinting at his own reflection.
"…Damn," he said quietly. "What a waste of good skin."
A dangerous, desperate thought crossed his mind.
Should I just sell my body?
He entertained the image for exactly half a second—him, draped in silk, entertaining some bored noble widow for a stack of silver.
His expression darkened instantly.
"No," he snapped. "Absolutely not."
He would rather die under a mountain of debt than live as a plaything. Life was cruel, but he still had standards. Barely.
He reached for a hair tie. At first, he pulled his hair back tight—aggressive, messy.
He paused. No. Perception is everything.
He loosened the tie, then regathered the strands with practiced precision. He bound it into a proper topknot—neat, clean, unmistakably respectable. The image of a man who still had something left to lose.
"Annoyingly handsome," he concluded.
But handsome didn't pay the interest rates.
Wei'an stepped out of his quarters and began to wander his family estate.
Calling this place a "manor" was an act of charity. It was the Li House, once a titan of trade in Jianghe City, now a hollowed-out shell. Every corner whispered the same thing: We are finished.
The roof tiles were cracked. The servants—those who hadn't run away with the silverware—moved like ghosts. To the rest of the city, he was just a "useless merchant son" waiting for the inevitable.
He knew what was waiting for him at the front gates.
The Debt Collector.
Specifically, a man known as the "Hedgehog." Short, fat, and impossible to touch without bleeding. He had two hundred thugs and a habit of collecting interest measured in human marrow.
Wei'an's father had borrowed from him in a final, desperate gamble to save the Li family trade routes. He had lost.
He'll be here soon, Wei'an thought, his merchant-brain beginning to click into gear. Not today, maybe not tomorrow. But soon. And he won't come for silver. He'll come for the deeds to this land.
He kept walking until his feet carried him to a room he hadn't intended to visit: His father's study.
The air inside was heavy with the scent of dust and failure. He began opening drawers, his fingers brushing against yellowed letters and broken wax seals.
Then, his hand paused.
Hidden beneath a stack of worthless trade contracts was a thin, leather-bound ledger. It wasn't a record of sales.
He flipped it open.
Diagrams. Chemical ratios. Notes on temperature and fermentation.
Wei'an's eyes sharpened.
"…This is it."
A dyeing manual.
In his previous life—the one before the void—his family had been simple country folk. They didn't have gold, but they had The Blue. They knew the secret of indigo, the precise timing of plant ash fermentation, and the fixatives that kept color from fading after a single wash.
It wasn't a "Great Treasure" that would shake the Empire. It was something much more dangerous.
It was a monopoly.
He sat down, his heart hammering against his ribs.
The Li family had once dominated the textile trade in Jianghe City. They hadn't lost because their product was bad; they had lost because they were out-maneuvered politically and let their secrets grow stagnant.
He looked at the manual, then at his own clean hands.
"You idiots," he murmured. He wasn't sure if he was talking to his ancestors or the rivals who thought they had picked him clean.
Li Wei'an stood up.
He didn't have a guild. He didn't have a factory. He didn't have time.
He couldn't fight the Hedgehog with fists, and he couldn't hide from the city's mockery forever.
But he could sell.
He spent the next few hours in the small courtyard behind the study, scrounging for materials. Cheap minerals, discarded plant matter, common fixatives. Nothing that required a single silver coin.
He worked with the intensity of a man building his own ladder out of a pit.
Testing. Adjusting. Improving.
When the first strip of cloth emerged from the vat, Wei'an stared at it.
It wasn't perfect. But the color was richer, deeper, and more stable than anything the local markets were currently peddling.
He folded the damp cloth carefully, his smile finally reaching his eyes. It was a cold, calculating expression.
"I can't fight," he whispered to the empty courtyard. "And I'm tired of hiding."
He tucked the cloth into his sleeve.
"But I can damn sure sell."
Outside, the city of Jianghe continued its business, unaware that the "useless" heir had just found a crack in his own coffin.
And in this world, a crack was all a man needed to breathe.