Oh my goodness. Cold Wanwan felt a blazing, fiery pain on her cheeks. What in the world—some bold soul had struck her while she was drunk and vulnerable? As she suddenly opened her eyes, the fierce anger in them burned like an ever-burning flame, nearly scaring the woman who had been quietly wiping tears from her eyes into actually spilling them over. "Miss," said the woman, blinking rapidly. How could this be? Surely it must be a mistake. Could a three-year-old child really look so fierce and commanding? She comforted herself with that thought. "Miss?" Wanwan narrowed her brows, studying the middle-aged woman before her. Her complexion was pale yellow; her swollen eyes clearly bore the weight of prolonged tears. A cheap hairpin was askew in her hair, a few strands of loose hair dangling down. She wore a faded blue robe—somewhat worn and ordinary. This appearance seemed straight out of an ancient drama: round, lively eyes darted around, taking in the surroundings with quiet grace—the wooden latticed window, the warm-toned wooden table and chairs, and the white linen bed she lay upon. Timeless elegance. Wanwan’s mind instantly flashed four words. Her sharp intelligence—twenty points above average—recognized immediately that she was in a period drama setting. Though it seemed odd, after all, she had only just been drowsy from a drink, nothing dramatic at first. Yet she’d always lived by the principle of doing what felt right—wearing what suited her. Whether she landed in ancient times or not, she’d manage to thrive. Habitually, she snapped her fingers—and yet, the arm that emerged from beneath the quilt was small and delicate. What on earth? She had accepted the very notion of time-traveling—but now, instead of stepping into a radiant belle, she had transformed into her very least favorite: a tiny, persistent little sprite. Dark, gem-like eyes narrowed in disapproval. Oh, for heaven’s sake—this was no mere crossover; this was pure mortification. If only she could find out which celestial being had orchestrated such a whimsical mishap, she would make them pay dearly. "Miss, what's wrong with you?" The woman finally noticed the unusual intensity in Wanwan’s gaze—the absence of fear, the very presence of determination. This was no ordinary reaction. Had the little girl truly been struck senseless? With concern, she watched her closely, tears welling again. "Who are you?" Wanwan stared at the woman, calling her "Miss" rather than "mother." But her attentiveness was so genuine—so maternal—that it couldn’t possibly be a mere nursemaid. Wasn’t that right? "I’m your nursemaid," the woman stammered, startled by the unfamiliarity in Wanwan’s expression, "Oh, my dear Miss! You’ve never known a mother—now you’re beginning to lose your mind!" After a brief pause, she began to weep again. Wanwan rolled her eyes. Was it possible that this nursemaid had been made entirely of water? If the woman kept going on like this, soon the entire room would flood. Yet now, perhaps, she’d have to adopt the very act of "amnesia" so often seen in ancient-drama heroines—though Wanwan never relished such performance. To actually embody it, however—ah, that would be a masterpiece, more profound than even an Oscar-winning actress. Her dark, gem-like eyes half-closed, glowing with subtle brilliance. Her slightly pale lips curved into a faint, enigmatic smile—an expression utterly alien to the body she now inhabited. A modern-day magician was rising here and now. "Are you my nursemaid?" Wanwan lifted her flushed, tender face. The soft voice, gentle yet tinged with wonder and trepidation, echoed through the quiet room, accompanied by the clear dew droplets in her dark eyes—sparking an uncontrollable maternal warmth within the nursemaid. "I am your nursemaid, Miss," she replied, seeing how fragile and helpless the little girl appeared. Immediately wiping a tear, she sat down beside Wanwan and gently stroked the girl’s cheek with a hand bearing the delicate texture of calloused hands—yet even this gentle touch caused a slight sting. Ah! The small brows furrowed into a crease, her eyes bright and tender, making the scene all the more heart-wrenching. Oh for goodness’ sake—Wanwan thought in frustration—the body was just too frail. "Nursemaid, why do I remember nothing at all?" Tears slipped down her cheeks as she lowered her white-tinged lips, trembling slightly. "And why hasn’t my father ever come to see me?" Just now, when the nursemaid mentioned that her mother had been absent since birth, Wanwan didn’t need to ask directly—she’d simply assumed it was her father who was neglectful. "Oh, how pitiful," sighed the nursemaid again, gently placing her hand on the dark hair atop Wanwan’s head and stroking it softly. "Your father has never looked at you once since your birth. He allowed other ladies in the household to treat you with disdain—sometimes even the servants would treat you with disrespect. My beloved Miss, ah, woe is me…!" The woman began to weep again as she spoke. Wanwan listened patiently, quickly extracting several key facts from her words: First, this body’s original owner had been born without a mother—only this nursemaid had shown consistent care; second, the father was clearly the military governor of the household; third, she had endured repeated mistreatment from other ladies and attendants. Oh, what a sweet little story! In Wanwan’s mind, the original owner of this body truly was a true underdog. Now that her own body had been bestowed upon her—any injuries sustained were now hers to bear—and any who had wronged her would have to face consequences! "Then, what is my name? And what was my mother like?" Lowering her head slightly, she tried to conceal the subtle spark of confidence within her eyes. Her small hands, unconsciously twisted together, weren’t just idle—they were already calculating how best to vanquish those who had wronged her. "Miss Cold, Wanwan," the nursemaid said tenderly, touching her head gently—perhaps it would be a good thing if she completely forgot this detail. Wanwan? That was a relief—at least the name remained hers. "My mother’s maiden name was Xiao Lian," the nursemaid continued. "She too had been a victim of misfortune. At age eight, she was sold into service in the household as a servant. When she was fourteen, she encountered the general returning late from an evening outing and fell in love with him—thus giving birth to you. She became his attendant wife, believing that this would finally end her struggles. But after that, the general began to forget about her. She remained alone in her small courtyard, yet was mocked by other servants for her modesty and even accused of being shameless when she attempted to charm him. Later, as she grew pregnant with you at seven months’ gestation, she fell ill from poisoning—leading to an early delivery. After a fierce effort, she gave birth, but did not survive the labor. Your body was born frail from this premature arrival." What a dramatic arc! Wanwan thought inwardly, amazed at how unfortunate the original mother had been—she’d even been forced into an unexpected love affair. And as for the general—he truly wasn’t human at all. To have forgotten his own young bride so completely? A true example of ruthless neglect—perhaps even a deliberate act of cultural erasure! Alas, seeing that this body now belonged to her, she would certainly see justice served in return. "Then, I’m hungry," Wanwan said softly, gently patting her stomach. "Yes, Nursemaid will quickly prepare something for you," the woman replied, wiping a tear and rushing off to fetch food. After the nursemaid disappeared from view, Wanwan immediately used her inner energy to ease the pain in her body. Then she climbed out of bed—why climb? Well, after all, it was only three years old now. The bed towered too high for such a small frame. She moved toward a large bronze mirror, fetched a stool, and stood on it, striving hard to examine the features of this new, unfamiliar body through the slightly hazy reflection. She’d accepted becoming a child—she would have had to—yet not at the expense of looking especially unattractive. She certainly did not wish to become merely an "unfortunate little sprite" who barely looked good. Indeed—the dark hair was long and glossy, the eyebrows curved like gentle bows, the eyes large and bright. The nose was delicate, though slightly pale; the lips held their own charm despite a slight lack of color. Her face was petite, cheeks flushed with warmth—overall, there was real potential for graceful development. She glanced down at her height—rather slender, not quite to her liking—so she would have to work on gaining strength. After taking in every detail of her appearance, she climbed back onto the bed and settled into a comfortable position. For now, she could not let go too soon—the body still bore wounds from trauma and memory loss. Too early exposure might spoil all the fun. Her large eyes sparkled with quiet mischief—those who had previously wronged her would soon find themselves in the spotlight. Happy New Year!