Christmas Eve, the snow fell in silence. When I pushed open the front door, the fireplace still glowed with warmth. Dinner was set on the table—cutlery neatly arranged, red wine untouched and not yet chilled. My wife’s scarf lay draped over the arm of the sofa, still holding a trace of heat. But where was she? "Mommy?" My daughter, Penny, came running down the stairs, her eyes red as if soaked in blood. She didn’t say a word—just pressed a note into my hand. The handwriting was my wife’s: *Ed, don’t look for me. I’ve been dead for three days.* My body went cold. Three days ago, she was in the kitchen making soup, laughing at the tomato sauce stain on my shirt. Three days ago, she kissed Penny’s forehead and said it would snow for Christmas, reminding her to wear something warm. Three days ago… she was alive! But the coroner later told me—there was no mistake. The signs of slow decomposition under cold conditions don’t lie. She had been gone for more than 72 hours. Then who had spoken? Who had laughed? Who had carefully stitched up Penny’s torn Christmas doll, needle by careful needle? Penny hugged the doll close and whispered, “Daddy, Mommy hasn’t left. She said… as long as we remember her, she can stay a little longer.” I broke down in tears. And on the seventh day, the doorbell rang. Standing outside was a woman with a gentle smile and a voice achingly familiar. “Hello, I’m Mia. The new nanny. I heard you… needed a mother?” The moment she stepped inside, Penny jerked her head up, pupils shrinking in shock. Because behind Mia’s ear was a mole—exactly like the one my dead wife had. That night, I found my wife’s diary in the attic. On the final page, she had written: *If another “me” ever appears, tell her: the child is afraid of the dark. Remember to leave the light on.* Snow began to fall again. At the graveyard, Penny crouched before the grave, placing the doll gently beside the tombstone. Moonlight spilled across the stone as she whispered, “Mommy, I won’t cry this Christmas.” “But promise me one thing—next time you come back… don’t borrow someone else’s body.” The wind passed without a sound. Far away, beneath a streetlamp, Mia stood motionless—and raised a hand to wipe away a tear that wasn’t hers.

In the late-night showdown at "Tranquility Restaurant," light sliced like knives, tearing through the silence. Jasper, the rising star chef, said nothing. With a gentle push of his fingertips against the fish's belly, he removed every bone from the East China Sea silver perch—without breaking the skin. The tail still quivered faintly, as if swimming in the deep sea. The room erupted. Old-school master Zev sneered, “Just flashy tricks. Cooking isn’t illusion.” But before the words faded, surveillance footage suddenly played on the main screen—three years ago, Zev had used his so-called “inner energy infusion” to manipulate taste illusions, secretly influencing judges and stealing the Golden Spoon that rightfully belonged to another. The evidence was undeniable. Shock rippled through the crowd. Zev leapt to his feet, eyes bloodshot. “Who do you think you are? You dare ruin my life?” He lunged at Jasper, palm blazing with fury. Yet Jasper closed his eyes—left hand drawing a circle, right hand striking like lightning. He unleashed the long-lost **Dance of the Beast, Bone-Stripping Technique**. One blade, one cut—silent, seamless. Zev froze. His knife clattered to the floor. He looked down. Five crimson lines bloomed across his apron, perfectly aligned with the projected positions of the five vital organs. The outcome was clear. Then, a dark figure stepped in through the rain. Hair white as snow, left sleeve hanging empty. Master Chef had arrived. His gaze settled on Jasper, soft but profound: “The final disciple I’ve waited twenty years for… has finally made this blade speak again.” Silence swallowed the room. Only the crackle of stove flames remained, illuminating the young man once mocked as “all show, no soul.” He turned, removed his chef’s hat—and revealed an old lotus-shaped scar on the back of his neck. The **“Crimson Flame Brand.”** A mark known only to Master Chef’s lineage. He hadn’t come to challenge the rules from the start. He had come to **burn the old throne to ashes.**

The wedding march played as he held her hand, vowing to stay together till their hair turned white. Guests raised their glasses, camera flashes blooming like a sea of stars. I sat in the front row, dressed in a simple white gown—like a ghost who never should have returned. Then the officiant asked, “Do you take Lin Chengyu as your husband?” I slowly rose. My voice wasn’t loud, yet it cut through the entire hall— “He cannot marry.” Gasps erupted. Lin Chengyu’s face twisted in shock. “Are you insane?! We’re already divorced!” I removed my sunglasses, revealing eyes once blinded by his hands—eyes that had miraculously regained sight. “You said you were cured. Three years of impotence, and suddenly you’re healed—just in time to marry a new lover?” I unlocked my phone, playing a recording aloud— “Doctor… is there truly no hope for me?” “Mr. Lin, nerve damage is irreversible. I suggest you accept reality.” His own voice. His own confession. The bride froze, her trembling body barely held up by the wedding dress. And I? I merely brushed my fingers over the small silver needle pouch at my waist. “You thought rebirth would let you rewrite history, swap partners, and fool the world?” “But you forgot—” “In the last life, it was you on your knees, begging me to save you.” “It was my ancestral acupuncture that kept you alive for three more years.” “And how did you repay me? You used that so-called ‘recovery’ as leverage… and pushed me into a well.” Silence swallowed the room. I stepped toward him, fingertips lightly pressing his wrist pulse. Three seconds later, he coughed violently—a splash of blood staining his collar—and collapsed. As emergency cries broke out, I turned, eyes meeting the man standing by the door, holding an umbrella. The rain hadn’t stopped. He stood at the end of the red carpet, gaze deep as the ocean. A faint smile touched my lips as I declared to everyone: “In four days, I’ll marry him.” As for Lin Chengyu— “Don’t worry. I’ll heal you.” “But not now.” “I want you to watch with your own eyes as I become another man’s wife.” “Just as you made me watch, helpless, while you laughed and accepted marriage vows with someone else, calling me worthless.” Thunder cracked across the sky. I walked past his convulsing body in high heels, stepping over the grave of my past life. This time, I’m no longer discarded medicinal dregs. I am the one holding the scalpel. And I—am his reckoning.

In the opulent hall of the auction house, crystal chandeliers blazed so brightly they nearly blinded. Ten gold coins were placed gently onto the table. A soft *clink* echoed— Silence fell across the room. The nobles froze mid-sneer, wineglasses still in hand. Moments ago, they had mocked the "peasant" onstage—this mud-stained fool dressed like a beggar in stolen theater rags—scribbling a crude stick-figure drawing: a tiny swordsman beneath two bold characters—**"Oracle."** "What is this supposed to be? Art?" "This bumpkin’s probably never even seen paint!" The countess in the front row giggled behind her fan, her pearl earrings trembling wildly. But now, no one laughed. Because those ten gold coins stood alone at the highest bid. And the bidder? The reclusive Duchess of the North—cloaked in black veils, seated in the darkest corner, who had not spoken a single word all evening. Onstage, Aidan Thorne slowly lowered his hood. No shame touched his face—only a faint, knowing smile. "You were all laughing quite heartily," he said, fingertip brushing the drawing. "Pity—what you're mocking is the future crowned Prophet-King." Laughter erupted again, sharp and cruel. "The Prophet-King? He can’t even ride a horse!" "His father farms potatoes! Owed me rent last month!" Before the echoes died, the great doors burst open. A howling wind swept snow into the hall. A weathered farmer in coarse linen stepped in, hoe on shoulder, straw sandals caked with mud. He walked straight to the stage, slammed the hoe down, and grinned. "Sorry, everyone. My son’s art *is* a bit rough. But you’re wrong about one thing—" He flashed a row of white teeth. "I don’t grow potatoes. I grow the fate of an entire kingdom." Chaos erupted. Someone spotted the copper badge at his belt—the long-lost sigil of the **Stellar Gatekeeper**, vanished for centuries. Even more chilling—the so-called "child’s doodle" began to shift under the firelight. A second layer emerged: blood dripping from the sword’s tip, each drop becoming a star, aligning precisely with tonight’s celestial pattern. The Duchess slowly rose. Her veil slipped slightly, revealing a teardrop mole beneath her eye. She stared at Aidan, voice raw: "...Your mother drew the same image... before she died." At last, Aidan spoke, soft as a whisper: "I didn’t come here to bid." "I came to reclaim what was always mine—" "The throne. The truth. And the name..." "...you’ve pretended never to hear." He raised his hand—and tore the drawing in two. From the rift, a golden light erupted, piercing the ceiling like a beacon. An ancient prophecy stirred in the wind: **"When the sword-bearing Oracle comes, paper crowns shall turn to ash."**

She gave everything for love, only to be betrayed while pregnant. Four months along, Rose is cast out by her cheating husband. But the baby belongs to Brad, a magnetic billionaire. Rose and Brad strike a deal: a flash marriage, shared revenge. Fighting side by side, vengeance turns into tender love.

After 20 years underground, secret billionaire Mark catches his wife Emily taking her ex Jamie to bed on Christmas Eve—and his kids even side with the new lover! Humiliated and cast out into the cold on Christmas Eve, Mark is finally done hiding. Now, the ruthless reckoning begins.