Chapter 34

*Security Question*
Socializing could be a tool or an instinct.
The original was the former—effortless at building whatever relationship she wanted. Zhu Yu was the latter—an NPC that only moved when poked.
The “inheritance” of contacts was crushing. She opened a few threads: sincere concern, repeated offers to visit with gifts.
While Zhu Yu had been confined, Melnor must have been busy—not only blocking conspirators but gently turning away ladies who wept as if coming to a funeral.
Zhu Yu had thought Melnor a cold headmistress. Now she felt the woman had been almost kind not to strangle her on sight.
The original’s social range was absurd—nobles, councilors, snack-shop owners—every trade as if collecting a compendium.
A socially anxious Zhu Yu almost wondered if the original had been bound to some dating-game system that shocked you unless you flirted with high EQ.
Other people’s chats had not been deleted; they lay open and frank before her.
Cut ties cleanly. She would not walk the scumbag road again.
She breathed several times before opening messages, expecting something lewd and ambiguous.
The original’s style surprised her—nothing like the playboy stereotype.
The tone was oddly similar to hers—cute particles, stickers—but the original drove every conversation, magnetic without trying.
A stranger reading these logs might call “her” gentle and good.
Gentle, learned, unpretentious after fame, never hiding desire, even rivalry declared openly.
No wonder the young Bai Shuzhou had liked her…
Zhu Yu felt like a frog in a well that had finally seen sky and blue—and her throat itched as if she might croak out a bubble next.
Playing this scumbag was asking too much of a small transparent nobody.
She agonized half an hour over how to reply, then drifted back to Bai Shuzhou’s window.
Empty except the contract just signed. Wiped clean. For Bai Shuzhou the original had left nothing but the nickname.
Curiosity pricked her—how they met, how they loved—shameful, almost self-harming to wonder.
Same face, different soul. She did not know why Bai Shuzhou had ever loved “her.”
She only knew that from the first sight of Bai Shuzhou, time had begun to flow; the world had lit as if switched on.
Like fate’s reunion—and she had waited an eternity for this moment.
She buried her hot face in the pillow, trying to crush the chaos.
Look forward. Drowning in the past traps you.
Besides—she had money now. Better than drifting in the Chaos Belt starving.
She spread the researchers’ files on the bed, sorted by date, searched terms she did not know.
Even with high-tech help she could only guess; Bai Shuzhou’s case was too rare—few similar records on the net.
The data showed long stability. Before amnesia there had been a small spike, then quick fall—no indicator the emperor had “laid hands” on her.
What Bai Shuzhou and Bai Qianze had done, Feng Jiyan had told her—and that fox was not trustworthy.
If Bai Shuzhou had not warned her before forgetting, Zhu Yu might have stupidly followed Feng’s bait.
Once she had thought everyone good. Conspiracy wore the sweetest face.
This world was too complex. She poked the report. If Bai Shuzhou remembered soon, she would know what to do.
When would Feng’s side move?
Her finger stopped on a number. She sat up and pressed several sheets together.
The values were too stable, too regular—as if crafted.
For comparison she had old reports from years back. Even then deviation from the newest sat in a narrow band.
Had someone controlled Bai Shuzhou’s “illness” for a very long time?
Chill ran up her spine. She rubbed gooseflesh from her arms and felt a lonely courage: she and Bai Shuzhou against the world.
Not alone—one person, one dragon, and many friends.
Sitting cross-legged, face serious, she could not answer everyone individually. She posted one update: all well, thank you for caring.
Thanks to the original’s obsessive notes she knew who was who—some entries even recorded how they met. With this sea-king guide, errands might be easier.
To avoid exposure she would probably have to cram those files tonight without sleep.
Money moves the world. She opened banking software to withdraw cash—groceries had drained what loose credits the original left; imperial prices were brutal.
Security blocked her. Face, fingerprint, iris—nothing. The terminal demanded a password, unmoved.
Fine. It’s only money. So dramatic!
She checked the time—the bank was still open. She grabbed a coat and ran.
Amnesia was a fine excuse to reset a password with ID, wasn’t it?
The attendant asked nothing, delivered her smoothly. Zhu Yu waved the last small bills from her pocket to the girl—
Large notes she kept.
“Thanks, friend. Candy money!”
Nobles tipped—supposedly to circulate the economy. Zhu Yu was not thinking of society; she had just signed a marriage contract and could not shout it from rooftops. This was how she shared joy.
The attendant looked down: three notes, two coins—fifty-two credits total.
Zhu Yu was already gone, her back lively as a carp about to leap the gate.
The branch manager waited tense at the door.
Fresh red carpet, bright enough to drip. The big screen looped Zhu Yu’s speech that day.
She stepped in and met her own image—stranger to herself. She had not known she could look that sharp; once decided, softness turned steel, eyes steady.
“Your Highness—!!” The crowd surged.
“Don’t call me Highness!” She waved both hands.
Too warm. Paradis shift work had trained a public smile; she barely held. Like sea anemones around a small fish they eased her inward.
A short walk felt endless. Though she said she only wanted simple business, the scene looked like a leadership inspection—except leaders ask questions and she was giving interviews. Everyone asked about her and the princess.
She answered vaguely, urged attention on academy research into “patients.” Surprisingly her rushed speech had stirred interstellar debate.
Years ago, empire and federation had been in a honeymoon—joint projects including sensitive medical trials. The split had aborted cooperation; some scientists stranded in enemy space.
Her outburst had been impulse; late-night review felt rash, giving Feng an opening.
The topic was public again, tied to an imperial princess; even the federation clamored to reopen dialogue.
Pirate smuggling was worse than one planet—every probe widened the net.
As Nan Gong said, nobody was clean.
“Above” seemed busy. The manager dismissed staff and handled Zhu Yu personally, probing whether the federation would move.
Ha—your news beats mine, Zhu Yu thought, wearing a profound smile and shaking her head.
She said nothing. Only smiled at the manager.
The shrewd elder seemed to enlighten himself, pushed gold-rim glasses, sighed softly. “Your Highness—we have always supported you. If there is opportunity, please pour a cup of tea for the princess on our behalf.”
Silence. Zhu Yu nodded lightly. “Thank you for your trouble.”
One hand behind her back, lips pressed—still more to say.
The manager bowed, breath held.
“I have some things to store. Is it safe here?”
His face sharpened. He rose, fist to heart. “Rest assured! On my honor—”
Zhu Yu only feared theft of the gems; she had wanted to sound professional. She had not expected such solemnity.
“I trust you!” She patted his shoulder.
The manager called two key officers. Elevator down—brief dark—light again.
The second-largest vault in the empire, also for VIP valuables.
Three attendants led her to a heavy door, checking split jade keys that fit together to open it.
This room belonged to Zhu Yu alone.
She blinked. Such ceremony—for an ordinary officer married only a few years? How much had the original embezzled?
She clenched her fists in pockets so nervousness would not show.
Inside, another biological lock.
Peel one layer; another remained.
Scan complete—the blast door opened wide enough to slip through sideways.
In the center, several safes.
She exhaled silently. Thank heaven the room was not stacked with cash and bullion or she would have considered turning herself in for leniency.
She weighed Bai Shuzhou’s gems in her palm, bagged them—few pieces, very heavy.
Squatting, she found the trigger.
A holographic panel rose. Not a password—a security question.
【Who is the person I love most?】
Elementary school, original. You graduated past this in primary.
Who set vault questions like that?
She tried “Bai Shuzhou.” Wrong. A cold smile seemed to mock her naïveté.
The original was an orphan—no family names to test.
You’re married—besides your wife who else, you bastard?
Her vision swam. Worst case: she opened contacts. True love always leaked somewhere.
But the original was promiscuous yet egalitarian—often chatting several people at once. No clear suspect.
Starting with richest and most powerful, she tried names in a daze, even Bai Qianze.
A string of errors.
Guessing the scumbag’s favorite was minesweeper.
This was not about opening a safe. The original had left a timed bomb that could shred her to bone.
She imagined a future day, happy beside Bai Shuzhou, when a woman burst in crying, “I’m the one you loved most—check your security answer, it’s me!”
Bai Shuzhou’s gentle face would turn cold. Executioners would pin Zhu Yu down.
Click.
She gritted her teeth. On impulse she remembered the unique nickname and typed: Rock Sugar.
One second. Two. Air froze.
The screen flickered oddly. Her heart hung midair.
Glaring red exploded:
【ERROR &**&#@#!!!!!!】
Gibberish bathed the room in bloody light.
She jumped—felt cursed—and shouted, fist tight on the gems, “Zhu Yu, are you insane?!”
Beep.
【Correct answer.】
The safe eased open.
She stared at the empty interior.
……Huh?
Seconds later she understood. The answer was Zhu Yu.
The person the original loved most was herself.
Narcissistic—and fitting.
She laughed softly, reached up, changed the password.
【The person Zhu Yu loves most: Bai Shuzhou.】