Chapter 3: The Cuteness as Currency

​Sitting on the lap of the most terrifying man in the Central Sects was surprisingly comfortable, if a little hot. Fu Xuan had gone back to reviewing his reports, which were written in a spiky, furious calligraphy I was rapidly learning to decipher. It was a list of Sect Elder resignations—or rather, "disappearances"—and inventory of rare earth metals. Standard villain fare.

​I spent the next hour simply observing. My transmigrated state gave me a unique perspective: I was a modern adult trapped in the body of a four-year-old, sitting on a novel villain’s lap. It was high-concept reality TV, and I was the star.

​The key to survival, I realized, lay in leveraging the disconnect between Fu Xuan’s worldview and the sheer impracticality of raising a small child in a death fortress.

​Around noon, a nervous-looking aide, a man with the perpetually worried expression of someone who had recently witnessed something traumatic, knocked and entered. He held a silver tray bearing a single, small bowl of green porridge.

​"Sect Master," the aide whispered, not daring to look above Fu Xuan's desk, "the little master's midday nourishment."

​Fu Xuan waved a dismissive hand, not looking up. "Leave it. I am occupied."

​The aide flinched, placed the tray quickly, and scampered out. I knew from the memories that the original Fu An was a picky eater, and the fact that he rarely saw his father meant this meal often went untouched. This was my chance.

​I nudged the report Fu Xuan was holding with my chin. "Daddy," I whispered, injecting a slight tremor into my voice. "An'er is hungry, but… the green food is scary. It looks like the moss that eats the stones outside."

​Fu Xuan paused, placing the report down again. He looked at the porridge, then at my worried face. His expression didn't soften, but a vein pulsed near his temple. He had no idea how to handle "scary food."

​"It is nourishment. Eat it," he commanded, his usual tone.

​I let out a tiny, wounded sniffle. "But An'er wants to be strong like Daddy. Daddy doesn’t eat moss. Daddy eats… shiny things. Can An'er have some sweet milk instead? Like the little white rabbit drinks?"

​This request was pure genius. The Shadow Peak Sect was built on power and fear. The simple request for sweet milk, like a rabbit, was such an antithesis to his entire image that it short-circuited his villain brain.

​Fu Xuan rubbed his eyes, clearly struggling with the concept of sweet milk versus blood sacrifice. He looked utterly defeated by my cuteness. “Fine,” he growled, pulling a small gold whistle from his desk. He blew a sharp, piercing note.

​The door burst open. "Sect Master!" barked a massive, scarred man who looked like he wrestled bears for sport.

​“Go to the kitchens,” Fu Xuan ordered, pointing with extreme irritation at the porridge. “Have them fetch the sweetest cow’s milk they can find. If it is not sweet enough, find the nearest Duke and demand their finest dessert wine—or their head. And bring sweet bread to accompany it. Immediately.”

​The scarred brute blinked. He was used to orders involving torture or invasion, not dairy products. “Sweet… milk, Sect Master?”

​“Do you question your orders, Commander?” Fu Xuan snapped, his eyes flashing with genuine malice.

​“No, Sect Master! Sweet milk and sweet bread, incoming!” The Commander spun on his heel and disappeared.

​I suppressed a triumphant cheer. Not only had I secured a better lunch, but I had utilized my cuteness to force the Commander—one of Fu Xuan’s deadliest subordinates—to run a mundane errand involving baked goods. I was corrupting the system from the inside out.

​I smiled up at my terrible father, a genuinely happy, dimpled grin. "Thank you, Daddy! You are the best and strongest!"

​Fu Xuan looked startled by the sincere praise, and a strange, almost nervous light appeared in his steel eyes. He cleared his throat and picked up his report, but his hand absently stroked my hair.

​The sweet milk would arrive soon. Survival was delicious. The fate of the villain's son was officially under revision.

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