BENEATH A BORROWED MOON
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Part One — The Man with Bunny Ears and a Dream
Chen Mingzhu’s day started with a perfect egg and ended with his own goddamn death.
The egg came first. Spirit-chicken, double-yolked, fried in a whisper of boar lard on a pan he’d seasoned for seven fucking years. The white was crisp at the edges. The yolk broke warm and golden when he pressed his chopstick to it. He ate it standing over the sink in his tiny rental kitchen because the table was buried under medical journals, cultivation manuals, and a half-dissected spiritual herb.
His ears — long, soft, covered in fine white fur — twitched with pleasure. They stuck out from his messy black hair, betraying every emotion he tried to hide. Right now they pointed forward, relaxed, happy. His small cotton tail gave an involuntary wiggle under his loose pants.
He was twenty-seven years old. Orphaned at four. Raised in a state orphanage in post-revival Hangzhou, where spiritual energy had been trickling back for thirty years and everyone was still figuring out what that meant. No family. No sect. No backing. Just a sharp knife, a sharper mind, and the stubborn cheerfulness of someone who had survived everything and decided to be happy anyway.
By day: licensed chef. Worked at Old Wang’s Noodle House, where his broth made grown men cry and his dumplings caused literal arguments among regulars.
By night: mid-rank cultivator, self-taught. Spirit Gathering, Late Stage — nothing impressive, but he’d clawed his way up alone.
In between: an unlicensed doctor. He’d apprenticed to an old village healer at fourteen. Acupuncture, herbal medicine, battlefield triage. Could set a bone, stitch a wound, diagnose spiritual deviation from three feet away. The orphanage kids called him Mingzhu-ge when they got sick. He never charged a single fucking coin.
And yes — he had rabbit ears. And a tail. And a nose that twitched when he smelled something good. He was born that way, in a world where spiritual energy sometimes expressed in physical traits. Some people grew scales. Some had cat eyes. He got the bunny package. He’d learned to live with it.
His roommate — a white rabbit the size of a small dog, currently sitting on the windowsill and radiating judgment — did not have human traits. Xuětuán was a full beast. Ancient. Powerful. The most un-rabbit rabbit that had ever existed.
“Today,” Chen Mingzhu announced, nose twitching, “I’m going to do three things.”
Xuětuán’s ear twitched. Continue.
“One. Sign the contract with Old Wang. Thirty percent ownership. My own kitchen.”
The rabbit blinked slowly. Acceptable.
“Two. Submit my medical thesis to the Healer’s Guild again. Third time’s the charm. New protocol for spirit-poisoning — night-blooming jasmine and low-grade Zambicore extract. It works, those bureaucratic fucks just won’t read it.”
Xuětuán’s tail twitched. Delusional but cute.
“Three.” Mingzhu grinned, and his ears perked forward. “Find a spot for my own restaurant. Somewhere with a river view. A garden for scallions.”
He said scallions like other men said dynasty.
Xuětuán made a low humming sound. I tolerate you.
Mingzhu reached over and scratched behind the rabbit’s ear. Xuětuán leaned into it — just slightly — then bit his sleeve to restore dignity.
It was a good day.
That should have been the first warning.
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Part Two — How to Die Because a Minor God Forgot Form 7-B
The beast tide came at dusk.
Mingzhu was on a low hill outside the city, collecting herbs for his thesis. Safe zone. Patrols every two hours. He’d done this route a hundred times.
Today, a rift opened in the valley below. Corrupted beasts poured out like black water — boars with too many eyes, birds with wings of smoke, something large and many-limbed that he chose not to identify because identifying it would make it real.
Mingzhu’s ears flattened against his head. His nose twitched — the smell of rot and wrongness. Xuětuán’s fur bristled beside him.
“Run,” Mingzhu whispered.
They ran. He was fast for a Spirit Gathering cultivator, moving like water down the slope. But the beasts were faster. A wolf-thing with too many joints cut off his path. Mingzhu drew his chef’s knife — high-carbon steel, razor edge — and sidestepped, driving the blade into its throat. Twist. Butcher’s motion. The beast collapsed.
Three more came. Then five. Then he stopped counting.
He fought for seven minutes. Took a gash to his arm, a bite to his calf, a hit to the ribs that cracked something. Xuětuán was a white blur beside him, small but vicious — teeth sinking into corrupted flesh, glowing red eyes unblinking. The rabbit moved like he’d been fighting for millennia.
Then a claw — something large, something that moved like shadow folding in on itself — caught Mingzhu across the chest. Not deep. But the force lifted him off his feet.
He fell backward. Off the hill. Down a slope he couldn’t see because the sun was gone and the world was just pain and the sound of Xuětuán screaming — a high, furious sound Mingzhu had never heard before.
He hit something hard. Then nothing.
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Part Three — The Minor God’s Paperwork Error
The afterlife smelled like old paper and regret.
Chen Mingzhu opened his eyes to a ceiling of floating scrolls. Thousands of them. All tied with red string, drifting in slow circles like fish in a pond. The floor was polished white stone. No walls — just an endless grey horizon.
A tired god in grey robes stood over him. The god looked like a middle-aged accountant who’d been working three consecutive fiscal years without sleep. His hair was neat. His eyes were bloodshot.
“Chen Mingzhu,” the god said, reading from a scroll. Then he stopped. Blinked. Read again. His face went grey — greyer than the horizon.
“No,” the god whispered.
Mingzhu sat up. His ears twitched. He was whole. No pain. “Where the fuck am I?”
“Transit Division. Temporary holding for souls awaiting reassignment.” The god was flipping scrolls frantically, pulling them out of the air, reading, shoving them back. “There’s been — a mistake. A big mistake. You weren’t supposed to die. The beast tide was scheduled for next week. In a different valley. I approved the migration pattern myself. But someone filed a revised predation request and I signed it without —” He stopped. “I signed it. I never read the fine print. I never read the fine print.”
Mingzhu stared. “You’re a god. And you have paperwork.”
“We’re a bureaucracy! The stars don’t move themselves! Fate isn’t just vibes!” The god grabbed his own hair. “Your body is gone. Corrupted beasts don’t leave remains. It’s a feature of the design, not a bug, but in this case it means I can’t send you back. There’s nowhere to send you back to.”
Mingzhu’s ears drooped. His nose stopped twitching. He thought about Old Wang. About his thesis. About the river-view restaurant he’d never open. About the scallions he’d never grow.
Then he thought about Xuětuán.
“My rabbit,” he said. “Where’s my rabbit?”
The god consulted a different scroll. Then he went very still. “That rabbit is currently tearing a hole in the dimensional barrier approximately three realms to the left of us. How is it doing that? Why?”
“Because he’s angry,” Mingzhu said. A small, warm feeling bloomed in his chest. “At you. At everyone. Especially you now.”
The god swallowed. Then he pulled out a black scroll sealed with silver wax. “There’s another world. Cultivation empire. Omegaverse dynamics. Apocalypse coming in the background. A body just became empty — noble clan, female originally but the constitution is flexible. The original soul degraded naturally. Three days empty. They’ll declare death soon.”
“You want to put me in a dead woman’s body?”
“Empty body. And it has a Heavenly Yin Constitution. Extremely rare. If you go there, you’ll have a hidden system — stat window, cultivation assist. Compensation.”
Mingzhu was quiet. His ears twitched.
“Does the house have a kitchen?”
The god blinked. “I — yes. Noble clan. Multiple kitchens.”
Mingzhu thought about it. About the rabbit breaking dimensions for him. About the fact that he was dead and this was the only offer.
“Fine. Three conditions. One: the rabbit comes with me. You leave a door open. Two: I keep my memories — cooking, medicine, everything. I’m not starting over as a blank slate. Three: I’ll take care of the body I’m borrowing. I’ll do right by it.”
The god bowed. “I’m sorry, Chen Mingzhu.”
“Yeah,” Mingzhu said, ears still drooping. “You fucking should be.”
He closed his eyes.
The world tilted.
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Part Four — Waking Up Borrowed (What the Fuck Is This Body)
Liang Yuebai opened her eyes — his eyes now — and immediately knew something was wrong.
The ceiling was wrong. Carved beams, gold leaf, silk drapes. His apartment had a water stain shaped like a duck and a single flickering lightbulb.
His body was wrong. Lighter. Smaller. Softer.
He looked down.
And saw breasts.
Two of them. Round, full, very definitely there under the silk nightgown.
“What the fuck,” Chen Mingzhu whispered. His voice was higher now. Smoother. Pretty. He hated it immediately.
His hands flew down.
Still male. Still had a dick. The original Liang Yuebai had been a man with female secondary characteristics — breasts, delicate face, wide hips — but male where it counted. In this world, that was just… a thing that happened sometimes. Omegaverse biology.
Okay, Mingzhu thought, heart pounding. Okay. I’m still a man. Still a man. Just with tits now. That’s fine. That’s fucking fine. I can work with this.
His ears — he reached up — were still there. Long, fluffy, white bunny ears, poking out from long pink hair. Strawberry bubblegum pink. Wavy. Ridiculously pretty.
His small cotton tail was still tucked at the base of his spine.
The bunny traits had followed him.
He laughed. It came out a little hysterical.
A servant girl appeared in the doorway. She was young, sixteen maybe, wearing silk robes that cost more than Mingzhu’s entire apartment rent. She looked at him with wide, worried eyes.
“Young Madam? Are you… are you feeling well? You spoke.”
Young Madam. Wife. Married off. Political bride.
Mingzhu’s ears flattened against his head — a clear sign of distress. He forced them back up. Forced his face into something cold. Neutral. The original Liang Yuebai had been famous for her — his — expressionless mask. Mingzhu didn’t know that. He was just guessing.
“Water,” he said flatly. His voice was calm. His hands were shaking under the blanket.
The servant scrambled away.
While she was gone, Mingzhu explored. The room was enormous. Jade ornaments. Silk cushions. A sword on the wall — decorative but sharp. And there, on a small table by the window: a ceramic jar with a lid.
His nose twitched. Something alive.
He lifted the lid. Inside was a tiny crab — no bigger than his thumbnail — with a translucent jade-colored shell and two tiny claws that clicked nervously. It looked up at him with four glittering black eyes.
Original body’s spiritual beast, Mingzhu realized. Poor little thing. It’s been alone for three days.
He dipped a finger in the jar. The crab climbed onto his knuckle and clicked its claws. Not hostile. Curious.
“Okay,” Mingzhu murmured, ears twitching. “You and me now. I’ll figure out what you eat later.”
The crab clicked twice. Acceptance.
A scratching sound came from the window.
Mingzhu turned.
Xuětuán was on the windowsill.
The white rabbit looked terrible. His fur was matted with what looked like stardust and dimensional residue. His eyes were glowing faintly red — not with power, with fury. His small chest heaved.
His expression said: I crossed the fabric of reality for you, you absolute disaster of a bunny-eared idiot with tits now, and you owe me candied carrots for eternity.
Chen Mingzhu’s cold mask cracked.
His ears perked forward. His nose twitched rapidly. His eyes went soft.
He opened the window. Xuětuán launched himself into his arms. The rabbit was warm and shaking — or maybe Mingzhu was shaking. He buried his face in the rabbit’s fur. His ears drooped. His tail twitched.
“You came,” he whispered. His voice broke on the second word.
Xuětuán bit his sleeve. Gently. Then licked his finger. Then turned to look at the tiny crab on the pillow.
The crab clicked its claws.
Xuětuán’s eyes narrowed. Who the fuck is this?
“That’s… the original’s,” Mingzhu said. “We keep it. Be nice.”
Xuětuán huffed. Then he curled up on Mingzhu’s lap, clearly claiming priority. The crab scuttled onto Mingzhu’s shoulder and clicked defiantly.
Two spiritual beasts. A body with breasts and a dick. A dead woman’s — dead man’s — social position. A husband he hadn’t met. An apocalypse coming.
And somewhere in this enormous house, there was a kitchen. He could smell it — distant, but there. Ginger. Scallions. Pork broth.
His stomach growled.
His ears gave a happy little wiggle.
He slapped them down with one hand. Stop that. You’re supposed to be cold and unreadable.
The servant returned with water. She saw the cold-faced young madam with the bunny ears holding a rabbit and a crab. She decided not to ask questions.
Mingzhu drank the water. Then he looked at the servant. “Where is the kitchen?”
The servant blinked. “The… kitchen, young madam?”
“Yes. The kitchen. Where food is prepared. I want to see it.”
“But young madam, you’ve never — the original never — I mean —”
“I’m feeling better,” Mingzhu said flatly. “A change of diet. Show me.”
The servant hesitated, then bowed. “This way, young madam.”
Mingzhu stood. Xuětuán jumped to the floor and followed. The crab clung to his shoulder.
He was dead. He was alive. He was a man with breasts and a wife’s title and two spiritual beasts and a desperate need to cook something before he lost his goddamn mind.
Priorities, Chen Mingzhu thought as he walked toward the smell of ginger. Survive. Cook. Don’t let anyone find out I’m not the original.
And figure out why that god looked so guilty.
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Part Five — The Villain’s Perspective
Liang Suyin stood at her mirror and smiled.
The smile was beautiful. It was also sharp enough to fillet a fish.
Her twin sister — no, her twin brother — the useless, silent, rabbit-eared disappointment who had been married off as a political bride — had woken from his three-day coma. The servants called it a miracle. Suyin called it inconvenient.
Because Suyin knew something nobody else knew.
She had lived through the apocalypse. In the previous timeline, she had watched the empire fall, watched Yuebai’s body — empty, soulless, but still breathing — get claimed by something ancient and terrible. And then she had died, and woken up, and found herself back.
Three years earlier. With all her memories.
Including the memory that Yuebai’s body carried a Heavenly Yin Constitution. Not yet awakened. But there.
Mine, Suyin thought, touching the mirror. That power was supposed to be mine. We’re twins. What he has, I should have. The universe made a mistake.
I’m going to correct it.
She had already started. Fabricated evidence of betrayal. Whispers in the right ears. A slow poison of doubt fed to the clan elders over months. The original Yuebai’s soul had degraded faster than Suyin anticipated — that was a bonus, not a plan.
But now Yuebai was awake again. And the servants said his eyes were different. And he had asked for the kitchen.
Yuebai had never asked for the kitchen. The original had never cooked, never shown interest in food beyond what was placed before him.
Suyin’s smile tightened.
Something changed. Something significant.
She would investigate. She would be patient. She had won once. She would win again.
“Welcome back, brother,” she whispered to the mirror. “Enjoy your rest. The game begins now.”
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Part Six — The Dragon Notices
Far from the Liang estate, in a mountain garden that technically did not exist on any map, a man sat by a black pond.
Ink-black hair. Pale skin. Eyes the colour of white fire. Faint scale-like markings along his collarbones and up his neck. In human form, but his beast was always there, just under the surface.
Mo Cangyue — black dragon, ancient, sealed in this body for reasons he refused to discuss — lifted his head.
Something had changed.
A soul had crossed into this world. Not through any proper gate. Through a back door, sloppy and desperate, wrapped in the scent of ozone and paperwork glue.
And that soul — that wrong soul — had settled into a body with a constitution so rare that Mo Cangyue had last smelled it three thousand years ago.
He smiled. It was not a nice smile. His fangs showed, just a little.
“Interesting,” he murmured, and his pale eyes reflected the moon like white fire.
The rabbit had followed the soul. That was even more interesting. Mo Cangyue knew that rabbit. Ancient. Fierce. Had bitten him once, in a different era, for reasons he still didn’t understand. He’d respected it ever since.
He stood. The pond rippled. His scales flickered at his throat.
He would visit this new soul. Not yet. But soon.
The game was always more entertaining when unexpected pieces appeared on the board.
And this one smelled like ginger and scallions and something he wanted to taste.
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End of Chapter 1
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Next Chapter Preview:
The cold mask meets the black dragon. Soup dumplings become a diplomatic incident. Wei Hanzhao notices his wife’s ears twitch when she smells braised pork — and for the first time in three years of marriage, he actually looks at her. Him. Fuck. This is confusing.
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