Little Sweet O Transmigrates Into the Body of the Villainous Fake Young Master - Chapter 1

The Teng family’s private estate stretched across tens of thousands of square meters, a sprawling complex of courtyards and manors layered one upon another. Its ancient architecture and palatial grandeur served as a silent testament to the clan’s immense power and wealth.

Tonight, every corner of the estate was ablaze with light, casting a glow so brilliant it rivaled a royal palace. It was as if the stones themselves were holding their breath, waiting for the arrival of the rightful heir.

Inside the opulent main hall, a strikingly handsome youth with clear, bright features sat curled on a sofa. In a room so quiet you could hear a pin drop, he stared blankly into a cup of black tea. He seemed either restless or nervous; his long brows were slightly knit, his gaze uneasy, and his pale fingertips tapped a rhythmic, restless beat against the porcelain.

Just as he finished the tea, the silence was shattered by a commotion of footsteps and voices outside.

Teng Yingzhi snapped out of his daze and looked toward the entrance. A pair of servants swung the heavy doors open, revealing a wealthy middle-aged couple fussing over a teenager about Yingzhi’s age. They hovered over the newcomer with fervent warmth, showering him with concerned inquiries.

A gust of winter wind swept into the hall, and Yingzhi’s fingers visibly stiffened around his cup.

He locked eyes with the boy from a distance and let out a silent, weary sigh. It’s finally happening.

The arrival of the “protagonist shou,” He Ji, signaled the official start of the plot—a plot that was nothing short of a living nightmare for someone who had transmigrated into this world.

This world existed within the pages of a manhua. The story followed He Ji, a boy born into nobility but swapped at birth by a vengeful nanny and raised in a common, impoverished household. Nineteen years later, he is finally reclaimed by his biological parents, only to be relentlessly bullied and framed by the fake young master, Teng Yingzhi. He eventually offends the true patriarch of the Teng family, gets kicked out of the house, and becomes a national laughingstock before dying a miserable death.

After his death, He Ji is reborn, returning to the age of twenty, the very day he is brought back to the Teng estate.

Teng Yingzhi had transmigrated into this body two years ago. Having read the manhua, he had spent countless nights cursing his luck. Of all the characters to inhabit, why did it have to be the villainous fake who existed solely to be He Ji’s whetstone?

One was a transmigrator, the other was a reborn avenger. Both held the script in their hands.

A battle of wits? An even match?

Hardly. As a transmigrator, Yingzhi stood no chance against the reborn He Ji. He knew the plot by heart, but he was physically incapable of changing it.

When he first arrived, Yingzhi tried everything to avoid his tragic end. He wanted to wake his “parents” up and convince them to bring He Ji home early so he could pack his bags and disappear. But the “Will of the World” wouldn’t allow it. Even if he tried to slam a DNA report onto his father’s desk, the world would force a “glitch-back,” resetting time until the attempt never happened.

He was nothing more than a pawn, forced to follow the script to ensure the protagonist’s glorious rise.

After two years of hollow luxury, Yingzhi had reached the day he dreaded most.

“Xiao Ji, this is your younger brother, Yingzhi. I’ve checked the records, Yingzhi was born four hours after you. You two must get along well from now on. We’re all one family,” Teng Ruicheng said as he led He Ji into the hall. He beamed with joy, utterly oblivious to the fact that his biological son’s mind was filled with thoughts of slaughter, and his “younger” son’s heart was filled with despair.

“Brother?” He Ji’s lips curled into a smirk. He let out a soft, mocking hum that dripped with sarcasm.

Yingzhi set his teacup down and stood up. Meeting He Ji’s cold, ambitious gaze, his heart skipped a beat as he thought of the misery awaiting him.

In the original plot, Yingzhi was supposed to rush forward with fake enthusiasm, acting incredibly sweet to win He Ji’s trust, only to look like a clown in the eyes of the reborn protagonist.

However, since this wasn’t a “Forced Plot” moment yet, Yingzhi didn’t have the heart to force a smile. He simply stood his ground, gave a slight nod, and spoke softly. “Hello, Second Brother.”

The man at the absolute peak of the Teng family pyramid was Teng Song, the eldest son from Teng Ruicheng’s first marriage. Since the newly returned He Ji was the second son, Yingzhi was technically the third.

He Ji walked toward him step by step. He was tall, elegant, and carried an icy aura that even ordinary clothes couldn’t dim against the gold-leafed backdrop of the hall. When reading the manhua, Yingzhi had actually admired He Ji—his resilience, his refusal to be bowed by poverty or intimidated by wealth.

Now that he was the one on the chopping block, that admiration had vanished. Especially since He Ji looked like he wanted to eat him alive.

Yingzhi felt wronged, but he couldn’t speak up. He just looked stifled.

“Brother,” He Ji sneered. From the parents’ perspective, they could only see He Ji’s back and hear his gentle, conciliatory tone. They couldn’t see the frost in his eyes. “You don’t look very happy. Are you not glad I’m back?”

Yingzhi: …You want to kill me. Am I supposed to throw a parade?

The mother, He Xitang, noticed Yingzhi’s strained expression. Assuming he was being resentful of her biological son, she frowned, ready to scold him for being spoiled. But in an instant, Yingzhi’s face transformed into a mask of pure, innocent joy. He threw his arms wide and gave He Ji a massive hug.

“I’m happy! I’m so happy! Second Brother, welcome home!” Yingzhi chirped with forced enthusiasm, squeezing He Ji tightly.

Startled, He Ji instinctively recoiled, pulling himself out of the embrace. His handsome face was flushed a faint red, simmering with suppressed rage.

Yingzhi wore a grin on his face while crying on the inside. He was bound by the world’s consciousness; his bitter fate was already written. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t mess with He Ji a little. Being hugged by his mortal enemy would probably send He Ji into a cleaning frenzy for hours.

He Ji looked at the boy standing under the chandelier. Yingzhi was slightly shorter than him, with skin as delicate as porcelain and features so fine they were almost ethereal. He looked like an innocent prince raised in an ivory tower. Only He Ji knew how filthy the soul beneath that beautiful skin really was; in his past life, he had been ruined by this very act.

The memory made He Ji’s blood boil. He spoke coldly, “I’m tired. Where is my room? I want to rest.”

He Xitang hurried forward to lead him to his prepared suite, and the father followed directly.

Left alone, Yingzhi’s smile dropped. He felt exhausted. A servant moved in silently to clear the tea set. Yingzhi watched them for a moment before turning to leave.

He had another “Forced Plot” event to attend to soon. He sighed. What a nightmare.

A “Forced Plot” was a pivotal moment that dictated the future of the story. Yingzhi couldn’t resist them; if he tried to avoid one, he would be hit with a migraine so agonizing it felt like his skull was splitting. If he still refused, the Will of the World would simply hijack his body and play out the scene like a puppet master.

However, the world allowed for minor deviations in non-essential details.

Back in his own quarters, Yingzhi vented his frustration by slamming a ball of dough onto a counter. While He Ji was likely soaking in a hot bath and plotting his downfall, Yingzhi was forced to spend his night baking snacks for him!

He cursed the plot as he shoved a piece of pastry into his mouth, nearly choking himself in his anger.

Two hours later, it was past eleven. Carrying a tray of steaming walnut crisps, Yingzhi put on his “villainous” face and trudged toward He Ji’s courtyard.

He knew He Ji was awake. After a short wait, the door opened to reveal the protagonist, his hair still damp, looking like a “bathed beauty.”

Yingzhi gritted his teeth, nearly laughing out loud. He really was so disgusted by my hug that he’s been scrubbing himself for two hours? How hasn’t he shriveled up yet?

With no parents around, He Ji made no effort to hide his loathing. He blocked the doorway, his eyes full of suspicion. He seemed to anticipate a trap; Yingzhi noticed he was holding a voice recorder behind the door, surreptitiously clicking it on.

“What do you want?” He Ji snapped.

Yingzhi masked his irritation. He squinted his eyes, his thick lashes framing a gaze that looked as harmless as a child’s. He held the tray out. “Second Brother, I made some walnut crisps. I wanted you to try them.”

The words hung in the air. Both of them froze.

He Ji was severely allergic to walnuts.

Yingzhi realized his mistake instantly. In the original script, he was supposed to lie and say they were peanut crisps to trick He Ji into eating them! Why did I tell the truth?!

In the previous life, He Ji had been defenseless and ate the allergen, suffering terribly and nearly dying of a heart attack. In this life, the plot dictated that He Ji would knowingly eat them to frame Yingzhi, using the recording of Yingzhi’s lie (“These are peanut crisps”) to destroy his standing with the family.

But now, Yingzhi had blurted out the truth. If He Ji knew they were walnuts, why would he eat them? And even if he did, the recording wouldn’t prove any malicious intent.

Yingzhi braced himself for a “glitch-back.” He told himself to get the line right next time so he wouldn’t have to repeat this endlessly.

But He Ji just stared at him, stunned. He remembered every detail of his past misery; he knew these were supposed to be the “peanut crisps” that nearly killed him. Why is he being honest this time?

He Ji silently turned off the recorder, his mind racing to find the angle.

The reset never came. Sensing the silence stretching too long, Yingzhi’s smile faded. “If you don’t want them, I’ll just take them back. Get some rest.”

He turned to bolt, but He Ji suddenly reached out and took the tray. “I’ll eat them,” he said icily. “You worked so hard late at night; how could I refuse your kindness, ‘brother’?”

He stepped back and slammed the door in Yingzhi’s bewildered face.

Yingzhi: …What?

He wandered back to his room, tray-less and confused, and flopped onto his bed. The world hadn’t reset, which meant the plot had technically been satisfied: He Ji had the allergen.

But wait, Yingzhi thought. Without the recording of the lie, how is he going to frame me? Is he so blinded by hate that he’s just going to hurt himself for no reason?

He fretted for a while before deciding he was overthinking it. The core requirement was that Yingzhi’s status in the family had to drop because of this incident. Whether it was walnut or peanut probably didn’t matter to the universe.

He sighed and rolled onto his stomach, his white sweater making him look like a soft, anxious marshmallow as he waited for the inevitable chaos and the judgment that would soon follow.

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