Little Sweet O Transmigrates Into the Body of the Villainous Fake Young Master - Chapter 4

Once the door opened, the sound of He Ji’s footsteps approached before stopping in exactly the same spot as before.

His voice remained icy, laced with a victor’s pride. “I heard that on the day I was rushed to the hospital, you fell ill, too?”

The anger in Teng Yingzhi’s heart had already been replaced by a heavy sense of helplessness. For a moment, he didn’t even know how to react. He sat there dazed, staring at the vibrant oil painting in front of him without saying a word.

He Ji let out a light laugh. “What, do you hate me?”

Yingzhi took a deep breath, seemingly bracing himself, before looking up at He Ji. “I didn’t trick you into eating those walnut crisps. I told you what they were. I never said they were peanut crisps.”

He was trying to tell He Ji that he harbored no hostility, hoping the protagonist might eventually notice. Perhaps, over time, He Ji would let go of his prejudice and hatred. Or better yet… perhaps He Ji would realize that the Teng Yingzhi in front of him wasn’t the same “fake young master” who had tormented him in his previous life.

Maybe that day would come, but clearly, it wasn’t today. He Ji’s heart was still overflowing with the residual malice of a past life.

“I know,” He Ji murmured, his lips curling with indifference. “But so what?”

“You…” Yingzhi stood up, but the words failed him.

“Being framed and scolded by your closest family, with no one standing by your side—it doesn’t feel good, does it?” He Ji’s eyes were mocking as he added silently: I learned it from you.

Yingzhi knew exactly what he meant but couldn’t argue. If he tried to protest his innocence now or claim that everything in the past life was done by the “original” Yingzhi, the world would simply glitch back again.

The Will of the World did not allow him to explain the truth to anyone else.

“Is this yours? It’s beautiful.” He Ji leaned down and removed the half-varnished painting from the easel, holding it up with both hands to admire it. The canvas acted as a barrier between their gazes; neither could see the other’s expression.

After studying it for a moment, He Ji was visibly surprised.

His mother, He Xitang, was a somewhat famous painter and had raised Yingzhi to follow in her footsteps. But in his previous life… He Ji recalled seeing Yingzhi’s work. It was the kind of art that even a layman would struggle to praise with a straight face. He Ji had once wondered if the boy would even manage to graduate.

Yet the painting before him was rich in color without losing focus. The background was minimalist, the foreground detailed, and the contrast between warm and cool tones was expertly handled. It was a mature, exquisite piece of work.

It was impossible for it to have come from the Teng Yingzhi he knew.

But He Ji didn’t dwell on it. He didn’t care about Yingzhi’s artistic talent one way or the other.

RIIIIIP—

Through the jagged tear in the canvas, He Ji caught the expression of disbelief and shock he had been looking for. He smiled with genuine pleasure.

“I loved painting when I was a kid, too. Too bad I didn’t have your ‘privileged’ conditions. Look at this studio; it’s several times larger than my bedroom.” As He Ji spoke, he shredded the painting into tattered strips and tossed them at Yingzhi.

The fragments struck Yingzhi’s shoulder and scattered, fluttering to the floor like dead leaves.

Yingzhi looked down at the work that had taken him half a month to complete, now reduced to scrap at his feet. Fury and heartache churned in his chest, but he knew he couldn’t lash out. He forced himself to endure it, his shoulders trembling as his eyes grew hot and red.

He looked up at He Ji, his vision blurring with unshed tears of pure grievance.

In this world, perhaps no one understood the “original” Teng Yingzhi better than He Ji. A golden boy in front of his parents, but a vicious brat in private.

He Ji waited with interest for Yingzhi to tear off his innocent mask and reveal his true colors. But the explosion never came.

Yingzhi just stood there. He was clearly agitated; his fists were clenched so tight they shook, and his breath was shallow. His pale lips were pressed together firmly, but the moisture in his clear eyes eventually pooled into thin, shimmering tears.

He Ji’s expression slowly cooled. Looking at the beautiful, noble youth before him, he remembered how in the past life, Yingzhi only had to cry a little to make He Ji the villain. The thought made his blood boil. He lunged forward and delivered a sharp slap. “Save your tears for when you’re crying to Mom and Dad!”

This slap was even harder than the one before the reset. Yingzhi’s head snapped to the side, and he stumbled back, nearly losing his footing.

He kept his head down, his long bangs falling to hide his face. His only reaction was to raise a trembling hand to cover his stinging cheek.

Having been hit twice, Yingzhi felt many things, but anger was no longer one of them. He was simply too exhausted to be angry anymore.

“Ahem.” A soft, feminine cough sounded from the doorway.

Yingzhi didn’t move. He Ji turned his head toward the sound.

One of the double doors to the studio had been pushed open. A woman with a striking, sharp face stood there, watching them impassively. She wore a high-end tailored suit and a million-dollar watch, the image of a corporate titan. However, her cold aura suggested her “strength” wasn’t limited to the boardroom; there was a lethal edge to her that made the heart go cold.

He Ji’s pupils contracted in shock. Surprise was quickly followed by a creeping, uncontrollable sense of dread.

It was Shu Di, the executive assistant to the eldest brother, Teng Song.

What is she doing here? If she was here, then that meant Teng Song was…

“Master He Ji,” Shu Di spoke flatly. “Mr. Teng is downstairs waiting for you.”

Those few words snapped the tension in He Ji’s mind, leaving him feeling as though he had plunged into an icy abyss.

Before He Ji could move, Yingzhi started walking toward the door. He kept his head down and his hand over his cheek, saying nothing. He bypassed Shu Di and left without a word, leaving only the faint, nearly silent sound of a sob in the air.

Shu Di stepped back, watching Yingzhi’s slender figure as he broke into a quick run down the corridor toward the main house. A moment later, a distant door slammed shut—he had clearly fled to his room. She frowned slightly but said nothing, turning back to He Ji. “This way, please.” She led the way out.

He Ji scrambled to follow her, his heart pounding with anxiety.

“Big Brother… why is he back now?” He Ji whispered nervously.

He remembered that in his past life, Teng Song hadn’t returned until New Year’s Eve. For that matter, Teng Song was almost entirely detached from this small family unit. He appeared once a year, sometimes skipping the reunion dinner entirely, staying only long enough to finish a cup of tea. Even the parents had to wait until the end of the year to see him.

Why was he early? He Ji was certain he remembered correctly: New Year’s Eve.

Today was the 15th—thirteen days until New Year’s Eve. That was why He Ji hadn’t bothered to hold back; that slap had been full-force. He figured whatever mark he left on Yingzhi’s face would have plenty of time to heal before the eldest brother arrived.

But not only was Teng Song early, Shu Di had witnessed the act.

He Ji gnawed on his fingernails in a fit of nerves, not even noticing that Shu Di hadn’t bothered to answer his question.

They reached the first-floor hall. Before he even saw the man, He Ji felt the oppressive, freezing atmosphere.

This was the aura that only appeared when Teng Song was present. Because the relationship was distant and the man held supreme power, even the father, Teng Ruicheng, didn’t dare speak much in his presence. As for the stepmother, He Xitang, she had no voice here at all.

“Mr. Teng, Master He Ji is here,” Shu Di announced as she led He Ji into the main drawing-room.

The man sitting on the central sofa was young and handsome, yet he exuded a majestic authority that made his exact age impossible to guess. He leaned against the backrest, long legs crossed in a relaxed but commanding posture. His eyes were closed as if from exhaustion, and he was lightly pinching the bridge of his high nose. He didn’t open his eyes when Shu Di spoke.

Opposite him sat Teng Ruicheng and He Xitang. They sat side-by-side with perfect, rigid posture. While they weren’t literally holding their breaths, they were clearly controlling their breathing and the frequency of their blinking, sitting as still as statues.

The hall was covered in thick cashmere carpet, but if a needle were to drop right now, it would likely sound louder than anyone in the room.

Shu Di stepped to the side, and He Ji walked toward Teng Song. He called out nervously, “Big Brother.”

Teng Song heard the voice first, followed by a faint scent of peach-wine drifting from He Ji as he approached—a sweet, alcoholic fragrance so subtle it barely registered, likely something He Ji had picked up elsewhere.

Only then did Teng Song drop his hand and open his eyes. He looked up, appraising the brother who had just been brought home.

The boy was clean-cut and handsome, with eyes that resembled He Xitang’s. The DNA tests had confirmed he was indeed the biological son of Ruicheng and Xitang; his place in the house was legitimate. Teng Song had no objection to this; he hadn’t said a single word about the matter, as it was a minor family detail that his father and stepmother were perfectly capable of handling.

He Ji’s heart skipped a beat. He clearly saw a dense flicker of irritation in his brother’s eyes—and beneath that irritation, a trace of violence.

Whether it was directed at him, He Ji couldn’t tell.

In his past life, He Ji had barely spoken to Teng Song. But because he had eventually offended the man and suffered the consequences, his first instinct upon seeing him was still fear.

Even with his rebirth and the advantage of foresight, He Ji had never included Teng Song in his revenge plans. He had learned the hard way that Teng Song represented absolute power, a force no one dared to challenge.

Including He Ji.

Uncle Lu arrived with black tea. Shu Di took it, leaned down to hand it to Teng Song, and whispered something in his ear.

Teng Song’s gaze, which had already drifted away, snapped back to He Ji. This time, it wasn’t a casual appraisal; it was a focused, piercing scrutiny.

His deep voice was slow and indifferent. “Did you just lay a hand on Yingzhi?”

***

Note:

>In Chinese high-society novels, the “Big Brother” (eldest son) often holds the actual power of the family corporation, separate from the parents.

>The “peach-wine” scent mentioned is a subtle hint at pheromones, given the user knows this is a world where Yingzhi is an Omega, though the characters in the story (aside from Yingzhi) aren’t aware of ABO yet.

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