Emily Bennett stood in front of the chopping block, holding a sharp axe with a dark expression on her face. She muttered softly to the empty wooden stump,

"Move aside."

In her eyes, there was a chicken slumped on the short chopping block—more precisely, a long-necked chicken dressed in clothes.

It wore a neat little gray robe, its wings tucked properly into its sleeves, but from the crossed collar protruded a thin, long chicken neck. This odd little monster, neither human nor beast, fearlessly laid its neck on the chopping block like a guillotine, striking a pose as if ready to sacrifice itself at any moment.

But Emily Bennett knew that if she brought the axe down, that tiny chicken head would tumble to the ground, roll a circle in the dusty earth, and then automatically reattach itself to the severed neck. Then it would resolutely lie down again.

No one knew where this long-necked monster had picked up such a strange hobby—it always liked to lie on people’s chopping blocks, playing this beheading game over and over.

Emily Bennett, who could see its true form, had no desire to play along.

"Hurry up and move, I need to chop firewood," Emily Bennett said.

On the little chicken head were two disproportionately dull eyes—one looking up, one looking down, both rolling around to avoid Emily Bennett's gaze, stubbornly refusing to budge from the "guillotine."

"If you don’t move, I’ll burn you along with the firewood," Emily Bennett said, half annoyed, half amused.

At that moment, her eldest sister Grace Bennett's voice came from behind, "Xiang’er, are you talking to yourself again?"

Emily Bennett jumped, quickly composing herself and turning around, scratching her head in embarrassment.

Her elder sister took the axe from her hand, held her by the hand, and looked at her with reddened eyes, clearly having just cried.

"Father said... he wants you to come over."

"Father wants me now?"

Grace Bennett shook her head, indicating she didn’t know the details. She turned her face away, avoiding her sister’s gaze, and quietly wiped the tears from her face.

But Emily Bennett was not truly a seven-year-old girl. Her father had been talking with a strange guest in the front hall for a long time, and now he was asking her sister to bring her over. A bad premonition suddenly welled up in her heart.

The so-called front hall of the Yuan family was nothing more than a drafty thatched hut. On the shabby altar sat several deities and Buddhas, the walls blackened by years of incense smoke. A paint-stripped dining table stood in the middle. Meals, entertaining guests, and worship all took place in this room. At this moment, two coarse tea bowls for guests sat on the table, and next to them, glaringly conspicuous, were three small silver ingots.

Mr. Bennett sat cross-legged on a bench by the table, the years having left deep marks on his face. Years of overwork had given this man in his prime a weary, aged look. He kept rubbing his large, yellowed fingers, and when he saw his youngest daughter come in, he lowered his head a bit awkwardly.

Opposite him sat a young stranger. The man’s clothes were plain—a simple short jacket and straw sandals, with a bamboo hat resting by the bench leg. Yet his calm demeanor and striking features made it impossible to ignore his presence, even in such attire.

Dressed in ordinary clothes, sitting in this shabby, impoverished house, the man still gave off an air of ease and freedom. It was as if he wasn’t sitting at a greasy table, drinking coarse tea from a chipped bowl, but rather in an elegant residence among green pines and snow, savoring fine tea brewed from melted snow.

When he saw Emily Bennett enter, he looked up and nodded at the little girl with a gentle smile.

Emily Bennett's dark eyes swept around the room, landing on the silver ingots on the table. In such a poor, remote village, people usually traded with copper coins—silver ingots were rarely seen.

A strange guest, a large transaction, a home stripped bare.

Emily Bennett finally looked at the man she had called father for seven years. He avoided her gaze.

And so, she knew her parents, unable to bear the burden of five children, had decided to sell her as a commodity.

The evening wind blew in through a hole in the wall, chilling Emily Bennett's heart. But if a daughter had to be sold, compared to the eldest sister who was nearly grown and the reckless second sister, she—a soul from another world—was indeed the most suitable to leave this home.

She had no father in her previous life. After seven years in this world, she once thought she had filled that void in her heart. Only now did she realize she was still an outsider, a mere passerby in this family and this world.

Since she was only a guest, there was nothing to be sad about, Emily Bennett told herself.

"Sir, this is the third girl," Mr. Bennett addressed the young guest as "sir." In this era, anyone who could read and write, exorcise demons, or keep accounts could be called "sir"—but which kind this man was, no one knew.