Chapter 1 — Survival Skills in High Society

Having been raised since infancy by a retired mercenary, I have always viewed every city as a dense forest teeming with lurking threats. While other girls spent their time discussing makeup, I was busy surveying emergency exit routes and defensive terrain within my classrooms. While my peers hesitated and blushed over the boys they admired, I was grueling myself daily at a local dojo, perfecting a three-second takedown technique. By the time I turned sixteen, I had yet to encounter a single real danger. Just as I began to wonder if I were suffering from paranoia, my biological parents arrived in a fleet of supercars to collect me. The very first day I stepped foot into their mansion, when the girl posing as their legitimate daughter beckoned me to dinner, she suddenly let out a shrill scream and tumbled down the grand staircase.

Dear sister, I know you do not like me, but I only wanted to hold your hand. Why did you push me?

Amidst the gasps of horror and the accusatory glares directed my way, I calmly produced a handheld voice and motion recorder.

Very well! Then let us reconstruct the truth of this event.

1

As Wen Kha Hinh sprawled at the bottom of the stairs, the woman claiming to be my mother rushed over instantly. She cradled the girl with trembling care, then looked up at me; the tenderness she had previously reserved for her long-lost daughter had vanished, replaced by cold disappointment and piercing reproach. My brother, Wen Canh Nhien, reacted even more violently. He bolted up the stairs, planting himself firmly between me and the hallway.

How dare you! She is your sister! This is your first day home, and this is how you treat her?

The man who had remained silent until now—the alleged pillar of the household and my biological father—finally spoke.

Apologize.

The last flicker of ridiculous hope I had harbored dissolved into nothingness. I reached a definitive conclusion: these people were hostile targets. Yet, I decided to probe them one final time, not out of any lingering familial attachment, but to assess the danger level and the behavioral patterns of these targets. I did not play the video immediately; instead, I held up the recording device and pressed a button. On the screen, the audio waveform of the past few seconds appeared clearly.

First, the staircase landing is a semi-enclosed structure. Any physical contact, even the slightest friction of fabric, would have registered as a distinct spike or heavy sound within the waveform.

I pointed to a section of the screen where the wave remained as smooth as a still lake.

Here, there is no background noise at all.

The eyes of the entire family were instinctively drawn to the tiny screen. I walked a few steps closer to the stairs.

Second, if one were to fall from this height involuntarily, the primary impact points on the body would inevitably be the knees—which bear the weight—and the elbows, which naturally extend to protect the torso.

I glanced at Wen Kha Hinh, who was still huddled in her mother’s arms, sobbing.

It would not be the ankles, which are delicate but conveniently easy to pretend are injured, as she is doing now.

I walked to the spot where she had been supposedly pushed, crouched down, and touched the floor with my fingertip.

Third, and this is the most critical point.

I looked up, letting my gaze drift across each of them.

Before her body tilted, her core muscles executed an active, outward movement. Her center of gravity shifted before her body actually moved. This is an instinctive reaction in any feigned fall—a move intended to avoid actual physical harm.

Wen Kha Hinh’s crying stopped abruptly. The entire family stood frozen, stunned by an analysis that sounded more like a forensic investigation than a sibling squabble. Wen Kha Hinh’s face turned paper-white, her lips quivering, unable to utter a single word. Realizing she had been cornered, she rolled her eyes and went limp, perfectly and precisely fainting in my mother’s arms.

Quick! Call an ambulance! Kha Hinh has fainted!

It is all your fault! If anything happens to her, I will never forgive you!

The house descended into chaos. My father scrambled to make calls, my mother wept as she clutched the girl, and my brother, as he hurried away, did not forget to cast one final, hateful glare in my direction. From start to finish, not a single person spared me another glance. I quietly tucked the recorder away and watched them rush the victim out the door. My heart remained as still as stagnant water. I returned to my room, locked the door, and meticulously checked the infrared alarms and window sensors I had installed myself. The first survival lesson my foster father taught me was this: Never rely on the compassion of your enemies. They were merely the first targets of my mission.

2

Wen Kha Hinh spent three days recuperating in the hospital. I used this time to map the entire structure of the mansion. I charted the layout of the load-bearing walls, the location of the main power and water breakers, and every single surveillance camera—noting their make, their field of vision, and their data storage methods. By the end of it, I had written a ten-page report entitled Proposal for Residential Security Upgrades. It even included the danger zones within a one-hundred-meter radius of the villa, all marked in painstaking detail.