The life trial system "If You Think You Can Do Better, Prove It" burst onto the scene like a traveling circus promising wonders.

The idea was plain enough: "If you reckon someone's life is a mess, and you think you can do better, go ahead and prove it. There's a reward waiting if you do."

Before I knew it, my whole family had me pegged for the fool in the middle of the show. There was my mother, dreaming of turning me into some grand goose; my husband, who'd spent years dodging his rightful share of the family load; and my son, mortified by the very sight of me. They shoved me onto the "judgment seat" like I was the villain of the tale.

Every last one of them swore up and down that, given my place, they'd manage my life better than I ever could.

The stakes? Well, if they pulled it off, my consciousness would be erased—gone, wiped out like a mistake on a chalkboard—and turned into their personal servant. On top of that, they'd waltz off with a cool million dollars.

But if they couldn't? Then I'd be the one raking in three million dollars. Now that's a gamble for the ages, isn't it?

The life trial system "If You Think You Can Do Better, Prove It" had been live for a week, but no one dared to sign up.

The rules were simple, yet terrifying: if you could prove you could live someone else's life better than they did, you would win one million dollars. But the cost? The consciousness of the original person would be obliterated—essentially, a death sentence.

On the other hand, if you failed to outperform them under identical circumstances, you would die instead.

Nobody wanted to gamble their life or risk becoming the murderer of another.

Yet here I was—the first one in the system.

A robot escorted me to the front row, where cameras swiveled to capture every angle of my face.

My mother, husband, and son sat further back, carefully avoiding my gaze. I stared at their guilty expressions and asked with a bitter smile, "So, all of you think you'd do better in my position?"

My mother averted her eyes. "Of course! I gave you the best education money could buy. I wanted you to succeed, to earn a fortune and get into a top university, but you failed miserably."

My husband and son exchanged glances before piling on.

"Every other wife can keep a household running smoothly, support her husband, and be the perfect homemaker. Why can't you?" my husband sneered.

"Yeah!" my son chimed in, his voice full of disdain. "You're a terrible mom! When we go out, people think you're my grandma. Do you know how embarrassing that is?"

I laughed, a sound bitter and hollow. Wife, mother, daughter—the three roles that defined my existence. And here they were, my family, lined up to cast judgment.

The crowd watching from below murmured.

"If even her closest family thinks she's worthless, she must be a failure."

"Why didn't I think to nominate my wife? She's just as lazy—always complaining about being tired. I could do her job better in my sleep."

"Wait, so 3 participants are lining up to challenge the lady. If the first one succeeds, does only the first participant get the reward? Or do all three of them share the prize?"

At that, my mother, husband, and son began squabbling, each eager to go first. I could only marvel at their confidence.

Finally, the system's neutral voice intervened. [If all three evaluations succeed, the reward will be tripled for each participant.]

The arguing ceased instantly, replaced by excited whispers and pats of encouragement. United by greed, they cheered each other on like comrades before a battle.

The system turned to me. [Ms. Adeline Carrey, as the defendant, do you have any rebuttal?]

The crowd below the stage erupted in irritation.

"Just get on with it! Stop wasting time."

"Rebuttal? What could she possibly say to defend herself?"

"Hey, sign me up next. At least I wouldn't have my mom, husband, and son hate me this much."

I memorized the face of the man who said that, smiling faintly. "I have nothing to say. Let's begin."

My mother was the first to take the stage.

Face flushed with excitement, she greeted the audience. "Hello, everyone. I'm a single mother. I worked three jobs every day to ensure my daughter could focus on her studies. All I ever wanted was for her to succeed."

She gestured at me with disdain. "But my daughter complained that studying was hard. What's so hard about writing with a pen? It's the easiest job in the world! If she can't even manage that, what can she do?"

Her voice rose in indignation. "And did she repay me for all my sacrifices? No. She cut ties with me the moment she grew up. I raised a thankless, lazy daughter. If I'd had her opportunities, I'd have graduated from a top university and earned at least 15 thousand dollars a month!"

Her words drew a wave of agreement from the audience.

"She's right! Her daughter deserves to be judged!"

"Yeah, let's get it over with. Let her die already!"

The system's voice interrupted the clamor. [Ms. Vivian Wood, in which aspects of her life do you believe you could outperform your daughter?]

"Every aspect," my mother declared confidently. "But if I had to choose, I'd say academics and filial piety."

The system replied: [Understood. Sealing select memories and extracting consciousness. Substitution simulation commencing.]

The crowd gasped as my mother froze mid-breath, her body turning stiff and lifeless. All eyes turned to the giant screen, now displaying a simulation.

The audience grew increasingly curious, all wondering what kind of life my mom would have had if she were me.

In the simulation, a baby girl was born—a replica of me in appearance and physique. The system identified her as "Subject One." She would relive my exact life circumstances, but her goals and decisions would be driven by my mother's consciousness, stripped down to focus on academics and filial duty.

The simulation began.

The scene unfolded in gritty detail: an impoverished household, an unmarried mother raising a child alone. My mother—now in the simulation—resorted to begging for food, dragging little Subject One through the streets.

The audience reacted with a mix of pity and scorn.

"What a devoted mother! If the child knew how tough life was, she should've worked harder!"

"Poverty builds character. Let's see if the kid can rise above it."

Years flew by. By the time Subject One turned six, she'd received no early education. My mother, still begging, hadn't even considered enrolling her in school.

The crowd grew restless.

"She should've started preschool by now."

"Well, not everyone can afford early education. Some people don't even start studying until they're adults, and they still succeed."

At eight, a kind stranger pointed out that Subject One was legally entitled to free education. This was her first encounter with a school. She gazed longingly at the students playing inside, only for my mother to slap her down with a harsh rebuke.

"School costs money. Do you have money? No? Then don't even think about it!"

The audience erupted in outrage.

"Wasn't she the one who said her daughter wasted educational opportunities? What a hypocrite!"

"She's rigging the system to steal money meant for her daughter's education!"

A man in the audience sneered at me. "You'd sacrifice your mom's life for money? No wonder your husband and son want to get rid of you too."

I smiled without offering any rebuttal.

The truth didn't need my defense. Those unwilling to believe would never be swayed by my words.

In the simulation, a kind woman donated money to my mother as an act of genuine goodwill.

Instead of gratitude, my mother's immediate response was suspicion. "Where did you get this money? You didn't… sell yourself, did you? I won't touch dirty money!"

She said this while tightly clutching the cash.

Through this benefactor, my mother learned something new—that having an education opened the door to better jobs and bigger paychecks.

The next day, she marched Subject One to school.

She stormed into the principal's office in tears, wailing dramatically, "Even if I have to beg on the streets, my daughter will go to school!"

The audience watching this scene on the big screen was visibly moved. Some even whispered their admiration.

I remained silent, my smile unwavering.

"That poor woman," someone murmured, "to sacrifice so much for her daughter."

"She may have hit her daughter, but those were just desperate acts born of financial pressure," another commented.

"At least she recognizes the importance of education now. She's trying her best."

The screen continued to play out the simulation.

On Subject One's first day of school, she happened to arrive during the flag-raising ceremony. My mother, as if on cue, collapsed dramatically on the school's athletic field, sobbing and pleading with the teachers to take special care of her daughter.

"I'm poor, but my heart is rich," she cried, grabbing at one teacher's pants.

Unable to fully grasp what was happening, Subject One mimicked her, clutching at the teacher's trousers with equal fervor.

The teachers, flustered, handed over donations to make her leave. Only then did my mother finally stand up, dusting herself off with an air of triumph.

Patting Subject One's back, she declared, "What I did today, humiliating myself in front of everyone, was for you. Remember this when you grow up. Don't forget the debt you owe me."

The audience watching grew quiet, uneasy.

After a long pause, someone finally spoke. "You know, people who don't care about saving face often get further in life. Pride can hold you back."

"Maybe Subject One will overcome everything and succeed," another ventured hesitantly.

The murmurs of agreement were sparse. Most simply cast sympathetic glances in my direction.

I thought back to my own childhood. My mother's constant refrain had been how hard her life was. She was always the victim, and I, the ungrateful daughter who owed her everything.

Back then, I had believed her. I worked hard in school, fantasizing about one day buying her a big house and giving her a comfortable life.

But as I grew older, especially by middle school, I began to understand things differently. That was when my sense of self-respect kicked in—and when the real pain began.

The simulation fast-forwarded through Subject One's elementary school years.

Thanks to regular donations from the kind woman, and a janitorial job the school arranged for my mother, my mother and Subject One managed to scrape by.

Though the teachers were cold to Subject One and she had no friends, she made it through.

Against the odds, Subject One graduated with decent grades and secured a spot in an advanced class at the county's top middle school.

The audience exhaled collectively.

"See? Hard work pays off," someone said with relief.

"She's determined," another chimed in.

"She'll definitely do better than her daughter. Mark my words."

"That's right! Subject One has a strong will and isn't easily swayed by external factors."

My husband scoffed audibly, sneering at me. "If I'd known the truth about your family, I wouldn't have married you."

My son wrinkled his nose in disgust. "It's so embarrassing to have a mom like you. You grew up poor, and now you're dragging me into your mess!"

"Don't worry," I said dryly. "You'll have your turn."

On the screen, my mother's version of my life continued.

Middle school tuition was waived, but there were still book fees, boarding costs, and monthly living expenses.

Just as she seemed to be considering how to manage these expenses, an unexpected opportunity presented itself.

A wealthy family proposed a betrothal.

Accepting it would mean an enormous dowry—and the end of my mother's financial struggles.

By the time Subject One started first grade at eight years old, she was already two years behind her peers. She graduated from elementary school at fourteen.

The old bachelor from the neighboring village sneered at the television one day, pointing at some movie and saying, "In some parts of the world, kids her age could already have children."

Then, turning to my mother, he offered his own twisted version of kindness. "I'll pay for her entire middle school education—three years' worth of expenses. After that, she can graduate and marry me. What do you say? You know how it is with village girls. They can't keep up in town schools, and girls can never outstudy boys anyway. Three years from now, what if she doesn't pass any exams? Worse, what if some little punk gets her pregnant, and she runs off with him? Then you'd be left with nothing."

My mother didn't agree outright, but neither did she reject him.

A few days later, the kind woman who had been sponsoring Subject One's education came to visit and asked about her schooling. Only then did my mother mention her plans for an engagement.

The woman was horrified. She immediately contacted some friends to organize continued financial support for Subject One.

Satisfied with this new arrangement, my mother declined the old bachelor's offer. She had learned long ago that exploiting others' sympathy for her child was the easiest way to make money. It wasn't a one-time sale—it was an investment. The better Subject One appeared to do, the more sympathy and support they'd receive.

Now, her ambitions stretched higher. She wanted Subject One to get into Harvard or Stanford University. Not because of Subject One's future, but because she'd heard that impoverished prodigies from prestigious universities drew the most donations. A brilliant, struggling student was far more valuable than a mediocre one.

On screen, my mother was teaching Subject One some life lessons. "Cry a little when you see the principal or teachers, make yourself look pitiful. That's how we get the money, understand?"

She continued, "I've sacrificed my dignity for your sake. I'm the villain so you can be the hero. All this money? I spend it on you. Someday, it might even buy you a house. So study hard."

In the simulation, Subject One nodded with a firm determination, a puppet in her mother's well-rehearsed theater of pity.

The audience watching this playback was split. Some condemned my mother's manipulative tactics, while others rationalized her actions. "Parents will do anything for their kids. Sure, she's sly, but what other skills does she have to earn money?"

Middle school began for Subject One the way elementary school had—with kneeling.

Thin, pale, and much shorter than her peers, she stood in clothes that barely held together as her mother wept and groveled before the principal. The school staff finally promised some basic support before my mother rose.

But that wasn't enough for her. At the parents' meeting, she set her sights on the wealthiest parent in the class. With tears streaming down her face, she begged this wealthy mother to sponsor Subject One and even offered her as a child bride. The wealthy woman had no choice but to agree to pay a hundred dollars a month for Subject One's meals.

By now, my mother was receiving three separate sources of funds: donations from the kind sponsor, basic school support, and the wealthy parent's monthly allowance.

Yet, despite all this, Subject One never had enough to eat. When she asked for more food money, my mother's response was chilling. "If you live too well, people won't pity you. Besides, we're poor—money must be spent sparingly."

At school, Subject One endured every humiliation a poor, outcast student could face.

The rowdy boys mocked her, calling her "child bride." The girls whispered behind her back.

A month into school, Subject One got her first period. Unprepared and embarrassed, she gratefully accepted a small package of sanitary pads from a teacher. Carefully following the instructions, she changed them every few hours, but the pack ran out before the week was over. When she asked her mother for help, she was handed a roll of toilet paper.

The lack of proper supplies left her constantly anxious, sneaking glances at her chair during every lesson.

But Subject One pressed on. She focused entirely on her studies, using every moment to absorb knowledge since there was no money for tutoring or extra materials. Her classmates' ridicule only fueled her determination.

Some viewers were moved.

"Anyone who can endure such hardship will achieve great things later."

"I admire her focus. She doesn't care about others' opinions and keeps striving for her goals. If she succeeds, I'll reward her with a ten-thousand-dollar donation."

To be honest, I really admire Subject One. She has an incredibly strong mental fortitude.

But, the reasons affecting Subject One's grades weren't limited to just psychological pressure. In the beginning, her grades in Grade 7 were decent, in the upper middle range. But then, her performance started to decline gradually.

The audience was getting upset. "Didn't Subject One say that if given the opportunity to study, she would do well? Why does she keep zoning out and falling asleep in class?"

I answered flatly, "Because she's hungry."

During puberty, when you're growing, it's a terrible feeling not to have enough to eat.

Hunger gnawed at her every night, waking her from sleep and clouding her thoughts during the day. Malnutrition slowed her body and dulled her mind. The dim glow of a ten-watt bulb became her constant companion during late-night study sessions, damaging her eyesight.

When she asked for glasses, my mother snapped, "Glasses? Do you know how expensive those are? Stop making yourself sick with these 'rich people's problems.' Ask the teacher to let you sit in the front row instead."

The teacher refused, citing the class's rotating seating policy. By then, even the staff had grown tired of my mother's antics, and no one wanted to make special accommodations for Subject One.

The audience murmured disapprovingly. "This isn't providing the best conditions for studying at all. Never mind the ridicule, the bully, and the mental pressure, at least meet the child's basic needs."

One viewer, a young woman, smiled kindly at me and said, "You've had it rough, haven't you?"

I shrugged. "Not really. Honestly, I just didn't have the talent for academics."

As I'd said, once chemistry and physics were introduced, Subject One was completely lost. Without tutoring or peer help—no one dared get too close to her—her grades plummeted.

The trial reached its climax. My husband, pale and sweating, finally broke his silence. "Are you telling me that under the same conditions, Vivian as 'Subject One' has the exact academic potential as Adeline?"

The system confirmed: [That is correct. The Life Trial System "If You Think You Can Do Better, Prove It" is a simulator that reveals your capabilities under identical circumstances as the defendant.]

Beads of sweat dripped down his face. My son, confused and wide-eyed, looked between us.

I smiled at them both.

Soon, it was time for the high school entrance exams.

The system's voice declared: [Candidate Vivian Wood's results are below the judged individual's scores. The conditions for winning the "If You Think You Can Do Better, Prove It" trial have not been met. Termination will proceed.]