What exactly did they believe? She had no clue. And frankly, she didn't have the energy to care. All she knew was: she needed to get the hell out of here.
She had nowhere else to go. Couldn't go back to the city—that chapter was closed, scribbled over, and set on fire. And her precious cultivation sect? Yeah, she'd rather eat dirt than crawl back to that mess.
So now, she was free. Technically.
And yes, the capital sounded like a decent plan. Glamorous, distant, full of opportunities. Plus, she had money. Or... had.
Because let's be honest—this was Divya. The same girl who lost her paycheck four times just walking the three kilometers from her office to her house.
She didn't even get mugged—nope. Just lost it. Poof. Gone. Vanished into the wind.
So no, she wasn't exactly confident about surviving the chaos of a crowded capital city with her money intact.
Also, minor detail—she didn't even know where the capital was. And let's be real, it's not like they'd welcome her with a red carpet and a fruit basket.
So... Plan B: survive the village for now.
Looking at the villagers' faces again, Divya still had no idea what kind of story they had cooked up in their heads.
But later—much later—she found out they all thought she was a widow. A poor, tragic, abandoned-young widow.
By the time she realized, the story had snowballed, complete with mourning looks and unsolicited sympathy snacks. Great.
But that was for later.
Back to the present: they dragged Divya—on foot, mind you—another five miles back to the village.
No cart. No donkey. Not even a pity lift. Just her legs and a mountain of curses bubbling up inside her.
Divya was this close to grabbing someone by the collar and asking, "What kind of sadistic hobby is this?!"
Huff. Huff. Breathe, Divya.
Then again, it wasn't exactly a common practice to bring a cart for someone walking 5–10 kilometers in this kind of weather.
And she guessed she couldn't complain too much. After all, even in her world—which wasn't exactly a poster child for fitness—people could walk 5-6 kilometers just fine. These villagers, despite being softer than a fresh dumpling, were managing just fine.
So... forget it. No use starting a riot. Yet.
At last, she reached the village.
And believe it or not, one of the reasons she had even chosen this gods-forsaken village was because, according to the novel—nothing happened here. Not a single dramatic plot point. No fateful encounters. No cultivation clashes. No hidden masters meditating behind waterfalls. Nothing.
When she first woke up in this world, breathless and half-panicked, she'd thought, Run. And this village had popped into her mind like a last lifeline. She figured—maybe it was secretive, maybe dangerous, maybe a stronghold for some rogue faction or some pitiful, cursed land. She'd prepared herself mentally for every worst-case scenario. Bandits. Poisoned wells. Even a portal to hell.
She had imagined a hundred ways this place could go terribly wrong.
And yet… what she found still managed to stun her.
This so-called "village"—and yes, let's generously call it that, because technically it qualified—wasn't what she expected. Look, she knew this world was supposed to have that "ancient era" vibe. Fine. She could deal with wooden carts and candles, whatever.
But this?
Caves.
Literal caves.
Not like stone-and-clay homes with charming rustic flair—no, just gaping holes in the sides of rock formations. As if someone had pointed at a mountain and said, "That looks livable."
Wow. Just—wow.
She blinked at the nearest "residence," which looked like someone had punched a hole into the hill and called it a day. No windows. No doors. No shame.
And the cherry on top? The comedic genius of the author.
She'd read the novel. She knew the geography. Tell her—where in the damn story did a mountain suddenly sprout out in the middle of a mostly flat, desert-like region?
What kind of expired brandy had the author been sipping while writing this chapter?
She crossed her arms, staring at the rocky slope.
"Peak fiction," she muttered under her breath.
Anyway, after calming down—deep breaths, deep regrets—Devya reminded herself she had already seen too much. Monsters? Check. Cultivators throwing swords like confetti? Check. Entire mountain ranges popping up where flat land should've been? Triple check.
So honestly, if these villagers stepped out dressed in literal animal hides, she wouldn't even blink. Nope. Not even a twitch.
But oh—thank the author's last two remaining brain cells—they were actually wearing proper clothes. Real, wearable fabric. No furs, no dramatic loincloths. Just decent, everyday clothing. She gave a slow, sarcastic clap in her head. Nice. Very nice.
As they walked past the so-called houses—which were still just glorified caves with delusions of architecture—they finally reached what looked like the "main" house. The "big boss hut," so to speak. An old man and a middle-aged woman stood waiting at the front. Ah yes, here we go. Village head and elder, right?
Wrong.
Dead wrong.
Because a few awkward greetings later, she found out that neither of them were anything even remotely important. No titles. No power. Just... villagers. And here she'd been, all cautious and respectful, nodding like a polite guest in some royal court.
Great. She was starting to feel like the clown in her own tragic comedy.
But then—then—he walked out.
The real village head.
And Devya's brain short-circuited for a solid three seconds.
What the hell?
Why—why—was someone that attractive living out here in caveman-ville? The man looked like he had stepped out of a drama set, or worse, a high-budget fantasy idol show. Tall, refined, dressed like he knew he looked good... And that face? Too sharp. Too smooth. Too perfect.
She almost squinted at the sky suspiciously. Was this a test?
Because in her head, the village head was supposed to be some ancient dude with a beard down to his knees and a face like a dried apricot. Not this. Not... him.