The realm of cultivation is cutthroat and unforgiving. Its annals are drenched in blood, grime, betrayal, forbidden love, and epic tales of mortals who crossed paths with gods in their ascent to divinity! It is truly—Blah-blah-blah.

You could count every grain of sand on the earth before I told you the half of all that, for the tale of the cultivator is as old as time immemorial (maybe older if you count immortals). There is far too much to tell, and too little time to do so (I am too lazy to write more than is necessary).

However, not that I take my responsibility for granted (as with all things, be sure to take my words with a pinch of salt). Even now, it tinges my cheeks red with excitement, the thought of my tale being added to the greatest of the Seven Great Libraries! I still cannot conceive of it!

It takes me back to some of my earliest (fondest) memories. As a child, my grandfather would often bring me to the Ethereal Library. His unyielding, but mostly fruitless, attempts at heightening my mental prowess later set me on a path to my first vice—an obsession with the forbidden arts shrouded in indecipherable, ancient texts! (A story for a later time).

Err, where was I? Yes. The library! Under grandfather's watchful gaze, I 'eagerly' spent my days immersed in the endless volumes on sums, proper behavior, and the mystic origins of cultivation.

The volumes on sums and proper behavior bored me to no end (to this day). The origins of cultivation, however, had me intrigued, and I was at a loss.

Even as a child, I could tell something was missing. It was akin to a void in the realm's history.

We knew so little about how the first cultivators came into being. Yet, in my day, mortals learning to cultivate was as commonplace as a child learning to walk.

Of course, being but a child, such matters did so little as to provoke a thought. I was more interested in reading about 'Haoran the Flightless' in the history section.

Orphaned, abandoned, relegated—such were Haoran's meager origins (typical of a novel with a male lead). Still, I, like various others, who seek to find a place for themselves, yet wind up lost in the fluttering pages of a book, was infatuated by him.

A hero. A liberator. Someone who rose from obscurity and reached the epitome of what this realm offered.

Before ascending, he did the impossible and brought change (actual change) to the unyielding, old ways of the Great Sects.

So great was his, and the influence of twelve others who lived in his day, that each sect adopted their techniques and passed them down for generations.

My grandfather's sect, and all its disciples (blind followers, if anything), I included, were staunch devotees of the way of Haoran, and his cultivation techniques were enshrined in each one of us.

Often, however, it is the winners who write history. How it is told depends entirely on their whims. Veiled in the shadow of Haoran's conquest were countless lives he had taken all in the name of 'change.' Whether his reasons were valid is subjective.

Change is just a convenient word for the act of forcing one's ideals on others, as I later learned (but that too is a story for another day).

Young cultivator, I write my story with the assumption that you have read the 'Epoch of Cultivation' Volumes that came before this one, or are at least familiar with some similar lore.

If not, do not be discouraged. For as long as you have a basic understanding of what cultivation is, and above all, a will to learn, you will not fare too badly.

I am most fortunate that you have discovered this volume. If you are reading this, it means my time in this realm has finished. Whether my death is at hand, or I am about to ascend, in time, you will know what that implies.

I will tell you this, however, mine is not a tale akin to the usual orphaned-boy yada yada collecting dust on the shelves of the great libraries. No. for I am Yenay—The Renegade Immortal's Wife.

Before any of that, however, I was just an ordinary 17-year-old girl. My family comprised my not-so-ordinary grandfather, my not-so-ordinary parents, and, of course, my three not-so-ordinary older brothers.

Save for that, I was ordinary in every sense.

I contemplated growing bangs or cutting my hair short—the latter being a trend among girls as they transitioned from 'ordinary,' to cultivator—which, by all means, was as 'un-ordinary' as most of them could ever hope to be.

Similar to most girls my age, I considered cultivation as a means to an end; and thought little of its spiritual virtue or the burden of responsibility that resulted from its practice.

That 'end' which usually, was just a beginning to a long arduous journey, was also the reason any sensible teenage girl would deprive herself of 'precious' beauty sleep and still wake before the hen laid its egg, or the rooster cooed—cultivation could improve their appearance through a technique called 'Body Refinement' (that is why most girls bothered learning at all).

'Wrinkles? Gone. Crow's legs? Not a problem! Sagging skin? Sooo last century! Better yet, why not stop aging altogether? Become a cultivator, sister!'

It is truly an amazing technique that continues to work wonders and has saved countless lives (indirectly and directly) and even ushered in dynasties! After all, give any man a beautiful woman who worships him, and he will be happy—arranged marriages have never had such a gain in popularity!

Of course, not that cultivation is a shortcut to fulfilment. It takes countless hours of consistent study and practice to achieve tangible results.

'It is so boring to cultivate!'

'Why do I have to sit in one place for so long?'

'How do I clear my mind? I keep thinking about my future boyfriend!'

'As if any of you would have a boyfriend before I do!'

My senior sisters' run-of-the-mill 'grievances' were akin to a dull melody intended to remind anyone younger of how unlucky they were for not having been born sooner (you had to be at least 18-years-old to cultivate, the age of awakening). Or maybe a mantra of collective support to keep each other going? I lean towards the former. They were much too petty to even spare each other a word of encouragement.

Their altercations aside, I had to laud the senior sisters for their dedication to pursuing a flawless appearance.

They eagerly attended every one of grandfather's intermediate classes despite his rigorous training methods.

I reasoned this was because while they knew their trivial complaints were only temporary, eternal youth was but a sore bum away (err, because of sitting for so long).

I will not be two-faced and claim not to have felt a rush of delight at the prospect. Every girl dreams of having a beautiful appearance and being appreciated for it—I'm no exception. We all wish to look beautiful for our significant others, to be noticed by them, and to make them crave our attention.

Some of my senior sisters would often say it is difficult to keep a man wrapped around your finger after 40—whatever that meant, I was only 17-years-old and wouldn't have to worry about it for a while to come. Of course, I knew to be successful in any endeavor, one had to plan a course of action (a girl can never be too careful).

So, at 17-years-old, barely a woman, I set out to become a cultivator, and the greatest beauty the realm had ever seen! I would enjoy myself for as long as I could and break more than a few hearts and bones!

I did not know it then, but my decision to become a cultivator (selfish intents and all) would later set me on a vexing, monogamous path that was not-so-ordinary, after all.

***

To be continued…