This should have been her moment of glory, the one that had every disciple in the Sect green with envy. Instead, it felt more like a slap in the face.
As she turned to face the others, the surrounding disciples crowded around her, all eager to congratulate her. But as they showered her with hollow words, Xiao Yu
could sense the fake sweetness dripping from their voices. Oh, they were definitely not as sincere as they seemed.
"Congratulations, Xiao Yu!" one of them chirped, but Xiao Yu could practically hear the sarcasm. The whole scene felt like one big staged performance.
Ugh, even she felt guilty after Xiao Pang's little scene, and she was the one who should be on top! She couldn't help but glance at Xiao Pang. What a mess. Her position as direct disciple wasn't earned the way it was supposed to be—oh no, it was more like a freebie handed out at an amusement park.
She'd have to fix this. There was no way she was going to live with the fact that her title felt like a consolation prize. No, no, no. Xiao Pang needed to admit his "mistake" to the Sect Master and graciously step aside, handing her the position on a silver platter. Only then would her dignity be restored, and this mess of a day make any sense.
As she plotted her next move, an expression of feigned sadness and faux regret crept onto Xiao Yu's face. She was already preparing her dramatic speech for when she "kindly" went to "persuade" Xiao Pang.
As Xiao Yu turned to glance at Pangpang, Divya sprang to her feet like a startled cat. Her dramatic flourish of dusting off her threadbare clothes was so extra that even the disciples in the crowd collectively raised an eyebrow. She didn't just stand up—no, she stood up with the flair of someone about to deliver an award-winning performance.
Without so much as a glance at anyone, she whipped around and bolted toward the nearest door. Not a word, not a single shred of regret, just go. Her speed was so ridiculous that it almost looked like her feet barely touched the ground.
The entire sect froze in stunned silence.
"Wait…" Xiao Yu finally muttered, her voice laced with disbelief, "is she running?"
"Why does it look like she's in a marathon?" one of the disciples whispered to another.
"I thought she'd beg for forgiveness or cry," added someone else.
Well, guess what? They were wrong. Divya didn't have time to beg, cry, or do anything dramatic other than get herself out of this trainwreck of a situation.
Her hair flew behind her like a messy cape, a smirk pulling at her lips as she ran. Run, run, run, she chanted in her mind. Because groveling is for losers, and I'm about to win the escape game.
She didn't stop until her lungs started burning and her legs felt like noodles. Panting, she paused to glance around. Her eyes landed on a small, pitiful hut at the edge of the courtyard. It was the saddest excuse for a building she'd ever seen—her own home.
"Great," she muttered, rolling her eyes. "Home sweet trash heap."
She darted inside, slamming the creaky door behind her like she was sealing herself away from the drama outside. The room was even worse than she remembered. The bed, if you could call it that, was a pile of scratchy, dry grass that looked like it had been there since dinosaurs roamed the earth. A colony of bugs had made themselves comfortable in one corner, and the smell? A mix of old wood, sweat, and pure despair.
"Wow," she muttered to herself, hands on her hips. "Luxury living at its finest."
She didn't have time to sit and soak in the horror, though. If she wanted to get out of here alive, she needed cash—or at least something she could trade for cash. She dove into the mess like a woman possessed, throwing clothes, broken trinkets, and random junk behind her.
"Aha!" she exclaimed, her hand closing around a small, dusty pouch buried under a stack of old rags. She yanked it free, shaking it, and the sweet sound of jingling coins filled the room.
Divya opened the pouch with a sense of triumph, only to be met with a pile of disappointment—five, maybe six copper coins, clinging to life like they didn't know how pathetic they looked. She slapped her forehead dramatically, then decided once wasn't enough and did it again for good measure.
Her eyes darted around the room as if someone might suddenly appear with a suitcase full of cash. Spoiler alert: they didn't. Instead, her gaze landed on the bundle of clothes, the real treasure trove. She picked up the second outfit, because apparently, this was now her life—two outfits, both equally tragic.
The dress she held was less a garment and more a survival kit. It had been patched so many times that it looked like someone had given up entirely on trying to make it presentable. The original design? A distant memory, lost somewhere beneath the layers of fabric that had clearly been through more hardship than she ever had. The color? A sad, faded white that screamed, I give up.
With a deep sigh, Divya slid down against the wall, frustration bubbling up inside her like a pressure cooker. Her hand instinctively went to her forehead, rubbing circles in an attempt to ward off the headache she could already feel brewing. The tiny stool she'd been sitting on seemed to be mocking her, creaking under her weight as if it knew it had no place in this scene of utter misery. What the hell? Her gaze flicked to the stool, and in a fit of pure exasperation, she shot to her feet and gave it a solid kick.
The stool sailed through the air like a wounded bird before smashing into the wall with a thundering crash.
Boom