As Divya continued walking, she stopped abruptly after a few steps. Her shoulders slumped, her eyes drooped, and she looked like she was about to faint. A perfect picture of tragic heroism—or, well, something close enough.
From another perspective, she might've resembled one of those tragic side characters in a novel. You know, the type who exists only to make the female lead shine brighter. Because, let's be real—if this were a novel and the female lead or some ethereal beauty were in her position, they'd look heartbreaking, pitiful, and yet still radiate that inexplicable, otherworldly beauty. But Divya? Hah!
If she managed to catch her reflection right now, she'd probably scream loud enough to wake the dead. Forget looking like a tragic heroine; with her swollen cheeks and body covered in bruises, she was more potato than protagonist. Not even a humble yam—just a straight-up, dented, overboiled potato.
Still, who cared? She didn't stop here to put on a show for their pity or admiration. Nah, that wasn't her game. Let them look; she wasn't interested in their sympathy. Because what was the point of pity anyway? It's all fleeting, superficial nonsense.
Divya knew better than anyone—human nature doesn't change. Whether good people existed or not, whether someone stopped to help an injured person or turned a blind eye, one universal truth remained: most people just wanted the satisfaction of seeing someone worse off than themselves.
And right now? She was giving them that satisfaction on a silver platter. A bloody, bruised, and limping platter. Oh, they must be reveling in it. Look at her go! Poor, battered fatty, leaving empty-handed, a picture of misery. Let them gawk, whisper, and feel smugly superior for a fleeting moment.
Divya never intended to beg for their pity—she only wanted to show them a picture of what they feared most: a loser, a pitiful character discarded by fate. But she knew their nature too well. No matter how weak or miserable she appeared, their minds would twist the narrative to suit their own amusement.
Oh my god, the elder's daughter, once so rich, has fallen so low?
Is this a direct display of what happens when someone dares to challenge the heroine?
People were always like this. If they couldn't have something, they didn't want others to have it either. And now, in her current state—tattered, broken, humiliated—she wasn't just a spectacle. She was a spark. A seed of discord planted in their hearts.
After all, her father and her dear sister had always lived in luxury, basking in their wealth and privilege. Meanwhile, she—Pang Pang—had nothing, from beginning to end. But no one cared about that. A pitiful character was meant to be ignored, cast aside, ridiculed. Their only interest lay in currying favor with the heroine, aligning themselves with power.
But now, that balance was shifting. With just this one look, she had cracked something in them, something small, but undeniable. And when you're sitting on a bomb, even the tiniest spark is enough to set the whole thing ablaze.
From all the novels Divya had read, and from the countless memories that seemed to rush at her all at once, one thing was certain: the so-called heroine of this world had something called a "heroine halo." And that halo? It would always protect her, no matter the circumstances.
Take, for example, a bear—if the heroine threw a stone at it, the beast wouldn't so much as flinch in her direction. Instead, it would target the other disciples hiding in the most secretive, tucked-away spots, no matter where they were. The heroine could be standing right in the open, frozen in place, yet the bear wouldn't even spare her a glance. No, it would go after the others. This was her halo at work.
Divya knew from all her reading that this halo was something unbreakable, not something a mere side character like her could shatter. And even if she could, she wasn't the type to gamble with her life in some reckless pursuit of revenge. After all, wasn't living well, thriving while others failed, the best kind of revenge? The heroine's halo might remain untouchable, but that didn't mean it couldn't be cracked, just a little—though not by her.
With that thought, Divya slowly began her descent from the Heavenly Sect. She stood at the top of the stairs, the very place she used to ascend with such determination. Now, looking down, a wave of nausea rose in her chest. The steps were hidden by thick fog, the way down obscured by a mist so dense she couldn't see beyond the first few steps. Light still glimmered from the higher levels, but from this vantage point, it felt suffocating, as though the fog was swallowing her whole.
She sighed, a deep, weary sound. What could she do? She couldn't fly—not like the heroine. Not with that little sword that barely looked capable of lifting a leaf, let alone her entire body. Sure, she could imagine it getting bigger, like some motorcycle-sized contraption, but it would still be a sword. And Divya wasn't someone who gambled on things like that, not her life at least.
She could have turned back, but gravity, at least, was still in her favor. Even if the heroine's halo defied it, it would work on her. With a final sigh, she stepped forward, her feet meeting the first step, and began her slow, careful descent into the unknown below.
After half an hour, Divya stood still, panting heavily. Her heart felt like it was about to burst from the strain. One thing was certain—her teacher had been right all along. A pang of guilt washed over her as she recalled the lessons about gravity.
At least the author studied something in their science class, she thought sarcastically.
Why science and not physics, though? I mean, this person must've only studied till the fifth grade, otherwise how could they write such nonsense?