Divya could feel her frustration bubbling up, simmering just beneath the surface. Seriously, what kind of unfair transmigration was this?
Normally, when someone got thrown into another world—whether as a villainess or a side character—they at least had some perks. Maybe they'd turn out to be a duke's long-lost daughter, the emperor's secret child, some noble's pampered brat, or even a god-tier healer with hidden abilities.
But her?
Her life was worse than a beggar's.
She wanted to cry. Why the hell did she even agree to that cursed ghost marriage?
But then, her eyes landed on the pouch in her hands, and her mood did a full 180.
Money. A lot of it.
A smirk curled on her lips as she rolled her eyes. Honestly, if they were paying this much, she wouldn't mind crashing another ghost wedding. Hell, if it meant this kind of payout, she might volunteer at this point.
But first—she needed a serious makeover.
Divya grimaced as she looked at herself. She was so filthy that people had mistaken her for a man. Which, in hindsight, had actually been a blessing. Most of the ghost cultivators hadn't even gotten a proper look at her face. Perfect.
Now, all she had to do was clean up, slap on some makeup, and—
Wait.
Makeup?
Her whole body froze.
A slow, horrifying realization dawned on her.
She was doomed.
Why? Because in her past life, she had learned everything—riding motorcycles at seventeen, kickboxing, various martial arts, handling work, survival skills, you name it.
But makeup? Hair styling? Looking like a proper lady?
Not a damn clue.
She could cook—sure, she wasn't a total savage. But embroidery? Hairpins? Beauty routines? Absolutely not.
The most she had ever done was wash her face with soap, throw on some powder (which, funnily enough, was actually for men), and call it a day.
And now she finally understood why those transmigrated heroines always seemed to magically know how to disguise themselves with makeup. Because if they didn't, they'd be screwed just like her!
She stared blankly at her reflection, then let out a long, dramatic sigh.
"…Well. Shit."
And to make things worse?
She didn't even have a damn face wash.
At this moment, Divya truly, deeply, and unforgivably regretted everything.
If her mother and sister were here, she could already hear them in her head, arms crossed, shaking their heads at her with that infuriating mix of smugness and exasperation.
"See? This is why I always tell you to be more ladylike! Ha ha ha ha!"
They would probably be poking her forehead right now, cackling like mischievous goblins while she suffered.
The mere thought made her furiously shake her head as if physically swatting away their imaginary forms. And just like that—poof!—they disappeared.
"What the hell?"
She almost wanted to scream. What kind of dumb fate was this?!
"Why the hell did the author have to write a cultivation novel?!" she hissed under her breath, barely restraining the urge to rip her own hair out. "And why—" she smacked her own forehead, the slap echoing dramatically in the quiet stable, "—why the hell do I have to be the one reading it when I don't even know a damn thing about cultivation?!"
If some god had tossed her into a novel, couldn't they at least have picked a nice Western fantasy? At least in those, she'd know how to dress, how to talk, and most importantly—how to survive!
With a long, suffering sigh, she turned her gaze outside, hoping to distract herself. But then—
Wait.
She squinted.
Her eyes locked onto something hanging outside, swaying gently in the breeze.
"Is that…?"
A slow, almost predatory grin stretched across her face.
Outside, someone had left a robe to dry, freshly washed and abandoned like a gift from the heavens.
Perfect.
With the agility of a ninja (or at least, what she imagined a ninja to be), she crouched low and crept forward, her steps as light as possible. It wasn't like she hadn't trained in martial arts before, but let's be real—compared to this world's cultivators, her skills were laughable.
If martial arts had a ranking system, hers would be a tragic 2%, while these people were out here breaking the 100% limit, casually defying physics and running up walls like they were auditioning for Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon.
I'm trying my best, okay?! she mentally shouted at the universe.
Reaching the robe, she yanked it down in one swift motion and sprinted back to the stable, barely resisting the urge to cackle in victory.
Huff. Huff. Huff.
Her heart pounded. Her lungs burned.
She wasn't even this terrified when her father almost beat her to death after catching her smoking that one time.
(Okay, one time! It wasn't even a full cigarette! She just wanted to try it! And yet, somehow, that one tiny puff had nearly sent her to an early grave.)
But that wasn't the problem now.
With a triumphant grin, she lifted the robe to admire her spoils.
Then—her expression froze.
A thick silence fell over the stable.
Her eye twitched.
Slowly, as if dreading the answer, she peeked up at the small crack in the roof, staring at the sky with a deep, existential weariness.
"God… are you messing with me?"
The robe was pink.
No.
Not just any pink.
A dark, unholy, eye-offending pink.
The kind of pink that looked like someone had taken all the sugar, glitter, and childhood trauma in the world and blended it into one overwhelmingly nauseating color.
Her entire soul revolted.
It wasn't just dislike. This was war.
She hated pink.
No, worse—she had been traumatized by it.
Her siblings had loved the color so much that they had turned their house into a pink nightmare. Pink walls. Pink furniture. Pink bedsheets. Pink toilet seat covers. There was no escape.
And now?
Now, she was forced to wear it.
Her lips curled into a hollow, soulless smile.
"Why stop here, God?" she muttered, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Why don't you just drop the whole stable on my head? Or better yet, why not summon a few ghost cultivators while you're at it? Maybe even slap me with a flying slipper while you're at it—"*