Nyara had walked through the entire vilge. She seemed to be well known, as countless faces stared at her wherever she passed. Most were non-cultivators — gazes overflowing with pity, as if they mourned her very existence. But that didn’t affect Nyara at all.

  The sun was already setting, painting the sky with golden and orange tones. Determined, Nyara pnned to participate in the festival the next day. For now, she would return to the hut in the cemetery to cultivate in peace.

  Upon arriving, she sat in a lotus position and closed her eyes, ready to begin her meditation. However, her instincts — sharpened by centuries of existence — screamed in warning.

  Suddenly, several daggers sliced through the air toward her.

  With agile movements, Nyara leapt back, dodging the bdes with precision. She rolled to the side and stopped at the back of the hut, eyes locked on the origin of the attack.

  A silhouette was watching her from above.

  "Hoho... interesting," murmured a metallic voice.

  The moonlight slowly revealed the mysterious figure. The attacker wore a bck cloak made of fabric that looked like solid mist. On it, faded runes shimmered subtly. A dark metal mask covered most of his face, hiding his identity.

  Nyara and the assassin stared at each other for a brief moment. Then he spoke coldly:

  "I wasn’t paid to kill you... not yet."

  And with that, he vanished into the shadows, as if he had never been there.

  In a rge house at the center of the town, the assassin stood atop a small post within the building.

  "Did you complete the job?" asked a young man.

  "What do you mean 'complete the job'? I was only paid to test her," replied the metallic voice.

  "But I said you should at least poison her!" the young man excimed furiously.

  "Hohoho... and I tried," said the assassin, disappearing once again into the shadows.

  The young man's face twisted in rage.

  "Seems like if I want something done right, I’ll have to do it myself," he muttered.

  Nyara had returned to cultivating. She knew that if that person had truly intended to kill her, she would already be dead. In this body, there wasn’t much she could do... yet.

  But having lived for ages, she already suspected who the one behind it was. Probably that influential family’s brat she had humiliated earlier in town. Nyara shook her head at the memory and let out a small ugh.

  She was using a cultivation method that channeled part of her core’s energy to strengthen her own body — muscle by muscle, bone by bone — making the energy flow through every part and reinforcing it.

  Normally, cultivators only did this in ter stages, as a way to temper the body. But ages ago, a great cultivator had spread in the immortal world the idea that practicing this method from the earliest stages would result in a much stronger, more durable body — a true vessel of power.

  But clearly, these people wouldn’t know that. After all, the immortal world was vast — it could take years for a discovery to spread, and sometimes it never did, getting lost with the passing eras.

  And so, Nyara spent the entire night strengthening her body. Hours dragged on until darkness gave way to daylight.

  Nyara opened her eyes and heard a commotion coming from the direction of the vilge. She stood, ate a few fruits, and headed toward the vilge. Hundreds of people were gathered in the center.

  Ahead, a massive ring had been set up. That was where the battles would take pce. The space was rge, with several bleachers and some elevated seats — likely reserved for important figures.

  Nyara looked around in all directions. She saw countless excited people, as if their lives depended on that event. When she was born, it was in a cultivation realm far above the mortal world. The resources and training she had received were hundreds of times superior to the opportunities these people had here.

  Now, she would have to adapt to this new reality.

  Near the ring stood a man with a friendly appearance. He held a carved wooden box and smiled broadly at the crowd gathered around him. Those who wanted to participate in the tournament needed to draw a token from inside it.

  The movement caught Nyara’s attention, and she approached with calm steps. As soon as the man saw her, his eyes widened. Her beauty was stunning — hair bck as night, long and silky, contrasting with pale skin and a gaze as cold as ice. The man’s smile faltered as he felt the disdain in her eyes, and his expression quickly soured.

  Without caring about his reaction, Nyara reached into the box and pulled out a token marked with the number 45.

  "Keep that token," said the man, forcing a neutral tone. "You’ll be called by that number."

  Nyara simply nodded and walked away from the crowd.

  Not far away, a young man watched the scene with a malicious smile. His eyes were fixed on Nyara, and his thoughts oozed poison.

  "She’s going to participate in the tournament? The heavens truly smile upon me..." he murmured with a cruel glint in his eyes. "I’ll have my chance to finish her once and for all."

  An hour passed, and the vilge center was packed with people. The bleachers were already full, and in the elevated seats sat the heads of the great families, along with some powerful cultivators from nearby sects.

  The long-awaited moment was approaching. A rge panel made of spiritual energy floated above the arena, dispying the names and numbers of the participants. A draw was held, determining the first matchups.

  Nyara examined her token: number 45. When she looked at the panel, she saw she’d be facing number 8.

  The sound of a gong rang three times, echoing throughout the vilge. The crowd, noisy and lively until then, gradually quieted down. A middle-aged man stepped onto the improvised ring, wearing a simple but clean robe, with a small wooden medallion hanging from his neck — the symbol of his position as vilge chief.

  "Thank you all for coming!" he said, raising his voice with the help of a rudimentary sound artifact. "Today begins our Selection Tournament! A chance for the vilge’s youth to show their worth and, perhaps, catch the attention of invited families or sects!"

  The crowd responded with cheers, whistles, and enthusiastic shouts.

  "We have fifty participants this year," he continued, "each one with a numbered token. The matches were decided by random draw, and the pairs will appear on this panel!"

  He pointed to a simple energy rectangle conjured by one of the few official cultivators in the vilge, where the pairings began to appear.

  "Now, we’ll call a few names for a quick introduction. When you hear your number, come up to the stage, say your name, and get ready!"

  One by one, the participants were called. Nervous youths, some trying to appear confident, others trembling slightly. No one there had titles, fame, or reputation beyond the vilge limits — they were apprentices, farmers’ sons, or servants of cultivating families.

  "Number 3!"

  "I'm Xian Bo, I work at the forge with my father..."

  "Number 8!"

  "My name is Duan Meng."

  "Number 15!"

  "Shu Lian, Aunt Mei’s daughter from the tea fields!"

  The crowd ughed, appuded, cheered. It was a simple event, but filled with local emotion. And then:

  "Number 45!"

  Nyara walked to the center of the stage in silence. Her long dark hair swayed lightly in the wind. She looked at those present with an impassive — almost bored — gaze.

  "Liu Mei," she said briefly. For now, she would use the name of the body’s original owner.

  The Liu family elder set his eyes on Nyara.

  "What is that brat doing up there?" he asked irritably.

  "Hohoho! Isn’t that the useless daughter from your family, Liu Mei?" said another elder from a different family. "She must be mad, I’d say," he continued, stroking his long beard.

  The Liu elder’s expression turned ugly. Looking back at the mocking elder, he returned his gaze to the arena.

  "You’re nothing but a disgrace..." he muttered, clenching his hand on the armrest and leaving a visible mark.

  The people in the bleachers already knew the girl’s story, and those who didn’t began to hear the whispers and rumors quickly spreading. Murmurs rose from all sides, increasing curiosity and unease in the air.

  "Very well! The matches begin now!" announced the elder’s voice, cutting through the tension in the air. "Let the first pair take the stage!"

  Like a spinning wheel, the numbers began rotating on the energy screen, glowing and highlighted, building up anticipation. When the rotation stopped, the screen dispyed: "Number 45 and Number 8 will face each other."

  The vilge chief, in an authoritative tone, shouted to the crowd: "Liu Mei and Duan Meng!" and Nyara’s name echoed through the arena, making the crowd’s murmurs grow even louder.