Reborn as a Sidekick? Nah, Let Me Be the Villainess!

Hearing Xiao Pang insult Xiao Yu, their so-called goddess, how could those so-called "pursuers"—oh, sorry, bootlickers—just stand there and stay silent? One of them, thinking he had the right to defend his precious little hero, took a step forward, all puffed up, ready to grab Divya's collar. "You fatty, how dare you talk to Yu-Yu like that?" he sneered.

But before he could even lay a finger on her, Divya was quicker than his pathetic reflexes. She grabbed his arm with ease, her grip like iron. And with a mere flick of her wrist, crack. The forest went completely silent for a split second, and then—

"AHHHH!" A scream shattered the stillness, echoing through the trees.

Everyone froze, eyes wide in disbelief. The poor guy, now writhing in pain, couldn't even comprehend what happened. The idiot who had been trying to help him grab Divya's collar—well, let's just say he didn't fare any better. He rushed to grab his teammate, but the second he touched him, his own wrist gave way with a sickening snap. "It broke, it broke! AHHHHH!" His screams joined the chorus of chaos, his pain more poetic than the drama he'd been trying to create.

At this point, Divya finally understood something: this body's got way too much strength. She hadn't even tried that hard! It was like the kind of force she'd use to snap a chopstick in half when reaching for some ramen. Oh, don't ask her where the ramen came from—she's not even from korea or even near it. But you know what? That spicy noodle stuff is going global now.

Xiao Yu stared at Pang Pang, her lips twitching as she tried to mask the unease creeping into her perfect, goddess-like demeanor. For reasons she couldn't explain, she suddenly felt like it might not be the smartest idea to mess with this woman anymore. From her flawless memory, Pang Pang had always been the resident pushover—meek, obedient, and always shrinking under her "sisterly" scolding. But this… this wasn't adding up.

Putting on her best disappointed elder sister act, Xiao Yu tilted her head dramatically and let out a theatrical sigh, her tone painted with hot indignation. "Pang Pang, as your sister, I am disappointed in you."

Divya, unfazed, scratched her ear lazily like she was swatting away an annoying fly. She glanced at Xiao Yu, her smirk growing wider. Honestly, this whole scene felt like a badly written sitcom. And let's not even get started on Xiao Yu herself. A thought bubbled up in Divya's mind: Whoever wrote this story must have been completely drunk. There was no other explanation for this level of unhinged melodrama and the creation of a heroine so painfully over-the-top.

With a sassy flick of her wrist, Divya shot back, "The feeling's mutual."

Xiao Yu froze, her brain short-circuiting. That phrase. That phrase! In the past, whenever she threw it at Pang Pang, the girl would practically dissolve into a puddle of guilt and submission. She'd lower her head, mutter apologies, and obediently cling to her every word like a loyal puppy. But now? This so-called "fatty" was firing back with confidence and—gasp—attitude.

Something about Pang Pang felt different today. Stronger. Sharper. Scarier. It was enough to rattle Xiao Yu's delicate sensibilities. Without another word, she spun on her heel like a rejected soap opera heroine and declared with all the flair of a second-rate diva, "Listen, everyone! We're going back to the Heavenly Sect. The elders will decide what to do!"

Divya watched her storm off, arms crossed and one eyebrow raised. The drama. The theatrics. Honestly, this chick deserved an award for Best Melodramatic Exit. As the so-called heroine flounced away, one thing became crystal clear: the author definitely spent more time designing Xiao Yu's flexible, twirl-ready body than her personality.

So there they were, doing their dramatic swoosh, swoosh, swoosh nonsense. What is it with these immortals and their flair for the theatrical? Divya squinted, trying to figure out what exactly they were doing. Handling moves? Really? That's what they're calling it now? All she saw was an interpretive dance routine gone wrong.

And then—bam—the sword that was on their wrist (because apparently that's where swords live now) decided to defy the law of gravity. It flew into the air, and poof, it became bigger. Like, skateboard big. Yeah, you heard me right. This sword, which should absolutely be clattering to the ground by any logic known to man, is now floating. Floating. Cool, cool, no big deal. Physics? Who needs 'em when you've got plot armor this thick?

But wait, it gets better. These so-called immortals, with their perfectly windblown hair and "I'm too cool to care" poses, were now standing on said sword like it was a hoverboard from the future. Hair flying in all directions, robes billowing dramatically, and their faces set in the I'm better than you expression that seemed mandatory for their kind.

And then, as if the cringe dial hadn't been turned up enough, "Now it's my turn."

Divya blinked, glanced down at her waist, and smirked. She already knew what she'd find. No sword. Nada. Zip. Just vibes. Of course. This was the kind of author she was dealing with. One who thought it was totally fine to send her into a world of sword-flying immortals without a sword.

"Could this author be any more of a rascal?" she muttered to herself, crossing her arms and glaring at the sky. No dramatic wind-blown hair for her, just a whole lot of existential regret and an aching desire to throw the nearest immortal off their floating skateboard.

Divya looked down at her feet, a smug grin spreading across her face. Thank the heavens—now it's time to do what every office worker in the world does. Yeah, running like the coffee machine's broken and the boss is on the warpath. Doesn't matter where in the world you are, this is universal.

And those robes? Ugh, no way were they slowing her down. She casually hiked them up, letting the world see her legs—all of them.