I transmigrated into a cultivation novel as the cannon-fodder senior sister, falsely accused at the sacrificial altar.
Three thousand cultivators wanted me dead. The heroine wept as she “pleaded for mercy” on my behalf, while the hero drove his sword into my dantian.
But they didn’t know one thing: I’d read the original story.
Three years later, I returned wearing a mask. The heroine had become the cultivation world’s beloved moonlight, and the hero had been hailed as a young hero. Everyone had forgotten Shen Qingci, who had shielded them from tribulation lightning and risked her life for them. That was fine. I’d gather the evidence piece by piece and rebuild my cultivation step by step. I’d make them repay me a hundredfold for everything they owed. And that heroine who wept and called me “Senior Sister”? I made three hundred copies of the image stone showing her colluding with demons.
Cool-headed and calculating, with overwhelming intelligence and no forgiveness. This isn’t a comeback, it’s a reckoning.
