If you could transmigrate through three hundred worlds, what would you remember?
Xu Zhiwei would tell you: you'd remember everyone you failed to save.
Three hundred times she arrived in time to see the aftermath. Three hundred times she gathered the dead. She'd risked her life, gritted her teeth, and wrung every last bit of power from the System, yet it still wasn't enough. The System was mostly shattered, and her memories were like strips of film torn apart, impossible to piece back into a complete picture.
Only one obsession remained:
This time, she'd get there first.
This time, the person who died wouldn't be someone she cared about.
She borrowed the life of Pei Yuchan, the seventh princess of the Great Zhao. A good-for-nothing body cultivator, she was murdered in the wilds.
A crippled spiritual root? No problem. She had good bones.
No cultivation? No problem. She had fists of steel.
No one to protect her? Even less of a problem.
The peak she went to was home to a bunch of crazies.
The senior apprentice sister wielded a wine jug and subdued everyone with a single sentence.
The fourth senior apprentice sister smiled and handed her a poisonous herb. "It's to restore your spiritual root."
The fifth senior apprentice brother silently offered her a packet of dried meat after a fight.
The third senior apprentice brother was drinking with her by the cliff when he suddenly recited a poem that didn't belong to this world.
And then there was the white-clad rogue cultivator who appeared late at night, saved her life, and said as he left:
"Don't forget what you owe me."
Life was so good it couldn't possibly be real. Which meant, of course, that it wasn't.
Someone had altered the course of her fate. Someone was waiting for her body to become vacant. And someone had never intended to let her win in the first place.
Before the System crashed, the AI, "Sister Qing," left one final message:
[Host, in the next world... we absolutely won't lose again.]
