Fate glanced at the weapon in her hand, then at the others’.

Well… hard to praise, to be honest.

Hers was a slightly rusted iron sword. The blade’s uneven coloring clearly showed cheap metals like copper had been mixed in to cut costs. Corrosion ate at the guard and edge—enough to make anyone doubt if this junk could slice a cabbage.

Everyone else held more or less the same: uniformly shoddy blades even bandits would shake their heads at. Crude forgeries, likely seized from mountain thugs by some ragtag militia, passed through too many hands, and finally dumped. The kind you’d buy by the dozen for half a silver coin.

She gave it a test swing. Rusty as it was, judging a weapon’s feel came naturally—even after so long away from steel. Top-heavy, poorly balanced. Wielding it in combat would drain extra effort. The smith probably never had proper training.

But she didn’t complain. For her, having *a* sword was enough. Its condition didn’t matter. Even a chipped blade was fine.

Thanks to physiological changes and a reset level, Fate’s physical stats had plummeted—strength, reflexes, agility, mobility, all rock bottom. Even activating Xinjue now required mana conversion… and the moment she channeled mana, the Huanshuzhui would fail.

No skills. No stats. Her current strength couldn’t compare to her past self.

But that didn’t make her some delicate, pushover girl.

As Grand Knight Commander, she’d mastered sword arts and techniques most would spend lifetimes chasing. Her insight and talent in swordsmanship remained her pride.

Knowledge in the mind doesn’t fade with the body.

Nerfed as she was, self-defense was still well within reach.

Fate scanned the young villagers. Weapons in hand, their unease thickened.

No weapons? Fine. But *now* with weapons… reality hit hard.

*What kind of job needs weapons??*

They were farmers. Not mercenaries.

“If you run now,” the noble attendant coaxed, spotting their hesitation, “you only get ten coppers. Swing these twice, walk away with a full silver. Seriously—better deal?”

“Fine. Don’t want it? Return the coins, drop the rust, and scram!” he snapped, tone dripping with *‘Take it or leave it—I’m the one getting shortchanged here.’*

Villagers exchanged glances. Put the sword down? Lose the ten coppers? Teeth gritted.

*Just swing it like a hoe. Easy.*

A smirk tugged the attendant’s lips.

“Relax. Safety measures included.” He clapped. Attendants rolled carts forward, each holding large white cloth sacks.

“Stay near these. I guarantee your safety.”

Curious eyes fixed on the sacks. What was inside?

“Enough talk. Move out! Let’s wrap this before dark.” He strode into the forest.

Fate followed—then paused. A strand of golden hair, gilded by starlight, brushed her cheek. *Her* hair. She tucked it behind her ear, glanced back at the villagers, and stepped after him.

The village vanished behind dense canopy. Dusk deepened; light barely pierced the layered leaves. Visibility shrank with every step.

These villagers had never left home. First time entering woods at night—but the crowd offered fragile comfort.

*Just bandits… right? They’ll flee at the sight of us.*

That’s what they told themselves.

Fate gripped the hilt. A one-handed sword—but now, two hands felt steadier.

Kitsune blood had reshaped her. Her hands were smaller, undeniably feminine.

Uncomfortable? Slightly. But manageable. She’d adapt.

No caravan would risk this trail—steep, unmarked, no permits, zero safety.

*So why did they?*

She eyed the attendants, suspicion sharpening.

Locals avoided this jungle after dark. Bandits aside, the deep woods teemed with “mountain delicacies.” Midnight was *their* hour. One misstep… and *they’d* be dinner.

Some villagers faltered. But hope flickered.

*What if it’s just a few more steps? What if the silver coin’s waiting right after?*

*Everyone else is staying… if I leave now, won’t I regret it?*