The last thing I remember is reaching for the bow.
Sharanga. The legendary celestial weapon of Vishnu. The bow that never missed its target, capable of firing arrows that could pierce through dimensions themselves. I'd spent three years researching it, tracking down every reference in ancient texts, every archaeological clue. And there it was, behind reinforced glass in the Oxford Museum of Ancient Weaponry, gleaming under the sterile LED lights like it was mocking me.
"Miss Sharma, the museum closes in ten minutes."
I barely heard the security guard. My fingers were already pressed against the glass, my reflection staring back at me with that manic gleam I got whenever I was close to a breakthrough. Twenty-two years old, PhD candidate in Ancient Indian Warfare and Weaponry, and I was about to prove that this bow wasn't a replica. The inscription on the lower limb, barely visible under centuries of wear – it matched the description in the Mahabharata perfectly.
"Just five more minutes," I called back, pulling out my phone to take another photo.
That's when the storm hit.
One moment, clear skies. The next, thunder that shook the building's foundations. The lights flickered. Everyone screamed, running for the exits. But I couldn't move. Because the bow – the supposedly dead, inactive, decorative piece – was glowing.
Soft blue light pulsed from its string, growing brighter with each crack of thunder. My heart hammered against my ribs. This wasn't possible. This was a museum piece. Ancient weapons didn't just suddenly activate after thousands of years of—
Lightning struck the building.
The world went white.
And then... nothing.
Ugh. My head.
The thought came slowly, like wading through molasses. Everything hurt. My body felt wrong – too small, too light, like I'd shrunk in the wash. And why was the bed so hard? Oxford dorms were bad, but not wooden-plank bad.
I forced my eyes open.
Wrong ceiling. Definitely wrong ceiling. Instead of water-stained institutional tiles, I was staring at an intricately carved wooden canopy, with silk curtains that looked hand-embroidered with... were those phoenixes? Since when did my room have phoenixes?
"Princess Aanya! You're finally awake!"
I jerked upright – bad idea, the room spun violently – and came face to face with a girl who looked like she'd stepped out of a historical drama. Traditional Indian clothing, but not quite like anything I'd seen in my research. The fabric shimmered with an iridescence that didn't exist in natural materials. Her eyes were wide with relief and something else. Fear?
"I... what?" My voice came out wrong. Higher pitched. Younger.
"Oh thank the heavens! When you collapsed in the garden yesterday, I thought—" She pressed her hands together. "The physician said you'd be fine, but you weren't waking up, and with the engagement ceremony tomorrow, everyone was so worried—"
"Wait, wait, wait." I held up my hand, and froze.
That wasn't my hand.
My hand had a small scar on the thumb from a particularly aggressive pottery shard in sophomore year. My hand had short, practical nails because I was constantly handling artifacts. This hand was... delicate. Unblemished. The nails were perfectly shaped and painted with some kind of shimmering lacquer.
My heart started racing. "Mirror. I need a mirror."
The girl – maid? servant? – looked confused but quickly grabbed an ornate bronze mirror from the dresser.
The face staring back at me was not mine.
She – I? – was younger, maybe sixteen. Beautiful in that delicate, classical way that reminded me of Mughal miniature paintings. Large dark eyes, smooth brown skin, long black hair that cascaded past my shoulders. But it was the wrongness of it that made my stomach drop. This wasn't my face. This wasn't my body.
And then the memories hit.
Not mine. Hers. Aanya Suryavanshi. Sixteen years old. Daughter of a declining noble family in the Suryavanshi Empire. Engaged to Crown Prince Karan since childhood. And according to everyone in her life – a complete waste of space.
"Trash Princess," they called her. Born with "broken meridians" that couldn't properly absorb spiritual energy. In a world where cultivation determined everything – your status, your worth, your survival – Aanya couldn't even reach the first level of Body Foundation Realm. She'd spent her entire life being compared unfavorably to, well, literally everyone.
The memories kept flooding in. Yesterday's garden party. The Crown Prince publicly flirting with another girl – Aditi, the gentle healer everyone loved. Aanya standing there, humiliated, while the nobles whispered and laughed. Then later, alone in her room, drinking tea that tasted slightly bitter...
Oh.
Oh no.
"Princess? Are you alright? You look pale."
I looked up at the maid, my mind racing. "That tea I drank yesterday. The one that was already prepared on my table. Do you know who left it?"
She bit her lip. "I... I'm not certain, Princess. It was there when I came to turn down your bed."
Poisoned. Original Aanya had been poisoned. That's why I was here. That's why I – Aria Sharma, PhD candidate and professional archaeology nerd – was now inhabiting the body of a teenage girl in what appeared to be a cultivation world straight out of the webnovels I definitely didn't stay up until 3 AM reading.
I took a deep breath. Then another. Okay. Okay. I could work with this. I was a researcher. I dealt with confusing, impossible situations all the time. This was just... significantly more confusing and impossible than usual.
First: Figure out where – or rather, what – this world was. Second: Don't die. Again. Third: Figure out how to get home? Maybe? (Let's be honest, that sounded way harder than options one and two.)
"Um." The maid was still staring at me with concern. "What's your name?"
"Meera, Princess. I've been your personal maid for three years."
Right. Three years. Aanya's memories were there, but fragmented, like trying to remember a dream. I could access them if I focused, but they didn't feel like mine.
"Meera, I need you to be completely honest with me." I met her eyes. "What's going to happen at this engagement ceremony tomorrow?"
She looked confused. "Well, it's the formal announcement of your engagement to Crown Prince Karan. The one that was arranged when you were both children? The whole court will be there, all the noble families..." She trailed off, clearly wondering why I was asking about something I should obviously know.
Oh, I knew. Thanks to Aanya's memories, I knew exactly what was going to happen. The Crown Prince was going to use the formal ceremony to announce that he wanted to break the engagement. In front of everyone. And original Aanya, timid and already beaten down by years of bullying, would have just accepted it quietly while the court laughed.
But I wasn't original Aanya.
I was Aria Sharma, and I had a PhD defense presentation experience that taught me how to handle rooms full of people who thought I was wrong. Also, I was pretty sure I'd been isekai'd into a cultivation world, which meant all those ancient texts I'd studied? They weren't mythology. They were history.
And if this world worked the way I thought it did...
"Meera, I need you to find me every book about cultivation foundations in the library. Specifically, anything about alternative meridian pathways or unusual energy circulation methods."
"But Princess, you can't—" She stopped, flushing. "I mean..."
"Can't cultivate?" I finished for her. "Yeah, everyone keeps saying that. But broken meridians and blocked meridians aren't the same thing. And I'm starting to think original— I mean, I've been misdiagnosed this entire time."
Because here's the thing about archaeology and ancient texts: you learn to spot patterns. And you learn that sometimes, the most important discoveries come from looking at the same evidence from a different angle.
Aanya's meridians weren't broken. They were different. I could feel it now, a subtle current of energy flowing through pathways that didn't match the standard cultivation routes everyone learned. It was like trying to force water through pipes designed for a different flow pattern. Of course it didn't work.
But I'd spent three years studying weapon cultivation techniques from ancient texts. Techniques that most people thought were myths or lost forever. And one thing those texts mentioned? Alternative cultivation methods. Secret paths. Ways to achieve power that didn't follow the standard eight-realm progression.
The kind of knowledge that could turn a "trash princess" into something much more interesting.
I stood up, wobbling slightly as I adjusted to the new body. "Also, I need information about the royal treasury. Specifically, any ancient weapons or artifacts stored there."
"Princess, you can't possibly be thinking of—"
"Tomorrow's ceremony." I cut her off. "I need to look perfect. Not apologetic, not meek. I want to look like someone you don't want to cross. Can you arrange that?"
Meera stared at me like I'd grown a second head. "I... yes? But Princess, what are you planning?"
I smiled, and it felt sharp. Unfamiliar. "If the Crown Prince wants to break our engagement, I'm going to make it very easy for him. In fact, I'm going to do it first."
"You're going to... break the engagement? With the Crown Prince? In front of the entire court?"
"Absolutely."
"But Princess, your family's reputation—"
"Is already in the gutter, let's be honest." I started pacing, my mind racing through possibilities. "Everyone thinks I'm useless anyway. Might as well give them a show. Besides, I have a theory I need to test about this world's cultivation system, and I can't do that while playing the role of obedient fiancée to a guy who publicly humiliates me."
This was insane. I was definitely in shock. But I was also weirdly... excited? I'd spent my entire academic career studying ancient Indian weapons and warfare, piecing together fragments of a culture's power system from texts and artifacts. And now I was in a world where that knowledge might actually be applicable.
Plus, let's be real: if I was going to be stuck in a cultivation world, I was not about to play the role of cannon fodder fiancée who exists just to be dumped by the male lead. I had a PhD to finish. Well, technically I was probably dead in my original world and would never finish that PhD, but the principle stood.
"Meera, one more thing. Does the name 'Sharanga' mean anything to you?"
She tilted her head, thinking. "There are old legends about divine weapons from the Age of Gods. Sharanga was the bow of Lord Vishnu, wasn't it? But those are just myths, Princess. The divine weapons were lost thousands of years ago."
"Right. Lost." I kept my face neutral. "Not in a museum, or a royal treasury, or anything like that."
"Well, there are supposedly some ancient artifacts in the royal vault, but no one can use them anymore. The techniques were lost."
Not lost, I thought. Just forgotten. But I remember.
I'd spent three years of my life studying those "lost" techniques. Every inscription, every reference, every archaeological clue. And if this world's history matched up with the mythology I'd studied...
The engagement ceremony tomorrow wasn't just an opportunity to dump a trash prince. It was an opportunity to start hunting for the most powerful weapons in this world's history. Weapons that everyone thought were myths. Weapons that I knew how to find, how to identify, and possibly – possibly – how to use.
"Alright." I turned back to Meera, who was still looking at me like I'd been replaced by a completely different person. (She wasn't wrong.) "Let's make me look absolutely devastating for tomorrow. If I'm going to ruin my reputation, I might as well look good doing it."
As Meera scurried off to find appropriate clothing and cultivation texts, I sat back down on the bed and took stock of my situation.
Dead in my world? Probably. Reincarnated in a cultivation world? Definitely. Engaged to a jerk who was planning to publicly dump me? Unfortunately. Stuck in a body that supposedly couldn't cultivate? For now. Armed with knowledge of ancient weapons and techniques that could potentially change everything? Absolutely.
I looked at my new reflection in the mirror. Sixteen years old, "trash princess," supposedly broken and useless.
"Okay, Aanya," I said quietly. "Or Aria. Or whoever I am now. Let's see if we can't turn this trash princess narrative into something much more interesting."
Tomorrow, I was going to break an engagement, shock the court, and start the hunt for Sharanga – the bow that had killed me in my world and might just be my salvation in this one.
No pressure.