I don't belong here.

  That's the first conclusion I come to while sitting inside a moving wooden box pretending to be a noble lady.

  A carriage, no engine no vibration. Just horses and the sound of wood creaking like it might snap if someone looks at it wrong.

  "Tch."

  I lean back against the seat and stare at my hands.

  Small. Pale. Long fingers. No calluses. No scars.

  Useless.

  This body wouldn't last five seconds in a real fight. Hell, I'd be generous if I gave it three.

  Outside the window, the world rolls by—and I watch. Because that's what soldiers do when they're dropped into unfamiliar territory.

  Observe first. Move later.

  Palace guards walk with swords instead of rifles. Armor instead of kevlar. Their posture is stiff, ceremonial. Half of them wouldn't survive an ambush.

  Men in long robes, pointy hats, staffs strapped to their backs.

  Mages.

  Not subtle.

  White robes next. Cross necklaces hanging on their chests.

  Healers. Or priests. Or whatever name this world slapped on medics without guns.

  No radios. No formations. No modern logistics.

  And yet... everyone walks like danger is normal.

  Which means danger is normal.

  The carriage slows.

  Then stops.

  Voices rise outside—loud, excited. Curious.

  I peer through the window.

  A sledge.

  Pulled by four men.

  And on it—

  An orc.

  Dead. Barely.

  Its head is split open, green skin matted with blood. One arm missing. The smell hits even through the damn window.

  The men pulling it look worse.

  Rugged. Exhausted. Clothes torn and soaked in dried blood—some theirs, some not.

  Weapons on their backs. Not soldiers.

  Adventurers.

  "Did you hear? They killed an orc."

  "No way, those things don't go down easy."

  "They say sightings are increasing."

  My ears pick everything up automatically. Like muscle memory.

  "Must be because of the aetherglass."

  "Of course it is. Monsters are drawn to mana."

  "The Duke's estate has a whole cave of it, doesn't it?"

  "If a monster eats that stuff, it gets stronger."

  I stop leaning.

  Aetherglass.

  Amethyst's family estate.

  Mana magnet.

  Great.

  Just fucking great.

  If monsters are being drawn there, then odds are high there's already something lurking nearby. And if those things grow stronger after feeding—

  I click my tongue.

  This body can't even throw a proper punch.

  The carriage starts moving again.

  I lean my head back and close my eyes.

  No guns.

  No armor.

  No squad.

  Just me.

  In a body that would lose to a stiff breeze.

  Unacceptable.

  The moment we arrive at the Duke's estate, the emotional bombardment starts.

  "Amethyst!"

  "My child!"

  Hands grab me. Warm. Shaking. Too gentle.

  The Duke looks like he aged ten years overnight. The Duchess is worse—eyes red, voice trembling like she's one bad breath away from collapse.

  I endure it.

  Barely.

  "I'm fine," I say. "I'm not dying."

  They don't believe me.

  Of course they don't.

  I escape as soon as I can, marching straight to the room that's apparently mine. Big. Expensive. Soft.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  I lock the door.

  Click.

  Silence.

  I look around once.

  Then—

  I drop to the floor.

  Push-ups.

  One.

  My arms give out instantly.

  I faceplant.

  "...You've got to be fucking kidding me."

  I push myself back up, teeth clenched.

  Again.

  Two.

  Arms shaking. Core nonexistent. Balance off.

  This body is seventeen years old and has never known real strain.

  Good.

  That just means it hasn't been broken yet.

  I adjust my stance. Spread my hands. Control breathing.

  Again.

  Again.

  Again.

  By the tenth attempt, my arms feel like they're on fire. Sweat drips down my face. Lungs burn.

  I grin.

  There it is.

  Pain doesn't lie.

  I switch to squats.

  Terrible form. Weak legs. Zero endurance.

  I correct everything mentally, one flaw at a time.

  Posture. Balance. Breath.

  This isn't noble training.

  This is survival conditioning.

  By nightfall, I can barely stand.

  By dawn, I'm back on the floor.

  Sit-ups. Planks. Stretching. Shadow movements—punches, blocks, footwork burned into my bones from another life.

  This body doesn't understand it yet.

  But it will.

  The Duke tries to come in.

  I tell him not to.

  The Duchess sends maids.

  I tell them to leave.

  They look at me like I've lost my mind.

  Maybe I have.

  But at least I'm doing something about it.

  Every day, I take notes.

  Muscle response. Pain threshold. Recovery time.

  I eat more. Sleep less.

  I train until my limbs shake and my vision blurs.

  Because if monsters really are coming—

  And if the Crown Prince wasn't wrong about war looming—

  Then sitting still is just another way to die.

  I stare at my reflection one night.

  Still skinny. Still weak.

  But my eyes—

  They're not Amethyst's anymore.

  They're mine.

  And I swear to the reflection—

  "I will restore my sweet muscles back." Flexing my arms, I peck a kiss to my non-existent biceps to both arms.

  Just you wait. I will be me again.

  Well you know, metaphorically.

  ——-

  Gregory Michaelis Walter hated distractions.

  They got soldiers killed.

  Which was precisely why the image of Lady Amethyst Von Versailles refusing to leave his mind irritated him more than he cared to admit.

  Two weeks.

  Two weeks since she stood in his office with that straight spine, those sharp eyes that didn't belong on a sheltered noblewoman, and spoke like a soldier asking for a posting instead of a bride negotiating marriage.

  She hadn't begged.

  Hadn't flirted.

  Hadn't cried.

  She negotiated.

  That alone was enough to make her dangerous.

  Gregory sat behind his desk, fingers steepled, gaze fixed on nothing in particular.

  "How," he muttered, "could someone like that be useful on a battlefield?"

  A knock.

  "Enter."

  The door opened smoothly.

  Philip Dimitri stepped in and knelt on one knee.

  Armor polished. Posture perfect. No wasted movement.

  A soldier raised by a soldier.

  Philip was his right hand. His shadow. His friend since childhood. The son of Hernest Dimitri—former war hero, current High Knight Instructor, and one of the strongest men in the kingdom.

  If Gregory trusted anyone with his life, it was Philip.

  "Report," Gregory said.

  Philip rose and handed him a document.

  "As you ordered, Your Highness. Information regarding monster activity near the Versailles estate."

  Gregory took it and skimmed.

  Then slowed.

  Then stopped.

  "...A goblin general?" he asked.

  "Yes," Philip replied evenly. "Sighted three days ago by palace soldiers stationed at the estate. The creature engaged directly."

  Gregory's brow furrowed.

  Goblin generals were rare. Intelligent. Tactical. They didn't wander into noble lands by accident.

  "Casualties?"

  "Five dead. Ten injured."

  Gregory's fingers tightened around the paper.

  "How many soldiers were deployed?"

  "Fifty-two."

  Silence.

  A goblin general taking on over fifty trained soldiers and still leaving that kind of damage—

  "That creature is no ordinary monster," Gregory said coldly.

  "No, Your Highness."

  "And the aetherglass?"

  "Unconfirmed consumption," Philip answered. "But the proximity makes it... likely."

  Gregory exhaled slowly.

  That land was a powder keg.

  Then Philip hesitated.

  Just slightly.

  Gregory noticed immediately.

  "...There's more," he said.

  "Yes."

  Philip cleared his throat.

  "There is a... rumor, Your Highness. Concerning Lady Amethyst."

  Gregory's eyes flicked up.

  "Why," he asked slowly, "is a rumor included in a military report?"

  Philip didn't flinch.

  "Because it came from multiple soldiers," he replied. "And because it involves unusual behavior near a potential threat zone."

  Gregory scowled. "Explain."

  Philip continued, carefully.

  "For the past two weeks, Lady Amethyst has reportedly locked herself inside her room for extended periods. Meals taken irregularly. No visitors allowed."

  Gregory's expression darkened.

  "And?"

  "At dawn," Philip added, "several guards have seen her running along the estate's perimeter."

  Gregory blinked once.

  "...Running."

  "Yes, Your Highness."

  "In noble attire?"

  Philip paused. "Men's clothing."

  Silence dropped into the room like a blade.

  Gregory stared at Philip.

  Philip stared straight back, loyal enough not to laugh, disciplined enough not to comment.

  Gregory clicked his tongue.

  "Why," he said flatly, "are you telling me this."

  "Because," Philip replied, "the guards initially believed it to be an intruder."

  Gregory's jaw tightened.

  "Dismissed," he said sharply.

  Philip bowed and turned to leave.

  At the door, Gregory spoke again.

  "Philip."

  "Yes, Your Highness?"

  "...Keep observing. Quietly."

  Philip smiled—just barely.

  "As you wish."

  The door closed.

  Gregory leaned back in his chair, gaze drifting to the window.

  A noble lady.

  Running at dawn.

  Wearing men's clothes.

  While monsters gathered near her land.

  He scoffed softly.

  "What an odd woman."

  And for the first time in a long while—

  Gregory Michaelis Walter smiled.

  ———-

  If this were boot camp, she'd be recycled so hard she'd come back as fertilizer.

  Day one? I collapsed after running for five minutes.

  Five minutes! Fuuuuck.

  It reminds me of Captain America. But then I won't be cryosleeping and be a hero so there's that.

  I threw up, passed out, woke up angry, and did it again.

  Damn it this is frustrating.

  That was two weeks ago.

  Now I can run the estate perimeter at dawn without tasting blood.

  That alone counts as a miracle.

  Ha! Thank God.

  I wake before sunrise every day. No excuses. Soldiers don't get "gentle mornings," and neither does this body. I dress in men's clothes because dresses are death traps and whoever invented corsets deserves court-martial.

  First: breathing drills. Slow, controlled.

  Second: legs. Squats. Lunges. Wall sits until my thighs scream like civilians under artillery fire. Balance training too—because this body is tall, light, and top-heavy, and I refuse to die because I tripped over my own dignity.

  Third: core. Planks. Twists. Controlled movements. No flashy nonsense. If I can't stabilize my center, I can't throw a punch, hold a weapon, or stay standing when something bigger hits me.

  Upper body comes last.

  Push-ups are still humiliating. Started with knee push-ups.

  I hate that sentence. God damn it! Fuck this situation of being a girl.

  I miss my body. I worked hard on it and now it's been taken away from me.

  And the most humbling experience is peeing.

  Man, I only want to pee while standing not because of habit but if I sit down while doing it, then I have really accepted this shitty life.

  Thinking about peeing, it still pained me that my joystick is gone.

  I was proud of it until the end. Girls loved it more.

  Sigh

  But on the bright side, I can do proper ones—slow, controlled, arms shaking like a new recruit holding his first rifle.

  Hands blistered at first.

  Pain means adaptation.

  Muscle memory is coming back faster than expected. Not strength—memory. The body learns quickly when the mind refuses to accept weakness as permanent.

  "How is your health?"

  "Please don't strain yourself."

  "Rest is important."

  I smiled and nodded.

  I don't know yet how I'll be deployed. I don't know when the fighting will start.

  But I know this—

  If monsters are moving toward this land, then this is a battlefield in the making.

  And to be honest, I have been itching for action.