Chapter 0: A Blade Between Us

  The battlefield was silent.

  Not the silence of peace, nor the eerie stillness before a storm. This was the silence of the end—a stillness so absolute that even the wind hesitated, as if afraid to disturb what had been done there.

  The sky was burning. Fires crackled in the distance, consuming the remnants of a once-proud capital. The scent of ash and iron thickened the air, mingling with the stench of death.

  Bodies littered the blackened earth—humans and demons alike, fallen where they stood, their blood soaking into the ground as one. The war that had lasted years, the war that had defined her very existence, had finally reached its conclusion.

  And yet, she felt no victory.

  Because before her stood him.

  The Demon King.

  His silver armor was cracked, black blood seeping through its fractured plates. His dark hair, usually immaculate, clung to his sweat-slicked face, strands matted with soot and crimson. His golden eyes—once burning embers of power—were dimming, flickering like a candle in its final moments.

  His sword was buried in her chest.

  And hers was buried in his.

  They stood there, locked together by the weapons that had once defended their people. Neither moved. Neither spoke.

  She should have felt something—rage, relief, sorrow—but her mind was numb, her body growing weaker with each passing second.

  She had won. She was the Hero.

  She had slain the Demon King.

  ...Hadn’t she?

  A strange, lingering ache gnawed at her chest, deeper than the blade piercing it. She couldn’t remember why.

  The Demon King’s lips moved. A whisper of a voice, hoarse from battle, but she couldn’t hear it. The roaring in her ears drowned everything else out.

  His hand trembled as it reached toward her—not to strike, not to defend, but to touch.

  Something in her mind screamed that this was wrong. That she was forgetting something. That this wasn’t how it was supposed to end.

  But the darkness was already pulling her under.

  The last thing she saw was his face—so close, yet impossibly distant—before the world shattered into nothingness.

  She awoke gasping for air.

  Pain—searing, twisting—burrowed into her skull like molten steel. Her breath hitched, her fingers digging into her chest where the sword had pierced her, but there was nothing. No wound, no blood.

  Just a memory.

  A dream.

  She was alive.

  She was a Hero.

  And the war... was long over.

  Chapter 1: A New Life, A Broken Legacy

  Pain was the first thing I knew.

  A dull ache throbbed through my body, settling deep into my bones. My limbs felt stiff, and every breath came shallowly, as if I hadn’t used these lungs in ages. The scent of herbs and stale linen filled my nostrils. Someone was speaking, but their voice was distant and muffled, like I was submerged in water.

  “—should have died from that wound.”

  “Then she’s fortunate she didn’t,” a woman’s voice snapped. It was warm yet sharp, like the edge of a well-honed blade. “My daughter is alive, and that’s all that matters.”

  Daughter?

  I forced my eyes open. The world blurred—soft candlelight flickered against wooden walls, heavy drapes covered the windows, and two figures stood by my bedside. One was a man with graying black hair, dressed in a nobleman’s uniform. His posture was stiff, his arms crossed, and his expression unreadable. The other was a woman with deep auburn curls, her violet eyes burning with intense emotion.

  She was crying.

  “Jessica?” she knelt beside me, grasping my hand tightly. “Sweetheart, can you hear me?”

  The name felt unfamiliar, but the concern in her voice made my throat tighten.

  I tried to speak, but my voice came out hoarse. “...Yes.”

  Relief washed over her face. She pressed my knuckles to her lips, whispering a prayer of gratitude. The man beside her—my father, I realized distantly—only sighed.

  “The doctor said she won’t be able to use magic,” he stated coldly. “The injury has damaged her core.”

  I blinked.

  Magic. A damaged core.

  I didn’t fully comprehend it, but something within me twisted at those words.

  My mother glared at him. “She’s alive, Gregory...”

  “She is my daughter,” he replied, his voice clipped. “Which means she must become a knight, as is customary for the Moran family.”

  A noble house of knights. That was my lineage.

  But I was broken.

  My mother’s grip on my hand tightened. “She just woke up. Can we not wait until she’s more stable?”

  Father remained silent. His expression didn’t change. He simply turned and left, his boots echoing against the wooden floorboards.

  Silence stretched between us after he was gone. My mother—**this woman who loved me so dearly, though I couldn’t recall a single memory of her—**brushed strands of hair from my face.

  It was then that I saw it.

  A polished silver tray sat beside the bed, likely left behind by the attending physician.

  My heartbeat slowed.

  The smooth surface reflected the dim glow of the room—distorted, blurred, but enough to catch the outline of a face.

  My face.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Something inside me recoiled.

  The moment I recognized my own features staring back at me, a tight, uncomfortable sensation crawled down my spine.

  Ash-black hair, not quite jet black, but dark and dusted, tinged with brown when caught in the light. Strands of it fell limply over my forehead, unfamiliar yet my own. My skin was paler than I expected. And then there were the eyes—emerald green, deep and rich, a color only found in some of the oldest noble families.

  I should have studied my reflection longer. Tried to familiarize myself with the stranger staring back at me.

  But I didn’t.

  Instead, I turned my head away, exhaling slowly, as if ignoring it would make the unease disappear.

  “You don’t have to listen to him,” my mother murmured beside me. “You’re my little girl before you’re a knight.”

  I didn’t know how to respond.

  Because deep down, I already knew—whether I wanted to or not, I had to fight.

  _________

  Days Later

  My body was weak.

  Every movement ached. Simple tasks—sitting up, walking, even holding a spoon—left me trembling. I was supposed to be a knight’s daughter, yet I couldn’t even wield a practice sword without my arms shaking.

  But something was wrong.

  I couldn’t use magic. That much was true. I felt no mana within me. And yet, when I closed my eyes, I could feel the world around me.

  The flow of energy. The presence of mana—not within, but outside.

  It was faint, but there.

  When I tried to move my body with precision, something in my instincts screamed that I had done this before. My hands knew how to grip a weapon, even if my muscles failed me.

  And then there was Flicker.

  I had used it before. I knew I had.

  The first time I attempted it, I collapsed. My body was too frail. The second time, I barely shifted an inch before my legs gave out. But on the third try—

  I moved.

  Only a foot forward, but I moved.

  The exhilaration was brief. My legs buckled beneath me, and I hit the floor hard.

  But lying there, gasping, sweat beading on my brow, I couldn’t help but smile.

  I wasn’t as broken as they thought.

  ____________

  Days Later

  My body was weak.

  Every movement ached. Simple tasks—sitting up, walking, even holding a spoon—left me trembling. I was supposed to be a knight’s daughter, yet I couldn’t even wield a practice sword without my arms shaking.

  But something was wrong.

  I couldn’t use magic. That much was true. I felt no mana within me. And yet, when I closed my eyes, I could feel the world around me.

  The flow of energy. The presence of mana—not within, but outside.

  It was faint, but there.

  When I tried to move my body with precision, something in my instincts screamed that I had done this before. My hands knew how to grip a weapon, even if my muscles failed me.

  And then there was Flicker.

  I had used it before. I knew I had.

  The first time I attempted it, I collapsed. My body was too frail. The second time, I barely shifted an inch before my legs gave out. But on the third try—

  I moved.

  Only a foot forward, but I moved.

  The exhilaration was brief. My legs buckled beneath me, and I hit the floor hard.

  But lying there, gasping, sweat beading on my brow, I couldn’t help but smile.

  I wasn’t as broken as they thought.

  _____________

  Two Months Later – The Academy Looms

  Word had spread.

  Even though I avoided my father’s expectations, my fate was sealed—I was still a noble, and noble children were expected to attend the Arcadia Magic Knight Academy.

  But everyone, even the knight already knew the rumors.

  “Jessica Moran—the magic cripple.”

  “She’s only there because of her family name.”

  “What’s the point of a knight who can’t use magic?”

  I heard them. I ignored them.

  Let them think I was worthless.

  Because soon, I would show them exactly what a true knight looked like.

  Even if I had to tear down their illusions with my own two hands.

  Chapter 2: The Weight of Expectations

  The morning air was crisp as sunlight filtered through the large windows of the Moran estate. The scent of parchment, polish, and faint embers from the fireplace filled the air. Jessica sat upright in bed, rolling her shoulders to assess her condition. Every movement still felt sluggish, as though her body hadn’t yet caught up to the instincts buried deep within her bones.

  Her recovery had been slow, but she was well enough to walk, spar, and—if she played her cards right—train in secret. Her mother had hovered over her like a protective hawk, feeding her nourishing meals and fretting over her every step. It was... suffocating, yet strangely warm.

  But her father had no such patience.

  The first time he entered her room after her recovery, he barely spared her a glance. Tall and broad-shouldered, Baron Gregory Moran was the embodiment of a warrior’s discipline, his presence as unyielding as steel. His arms were crossed over his chest, his gaze sharp and calculating.

  “She will attend Arcadia.” His tone was flat, leaving no room for debate. “Her condition is irrelevant. A knight must rise above weakness. If she fails, she is no daughter of mine.”

  Her mother gasped, hands clutching at the fabric of her gown as she turned to him in horror. “Gregory, please! She nearly died—she’s still recovering!”

  “She has had time.” His cold gaze landed on Jessica again. “She is a Moran. We do not cower behind illness or misfortune. She will uphold this house’s legacy.”

  Jessica met his stare without hesitation. The authority in his tone was something she might have respected once, in another life, under another man. But this was not a battlefield. This was a demand issued by a father who saw her as nothing more than an extension of his honor.

  “If I refuse?” she asked evenly.

  His lip curled in disdain. “Then you are no daughter of mine.”

  A sharp intake of breath from her mother. A quiet chuckle from across the room—Tobias.

  She turned her gaze to him, the eldest son of the family, already a Junior Knight in training at Arcadia.

  Tobias leaned against the doorframe, arms folded across his chest, his usual smug expression firmly in place.

  He had the same emerald-green eyes as Jessica, but where hers held sharp calculation, his were filled with something lazier—mocking amusement, barely veiled condescension. His dark brown hair, streaked with hints of gold where the light caught it, framed his angular face in a way that only added to his infuriatingly noble charm.

  Despite his casual posture, Tobias was every bit the warrior their father expected of him. His physique was lean yet powerful, a blend of noble refinement and rugged discipline. He looked like an older, more polished version of her—a man sculpted by duty, yet just arrogant enough to wear it effortlessly.

  “Father’s right, you know,” Tobias said lazily. “You barely had any talent before your injury, and now you’re practically useless. If you don’t go to Arcadia, what will you do? Marry some low-ranking noble out of pity? You should be grateful he’s even giving you the chance to prove yourself.”

  The way he dismissed her so easily, as if she were already a failure in his eyes, sent a flicker of something cold through her chest.

  She took a measured breath and let a small, unreadable smile curve her lips. “How fortunate, then, that I don’t need your approval.”

  His smirk faltered for a moment, his brows furrowing. But before he could respond, her father spoke again.

  “You leave in a week. Prepare yourself.” And with that, he turned on his heel and left.

  Her mother rushed to her the moment he was gone, clutching Jessica’s hands tightly. Her eyes were glassy with unheard tears. “Jessica, please... you don’t have to do this. There must be another way. I can talk to him—”

  “No,” Jessica said softly, squeezing her hands in return. “It’s fine, Mother.”

  It wasn’t fine. But it was necessary.

  Tobias scoffed and pushed off the doorframe. “Good luck, little sister. Try not to embarrass the family name.”

  With that, he left as well, leaving Jessica alone with her trembling mother.

  She watched him go, then turned her gaze back to the window. Outside, the sun hung high over the training grounds, where knights and squires drilled in formation.

  Fine. If they wanted a knight, they would get one.

  But it wouldn’t be the one they expected.

  Chapter 2.5: A Blade That Feels Like a Tumor

  The weight of the Moran family’s longsword was suffocating in her grip. Each swing felt like she was hauling a corpse, a dead thing strapped to her arm rather than an extension of herself. The balance was all wrong, the heft unnatural. The more she tried to adjust, the more apparent it became—this weapon didn’t belong to her.

  It felt like a tumor.

  Her grip tightened as she slashed through the air, forcing herself through the drills. The edge was sharp, but her strikes were dulled by the sheer incompatibility between her body and the blade. Every movement was sluggish, like running through water. This wasn’t how a sword was supposed to feel.

  A dry chuckle sounded from the fence. “Still complaining about the sword, huh?”

  Tobias stood with his arms crossed, watching with undisguised amusement.

  His golden-brown hair caught the light, the natural streaks of sunlight giving him a regal air that he absolutely did not need.

  She exhaled sharply, lowering the blade. “What do you mean ‘still’?”

  His smirk widened. “You always whined about it before. ‘It’s too heavy, it’s not balanced right, it doesn’t suit me,’” he mimicked in a high-pitched voice. “Guess some things never change, even after getting your head rattled.”

  She frowned. So the old Jessica had the same problem. At least she had some sense.

  Tobias pushed off the fence, his expression shifting to something more irritated. “But this? What the hell are you even doing? That’s not the Moran style.” His eyes flickered to her stance, critical and unimpressed. “It’s like you forgot everything overnight. Muscle memory should be carrying you, but it’s like you’re not even trying to use it.”

  She resisted the urge to sigh. He wasn’t wrong. This body had muscle memory, but her instincts came from somewhere else entirely.

  She sheathed the sword with a sharp click. “What are the actual entrance requirements for Arcadia?”

  Tobias frowned, his irritation growing. “Are you serious?”

  She met his gaze evenly. “Would I be asking if I wasn’t?”

  His lip curled in disbelief. “Unbelievable. You really forgot?” He scoffed, running a hand through his hair before exhaling sharply. “Fine. There are three ways in—”

  As he listed them, she listened. Not because she needed permission.

  But because understanding the rules would only make breaking them easier.