The air in the room was thick, scented with a sweet incense Emilia had never smelled before. She lay still on the bed, her eyes fixed on the ceiling adorned with frescoes of angels and winged beasts. Everything was overwhelming: the silk cushions beneath her back, the weight of the sheets that seemed woven with golden threads, the glow of the chandelier hanging like a constellation above her head. This wasn’t her world. This wasn’t her body. And yet, here she was, trapped in the skin of Celeste de Varnholt, a girl whose life was as foreign to her as the stars.

  She sat up slowly, feeling the weight of her new body. It was lighter than she expected, more fragile. Her hands, now soft and without calluses, trembled slightly as she raised them to touch her face. The mirror across the room reflected a stranger’s gaze: high cheekbones, full lips, green eyes that gleamed with an arrogance that didn’t belong to her. She was beautiful, yes, but there was something cold in that beauty, something that made Emilia want to look away.

  “What the hell is going on?” she murmured, and her voice startled her. It was high-pitched, melodious, but with a hint of petulance that made her skin crawl. It wasn’t her voice. It wasn’t her.

  A knock at the door snapped her out of her thoughts. Before she could respond, the door swung open, and a maid entered—a young girl with her hair pulled into a tight bun and her eyes lowered. She carried a tray with a steaming teapot and a plate of pastries that smelled of butter and sugar.

  “Good morning, my lady,” the maid said, her voice trembling. “I hope you slept well. Breakfast is ready, and the lady of the house has requested that you meet her in the main hall before noon.”

  Emilia blinked, processing the words. The maid didn’t look at her directly, as if she feared something. She recalled what she knew about Celeste: a spoiled, cruel girl who treated servants like garbage. A knot formed in her stomach. She didn’t want to be that person. She couldn’t.

  “Thank you,” she said, trying to soften her tone. The word came out awkwardly, as if Celeste’s body wasn’t used to saying it. The maid looked up, surprised, and for a moment, their eyes met. There was fear in hers, but also confusion.

  “My lady?” the maid said, hesitating.

  Emilia cleared her throat. “I said thank you. You… you can go.”

  The girl nodded quickly, placed the tray on a table beside the bed, and left almost running, closing the door behind her. Emilia was alone again, her heart pounding. This was going to be harder than she thought.

  She stood and approached the mirror, studying her reflection more closely. Celeste was tall, taller than Emilia, with a slender figure that seemed to have never known physical labor. Her movements were graceful, almost as if the body was programmed to move with an elegance Emilia didn’t feel. But there was something else: a weakness in the muscles, a lack of strength that made her frown. This body wasn’t made for work, or for anything beyond posing and preening.

  “This isn’t going to work,” she muttered. If she wanted to survive in this world, she needed more than a pretty face and a title. She needed strength. She recalled the fragments of information that had surfaced in her mind when she awoke, like memories that weren’t hers. This world was cruel, filled with monsters and dungeons that could devour you in an instant. Magic was powerful, but Celeste had no talent for it. Martial arts, however… that was another story.

  Emilia wasn’t Celeste. She wasn’t a spoiled girl who gave up at the first challenge. She had worked herself to death in her past life, carrying boxes, sewing until her fingers bled, scrubbing floors until her knees gave out. If there was one thing she knew how to do, it was persevere. And if this body had average talent for martial arts, she would squeeze every last drop out of it.

  The library of the Varnholt mansion was an intimidating place. Dark wooden shelves stretched to the ceiling, filled with leather-bound tomes that smelled of dust and time. Emilia spent the morning there, ignoring the curious glances of the servants cleaning the hallways. She had found a book titled Chronicles of the Kingdom of Eldoria, a thousand-page behemoth detailing the history and laws of this world. She flipped through it with clumsy fingers, searching for anything that could help her understand where she was and what she could do to survive.

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  The world, she discovered, was a brutal place. Eldoria was divided into fiefs controlled by nobles like Baron Varnholt, but the real threat wasn’t wars between humans—it was the dungeons. Underground caverns that sprawled across the planet, teeming with monsters ranging from wolves with steel fangs to indescribable horrors that could rip your soul out with a single touch. Adventurers, mages, and trained warriors ventured into these dungeons to gather resources and keep the creatures at bay, but even they died frequently.

  Magic was the pinnacle of power in Eldoria, but not everyone could use it. Those without magical talent turned to martial arts, which channeled “aura,” an internal energy that could strengthen the body and enable superhuman feats. There were also rumors of tamers, people capable of subduing certain weak monsters, like slimes, to use them in combat or as tools. Emilia made a mental note of that. A slime didn’t sound impressive, but if it was malleable and easy to control, it could be useful.

  She closed the book with a sigh and rubbed her eyes. She had spent hours reading, and her head buzzed with information. But one thing was clear: if she wanted to survive, she needed to become strong. She couldn’t rely on the baron’s wealth or Celeste’s status. This world didn’t respect titles; it respected power.

  That afternoon, Emilia ventured to the mansion’s backyard, a wide space surrounded by neatly trimmed hedges and marble statues. She had seen some guards training there in the morning, practicing with swords and spears under the supervision of a burly man with a scar across his cheek. Now, the yard was empty, except for a wooden training dummy that looked like it had seen better days.

  Emilia approached the dummy, feeling the weight of her silk dress, which was as beautiful as it was impractical. She needed more suitable clothing, but that could wait. For now, she wanted to try something. She closed her eyes and searched Celeste’s memories, fragments of martial arts lessons the girl had dismissed with disdain. There were basic stances, ways to channel aura, exercises to strengthen the body. Nothing advanced, but enough to start.

  She adopted a stance she vaguely recalled: feet apart, knees slightly bent, fists clenched in front of her chest. She took a deep breath and struck the dummy with all her strength. The impact was weak, barely a tap that made the dummy sway slightly. Her knuckles burned, and a sharp pain shot through her arm.

  “God, this is pathetic,” she growled, shaking her hand. But she didn’t stop. She struck again, and again, each time with more force, ignoring the growing pain in her untrained muscles. She wasn’t Celeste, she repeated to herself. She was Emilia, and Emilia didn’t give up.

  She was so focused that she didn’t notice the figure approaching until a deep voice interrupted her.

  “What do we have here? Miss Celeste playing at being a warrior?”

  Emilia turned, panting. The man with the scar stood a few meters away, arms crossed and one eyebrow raised. He was tall, with broad shoulders and leather armor that creaked with every movement. His eyes studied her with a mix of amusement and skepticism.

  “I’m not playing,” Emilia replied, standing straighter. Her tone was firm, though her heart pounded. She didn’t know who this man was, but something in his stance told her he wasn’t someone to ignore.

  The man let out a short laugh. “Tell that to the dummy. It looks like you’re caressing it, not hitting it.” He stepped closer, stopping in front of the dummy and delivering a quick punch. The wood creaked, and a splinter flew through the air. “That’s how it’s done.”

  Emilia pressed her lips together, holding back a retort. Instead, she said, “Teach me.”

  The man blinked, clearly surprised. “Teach you? You? The last time I offered you a lesson, you called me a peasant and threw a goblet of wine at my head.”

  Emilia cursed Celeste internally. This was going to be a constant problem, wasn’t it? “That was… a mistake,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “I want to learn. For real.”

  The man stared at her, as if trying to solve a puzzle. Finally, he nodded. “Alright, princess. But if you’re going to train with me, there’s no crying or tantrums. Got it?”

  “Got it,” Emilia said, feeling a spark of hope. She didn’t know who this man was, but if he could teach her to fight, to channel aura, to become strong, then it was worth enduring his sarcasm.

  “Good,” he said, extending a calloused hand. “And you, Miss Celeste, are going to regret asking for this.”

  Emilia took his hand, ignoring the pain in her knuckles. I’m not Celeste, she thought, but she kept her mouth shut. For now, she would be Celeste to the world, a mask she would wear until she was ready to take it off. She had found her first step toward survival, and she wasn’t going to stop now.

  The sun was beginning to set, painting the yard in blood-red hues. Somewhere, beneath the earth, the dungeons roared with a life of their own, waiting to devour the unwary. But Emilia wasn’t afraid. She had survived a life of grueling work; this world, no matter how cruel, wasn’t going to break her.