Five days ago, Nora Ensign woke up in the body of Norabella Lukan, the youngest daughter of a poor farmer, and already, she was about to be executed. The thought alone made her stomach twist, but there was no time to dwell. The chill in the morning air seeped through the thin mud walls of the house, lingering on her skin like a warning.
Norabella was the daughter of Jakob Lukan, a lazy man who spent most of his days drunk in a saloon. He returned home only to pour his frustrations onto his heavily pregnant wife, Clara Lukan. Every shout, every harsh slap that landed on Clara's back echoed through the crumbling walls, a sound that had become far too familiar in the small household.
Their home was a small mud house that barely kept out the cold, the damp walls smelling of mud and the chill seeping into her bones. When the wind blew, the beams groaned as if the house itself were shivering. Nora hugged herself instinctively, wishing that somehow warmth could be summoned from the air.
In the few days she had been in this world, Nora discovered that Jakob and Clara had once had five children, and now another was on the way. Four girls. One boy.
The boy had been the firstborn. When he grew strong enough to help with the work, Jakob sold him to a rich family far away. The second child, a girl, was sold to a wealthy baron when she turned fifteen. The third daughter ran away with her lover to avoid the same fate. Each story had been told with a cruel mixture of casualness and pride, as if children were nothing more than coins to be spent.
Now, only Isabella and Nora remained, living with their parents in the crumbling mud house. Dust coated the corners of the rooms, and the faint smell of rot clung stubbornly to the walls. Even the furniture seemed tired, groaning under years of neglect.
The rest of the story didn't matter anymore because Nora was about to be beheaded for kinslaying, more precisely, patricide. Her chest tightened at the thought. Death was one thing, but the way it would come, public, humiliating, made her stomach churn.
She hated this world. Or rather, she hated the family she had transmigrated into. Their cruelty was no accident, no momentary lapse, it was woven into every corner of their lives, like the mud in the walls, impossible to remove.
In most Webnovels or Webtoons, transmigrators woke up as baron's children, foolish young masters, villainess princesses, or the weakest members of wealthy families. But her fate was different. Instead of gold or silk, she had been given a poor farmer's body, and a father far crueler than anyone she had known before, a man who drank every day and beat his wife.
At first, Nora refused to interfere. She had no bond with these people, so why care, she thought. Her plan was simple: endure, then run away as far as possible. Her hands itched with the desire to fight, but she kept them to herself, pretending to be small, weak, and harmless.
That plan ended the night Jakob laid his hands on her. And with the kind of person Nora had been in her previous life, she did not hesitate. The memory was sharp, immediate, the smell of alcohol on his breath, the heat of his anger, the surge of fear and fury colliding in her chest.
Nora didn't think at all. She stabbed him again and again until he stopped moving. The sound of each impact echoed like a hammer in her ears. She didn't stop until she felt done. The floor beneath her was slick, the walls blurred, and the cries of her mother and sister faded into a dull, unbearable hum.
The executioner asked, "Norabella Lukan, the youngest daughter of the late Jakob Lukan, do you have any last words before your sentence is carried out?"
Nora's head rested on the chopping block, which smelled of rotting blood, sharp and metallic. She glanced at her mother and sister, who clung to each other, tears streaming down their faces. Their fingers were trembling, their faces pale. They could do nothing. The law stated that kinslaying was treason, punishable by death.
Nora smiled at them, her lips curling faintly, a small, almost mocking expression. They were the only ones present, along with the executioner and the headsman, a man who looked seasoned for this kind of job. His face was stoic, calm, utterly unfeeling as he gripped his axe, waiting for the executioner's signal.
I hope I end up with a nice family in my next transmigration because this one sucks, Nora thought. Her chest tightened at the absurdity, and yet a strange calm settled over her. She said nothing to the executioner, who gave a deep sigh and signaled the headsman to proceed.
Nora closed her eyes, letting the world shrink to a single point. She imagined a proper meal, the warmth of a bed, the taste of food that wasn't burned or stolen or cold. And then she remembered her previous life, which had been a living nightmare.
Her mother was a single parent who got pregnant at sixteen by a high school lover. Forced to drop out of school, she struggled to survive while the father continued his studies and eventually abandoned them. He married a wealthy woman and forgot that Nora even existed. The injustice of it burned in her chest even now, years later.
Growing up, Nora had to hustle to care for her sick mother. She dropped out of school, lived on the streets, and was eventually sold by drug dealers. She never saw her mother again and didn't know if she was alive. Each night had been a gamble, each step on the street a question of survival.
Luckily, the dealers sold her to a Mafia lord who adopted her as his daughter. Life was better, but far from safe, guns, rivalries, and chaos surrounded her. Every day was a dance with death, every ally a potential threat. Eventually, a rival killed the drug lord and his sons. Nora survived, became the sole heir, and took over his business, avenging them in a very bloody battle. She had been a Mafia lord in her previous life, betrayed and killed by someone she trusted.
Wait… how long does it take to chop off my head? Nora thought, blinking slowly as she opened her eyes. The headsman stood still, axe midway in the air, a grin plastered on his face. And then, without warning, his head fell off, rolling across the floor as blood gushed from his neck, splattering everywhere, including on Nora's face. The hot blood smell of it filled her nose.
The executioner, once pristine in a fancy robe, now soaked in blood, stumbled backward. His face frozen in terror, wide-eyed and slack-jawed.
Nora stood up as the rest of the body collapsed to the ground. A young teenage boy appeared behind him, wearing modern kind clothing, a hoodie and jeans, and with striking blue hair. He held a shiny sword, the weapon that had severed the headsman's head. His presence was sudden, impossible, and utterly confusing.
Nora stumbled backward, panic surging through her veins. Her mother, and her sister had long gone, she didn't even notice when they had left.
"Who… who the hell are you?" Nora stammered, her legs trembling. She had not expected this kind of twist. Who was this boy, and why was he here?