The darkness was comfortable. It was silent. For Arthur, who had spent the last ten years of his life listening to the hum of servers, the screech of subways, and the incessant complaining of project managers, the void was a five-star vacation.
He remembered dying. It wasn't dramatic. There was no truck, no saving a child from traffic. He had simply been sitting at his desk at 11:45 PM on a Friday, staring at a CAD file for a new sewage treatment plant. His chest had tightened, his vision blurred, and his last thought was, "I hope someone clears my browser history."
He had no family to mourn him. His parents died when he was seventeen. No girlfriend. No boyfriend. No cat. Just him and the blueprints.
He was ready for the eternal sleep. He deserved the eternal sleep.
[SYSTEM REBOOTING...]
[ERROR: SOUL DENSITY EXCEEDS
VESSEL CAPACITY.]
[FORCING SYNCHRONIZATION...]
"No," Arthur groaned, his voice cracking. "Put me back. I didn't save. I don't want to work overtime."
[WELCOME, HOST.]
Arthur opened his eyes.
He wasn't in his cubicle. He was staring up at a canopy bed that cost more than his entire life's earnings, yet somehow smelled like mildew and despair.
"Ugh, my back," he mumbled, trying to sit up.
But the moment he moved, he felt... off. His center of gravity was wrong. His shoulders felt lighter, but his chest felt significantly heavier. Like someone had strapped two water balloons to his ribcage.
He looked down.
He was wearing a silk nightgown. And underneath that silk nightgown, there were curves. Undeniable, soft curves that definitely weren't there when he fell asleep at his desk.
Arthur froze. His brain short-circuited.
Trembling, he raised his hands—hands that were tiny, pale, and delicate—and tentatively poked his own chest.
Squish.
His face instantly flushed a violent shade of red. The heat rushed to his cheeks so fast it made him dizzy.
"Wait. What?" he squeaked. His voice was melodic, breathy, and distinctively female.
"Wait. What?" he squeaked. His voice was melodic, breathy, and distinctively female.
He poked again. Just to be sure. Squish.
"Oh my god," he whispered, staring down in absolute horror and fascination. "I have breasts? How?! Why?!"
He grabbed a lock of hair falling into his face. It was long, silver, and silky. He yanked the blankets off and looked at his legs. Smooth. Slender. Not the hairy, coffee-stained legs of a 30-year-old engineer.
"I'm a girl," Arthur wheezed, clutching his head—or rather, her head. "I'm a... a girl? Is this a prank? Did the guys at the office drug me?"
A blue holographic screen, reminiscent of a retro RPG interface, popped into existence right in front of his nose.
[Character Sheet]
Name: Taylor von Oakhaven
Age: 17
Class: Third Daughter of the Count / The Disgrace
HP: 15/100 (Status: Recovering from Poison)
Mana: Locked
Current Goal: Stop touching yourself and survive the morning.
"The System just roasted me," Taylor (formerly Arthur) muttered, pulling the blanket up to her chin to cover her newfound assets. "Okay. Deep breaths. I've read manga. I know this trope. I'm in a fantasy world."
Suddenly, memories that didn't belong to him flooded his brain. They played out like a tragic movie in fast-forward.
He saw a mother dying in a bed of blood while giving birth to Taylor. He saw a father, Count Oakhaven, looking at the baby not with love, but with a cold, burning hatred. "You killed her," the Count's eyes seemed to say for seventeen years.
He saw a stepmother, Countess Isabella, sighing with a complicated expression—pity mixed with annoyance—as she navigated the household politics.
He saw a stepsister, Violet, clinging to Taylor, hugging her too tight, whispering, "I love you, Taylor, you're the prettiest doll in the world," with an intensity that bordered on obsession.
And he saw Taylor's life: lonely, isolated, burying herself in books, wishing she could disappear. Until three days ago, when she drank a cup of tea and actually did disappear.
"Great," Taylor sighed, flopping back onto the pillow. The weight of her new body felt alien, but the headache was familiar. "I'm the hated child in a fantasy world. And someone tried to murder me. This is too much work. System, can I resign?"
[Resignation Denied.]
[Unique Trait Activated: The Architect's Eye.]
[Main Quest: The Industrial Revolution.]
Description: This world is backward, dirty, and inefficient. Fix it.
Milestones Needed: Telegraph, Gunpowder, Steam Engine, Aerodynamics, Combustion Engine, Arcade Cabinet.
"Arcade games?" Taylor blinked, momentarily distracted from her gender crisis. "You want me to build Street Fighter in the middle of the Dark Ages? Do you know how hard it is to source silicon chips in a feudal society? I'm going back to sleep."
Just as she pulled the blanket over her head, the heavy oak door creaked open.
Taylor froze. The killer?
"My Lady!"
It wasn't a killer. It was a hurricane of maid uniform and floral scent. A young woman with short, choppy brown hair and big, dewy eyes rushed into the room. She dropped a basin of water and practically threw herself at the bed, sliding on her knees.
"Luna?" Taylor asked, the name surfacing from the original host's memories.
Luna was Taylor's personal maid. And looking at her now, the "devotion" recorded in the memories was an understatement. Luna was looking at Taylor as if Taylor was the sun and Luna was a flower that hadn't seen light in weeks.
"Oh, Lady Taylor! You're awake!" Luna gasped, grabbing Taylor's hand and pressing it to her own cheek. Luna's face flushed a deep, healthy crimson. "I was so scared. I thought... I thought the Angels took you away because you were too beautiful for this dirt-ball world!"
"I'm... fine, Luna," Taylor said, awkwardly trying to pull her hand back. Luna's grip was surprisingly strong.
"I washed your face every hour! I brushed your hair! I prayed to three different gods!" Luna leaned in closer, her eyes sparkling with an intensity that made Taylor lean back. "Your skin is still pale. Do you need a massage? Should I warm your socks with my hands? Do you need mouth-to-mouth?"
"No mouth-to-mouth!" Taylor yelped, instinctively crossing her arms over her chest. Okay, so the maid is definitely into me. That's... complicated. But at least I have one ally.
"I brought breakfast," Luna beamed, finally letting go to retrieve a tray. "Chef made it special. Or, well, I made Chef make it special. I threatened to hide his ladle."
She placed a tray on the bedside table. Porridge, warm bread, and a cup of herbal tea.
"Thank you," Taylor said. Her stomach rumbled. She hadn't eaten in three days.
Luna watched her with unblinking adoration, clasping her hands together. "Eat, My Lady. You need your strength so we can go to the garden. Lady Violet has been pacing outside your door for hours. I had to tell her you were changing or she would have broken the door down."
"Violet is here?"
"She brought you a dress," Luna said, a hint of jealousy twitching in her eye. "It's... very frilly."
Taylor reached for the spoon. She just wanted to eat, ignore the step-sister, avoid the father, and figure out how to live a quiet life where she didn't have to invent the steam engine.
But as she reached for the spoon, her hand brushed under the pillow.
Crinkle.
It wasn't the sound of fabric. It was the crisp snap of paper. High-quality, pressed wood-pulp paper. Not parchment..
Taylor paused. "Luna, could you fetch me a fresh towel? This one is... damp."
"Instantly, My Lady! I will run faster than the wind!" Luna spun around and bolted out of the room, slamming the door with enthusiasm.
The moment she was gone, Taylor's face shifted. The confused, blushing girl was gone; the cynical engineer appeared. Her eyes narrowed.
She pulled the paper from under the pillow.
It was a small, folded note. The edges were sharp. She unfolded it. The handwriting was precise, written in blue ink. Ballpoint pen ink.
Taylor's breath hitched. Ballpoint pens didn't exist here. Inkwells and quills did.
Hello, 'Arthur.'
Surprised? Don't be. The System isn't the only thing watching you.
You think this is a fresh start? A chance to relax? Wrong.
The original Taylor was weak. You're supposed to be smart. Prove it.
Don't trust the devotion. The one who loves you the most is the one holding the knife. Fix this county, or I expose who you really are. And in this superstitious dump, they burn body-snatchers at the stake.
P.S. The tea isn't poisoned this time. But the porridge has ground glass in it.
— A
Taylor dropped the note. Her hands were shaking, but not from weakness this time. From rage.
"A," she hissed. "Like the show? Are you kidding me? I get reincarnated into a magical world and I still have to deal with a stalker?"
She looked at the porridge. It looked creamy and delicious. Luna had brought it. Luna, who looked at her with hearts in her eyes. Luna, who offered mouth-to-mouth.
The one who loves you the most is the one holding the knife.
The one who loves you the most is the one holding the knife.
"System," Taylor commanded mentally. "Analyze the porridge."
[Skill: Structural Analysis (Lv. 1) Activated]
Target: Oat Porridge with Honey.
Composition: Oats (80%), Goat Milk (15%), Honey (4%), Silica Shards/Glass Dust (1%).
Lethality: High. Internal bleeding imminent upon consumption.
Taylor stared at the bowl. A cold chill settled in her stomach .
Luna came back in, panting, holding a fluffy white towel. "I'm back! I ran so fast I almost tripped over the cat! Lady Taylor? Why aren't you eating?
Luna's face was innocent. Concerned. Loving. There wasn't a trace of malice in those big, watery eyes.
"I'm not hungry," Taylor said, her voice trembling slightly. She wasn't acting. She was terrified.
"But you must eat!" Luna stepped forward, reaching for the bowl. "Here, let me feed you. Say 'ahh', My Lady!"
Luna scooped up a spoonful of the glass-filled porridge, blowing on it gently to cool it down. She looked so happy to be serving Taylor.
Taylor looked at the spoon. If she ate it, she died. If she refused without a reason, she raised suspicion. If she accused Luna, and Luna was innocent (and someone else spiked the food in the kitchen), she lost her only ally.
"A" was playing a game. A game designed to isolate her.
Taylor's eyes hardened. She grabbed the bowl from Luna's hands.
"My Lady?" Luna blinked.
"It's cold," Taylor lied. "I hate cold porridge."
With a sudden, violent motion, Taylor hurled the bowl across the room. It smashed against the stone wall, splattering oats everywhere.
Luna gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. "Lady Taylor!"
"Get out," Taylor whispered, channeling every ounce of aristocratic brat she could muster. "Get out and tell the Chef if he sends me cold slop again, I'll have him flogged."
Luna looked devastated. Tears welled up in her eyes. "I... I'm so sorry! I'll fix it! Please don't hate me!"
Luna ran out of the room, sobbing.
As soon as the door closed, Taylor collapsed back onto the bed, her heart hammering against her ribs like a jackhammer.
She looked at the mess on the wall. The glint of tiny glass shards sparkled in the morning light.
"Okay," Taylor whispered to the empty room. "Okay. No normal life. No chilling. No bakery."
She clenched her small, pale fist.
"I have to build a telegraph," she muttered, her engineer brain latching onto the only thing that made sense. "I need to build a telegraph network so I can trace this 'A' person and find out where they are sending their messages from."
She sat up, swinging her legs off the bed.
"And then," she said, a dark grin spreading across her beautiful face—a grin that looked entirely too unhinged for a noble lady, "I'm going to build a tank and run them over."
[QUEST ACCEPTED: SURVIVE THE HOUSEHOLD]
[REWARD: BLUEPRINT - BASIC CEMENT & SEWAGE PIPING]
From the hallway, she heard heavy footsteps approaching. Not Luna's light steps. These were heavy boots
And then, a voice that sounded like grinding gravel .
"Is she awake?" The Count's voice. Her father. "Or is she still wasting resources by sleeping?"
"Majesty, be gentle," came the smooth, tired voice of the Stepmother. "She almost died."
"She should have died seventeen years ago," the Count spat.
Taylor stood up. She smoothed down her nightgown, taking one last nervous glance at the mirror to confirm that, yes, she was still a girl, and yes, she was still in trouble.
"Bring it on," she whispered. "I survived corporate layoffs, passive-aggressive emails, and deadline crunches. I can handle a daddy issue and a murderous pen-pal."
She walked to the window and looked out at the muddy, undeveloped land of Oakhaven.
"But first," she noted, looking at the overflowing cesspit in the courtyard. "We really need to fix the plumbing."