The library was in the eastern wing of Ravencrest Manor, which meant I had to navigate through approximately seventeen corridors of gothic horror aesthetic before I could get there.
Not that I'm complaining.
Every hallway was a masterpiece of intimidation. Portraits of dead Raven ancestors lined the walls, their painted eyes following my movement with what I was pretty sure was actual magic rather than artistic technique. Candelabras floated without visible support, their purple flames casting shadows that moved independently of any light source. And the servants—
Oh, the servants.
I passed three skeleton butlers, two zombie maids, and what appeared to be a ghost who was genuinely surprised when I nodded politely at him instead of screaming.
"Good morning," I said cheerfully to a reanimated corpse carrying a tea service.
The corpse stopped, tilted its head at an angle that would have broken a living person's neck, and made a sound like grinding gravel attempting speech.
I have no idea what you just said, but I appreciate the effort.
"Lovely weather we're having," I continued, because apparently I was the kind of person who made small talk with the undead now.
The corpse made another grinding sound, bowed stiffly, and continued on its way.
I love this house.
I love this RIDICULOUS, OVER-THE-TOP, AGGRESSIVELY GOTHIC house.
Truck-kun, you absolute legend. You sent me to the PERFECT place.
The eastern wing grew darker as I walked, the purple flames giving way to actual darkness punctuated by occasional flickers of green witchlight. The temperature dropped noticeably, and I could hear whispers in languages I didn't recognize echoing from the walls.
This is either the library or the entrance to literal hell.
Either way, I'm going in.
The library doors were massive—easily fifteen feet tall, made of black wood carved with scenes of battles, rituals, and what looked suspiciously like human sacrifice. The handles were shaped like ravens with rubies for eyes, and when I touched them, I felt a pulse of magic run through my fingers.
Testing me. Seeing if I'm worthy.
I pushed harder, channeling what I hoped was magical intent, and the doors swung open with a sound like a death rattle.
Dramatic. I approve.
The library was exactly what I'd hoped for and somehow even better.
It was enormous—easily the size of a cathedral, with shelves that stretched up into darkness so complete I couldn't see the ceiling. The shelves themselves were carved from the same black wood as the doors, and they were packed with books, scrolls, grimoires, and what looked like bound collections of human skin.
Please let those be fake. Please let those be—
No, wait. I don't care. This is AMAZING.
Floating candles provided the only light, their flames shifting between purple, green, and occasionally a sickly yellow. The air smelled of old parchment, dried blood, and something else—something that made my skin prickle with awareness.
Magic. Real, tangible, dangerous magic.
This is where the forbidden knowledge lives.
In the center of the library was a massive reading table made of stone, carved with runes that glowed faintly in the darkness. And sitting at that table, reading a book that appeared to be bound in scales, was the grimoire keeper.
He looked up as I entered, and I got my first good look at him.
Oh. Oh, he's PERFECT.
The grimoire keeper was old—probably in his seventies, with long white hair pulled back in a severe ponytail and a face that looked like it had been carved from granite and then left out in a storm for a few decades. His eyes were pale gray, almost colorless, and they studied me with the kind of intensity that suggested he could see straight through to my soul.
He wore robes of deep purple trimmed with silver, and his hands—resting on the scaled book—were covered in scars that looked like they'd been made by claws, blades, and possibly teeth.
This man has SEEN things. Done things. Survived things that would kill normal people.
I respect that.
"Lady Isabel," he said, and his voice was like gravel grinding against stone. "Your mother informed me you would be coming."
"Master...?" I let the question hang, realizing I had no idea what his name was.
"Corvus," he said. "Master Corvus Blackthorn. I have served House Raven for forty-three years as keeper of the grimoires and instructor of the dark arts."
Corvus. Of course his name is Corvus. Because we're House RAVEN and apparently subtlety is not our strong suit.
I walked toward the table, keeping my posture straight, my expression composed. Inside, I was vibrating with excitement, but I knew better than to show weakness or excessive enthusiasm to someone like this.
He respects strength. Knowledge. Control.
Show him I'm worth teaching.
"Master Corvus," I said, inclining my head slightly—enough to show respect, not enough to show submission. "My mother said you could teach me the true arts of House Raven. I'm ready to begin."
His pale eyes studied me for a long moment, and I had the distinct impression I was being weighed and measured.
"Are you?" he asked. "The last time you came to this library, you cried when I showed you a basic animation spell. You said the magic felt 'wrong' and 'scary' and ran back to your rooms."
Oh, original Isabel. You absolute disaster.
No wonder everyone thought you were weak.
"That was before," I said simply.
"Before what?"
Before I died and got hit by a truck and reincarnated with the memories of a woman who thinks dark magic is the coolest thing ever?
Before I decided to become a legend instead of a victim?
Before I realized that 'wrong' and 'scary' are just other words for 'powerful'?
"Before I understood what power really means," I said instead. "Before I stopped being afraid of what I am."
Corvus's expression didn't change, but something flickered in those pale eyes. Interest, maybe. Or calculation.
"Your mother said something had changed about you," he said slowly. "She said you'd become... focused."
"I have."
"Why?"
Because I'm going to die anyway, so I might as well die as a legend.
Because I've been given a second chance and I'm not going to waste it.
Because the original Isabel was weak and pathetic and I refuse to be either of those things.
"Because I'm tired of being dismissed," I said, and that was true enough. "I'm tired of being seen as a pretty decoration for a prince who despises me. I'm tired of House Raven's power being wasted on someone who's afraid to use it."
I stepped closer to the table, meeting his gaze directly.
"Teach me," I said. "Teach me everything. I'm not afraid anymore."
Corvus studied me for another long moment, then slowly closed the scaled book and stood.
He was tall—easily six and a half feet—and his presence filled the space like a physical weight. This was a man who had spent decades mastering magic that could kill with a thought, and it showed in every movement.
I should be terrified.
I'm not.
I'm THRILLED.
"Very well," he said. "We'll start with the fundamentals. Blood magic—the foundation of all dark arts. The magic that flows through House Raven's veins."
He gestured to the stone table, and I noticed for the first time that the runes carved into it were actually channels—grooves designed to hold liquid.
Oh. Oh, those are for BLOOD.
This is going to be AMAZING.
"Blood magic," Corvus continued, "is the art of using life force as a conduit for power. Your blood, the blood of others, the blood of sacrifices—all of it contains energy that can be shaped, directed, and weaponized."
He pulled a small knife from his robes—a ritual blade with a handle carved from bone.
"The first lesson is simple. You will cut your palm, let your blood flow into these channels, and use your will to shape it into a basic sigil. If you can do that, we'll continue. If you can't..."
He didn't finish the sentence, but the implication was clear.
If I can't, I'm wasting his time.
If I can't, I'm just another weak Raven who doesn't deserve the family name.
If I can't, I'm the original Isabel all over again.
Not happening.
I took the knife without hesitation, feeling the weight of it in my hand. The blade was sharp—sharp enough that I barely felt it when I drew it across my left palm.
Blood welled up immediately, dark red and warm, and I felt something else rise with it—a pulse of energy, a connection to something deeper.
Magic. This is MAGIC.
I held my bleeding palm over the stone table and let the blood drip into the channels. It flowed along the carved runes, filling them with crimson, and I felt that pulse of energy grow stronger.
Shape it. Direct it. Make it MINE.
I didn't know how I knew what to do. Maybe it was muscle memory from the original Isabel's body. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe Truck-kun had given me a bonus skill when he'd isekai'd me.
Thanks, Truck-kun. You're the best cosmic delivery service ever.
I focused on the blood, on the energy flowing through it, and I pushed.
The blood in the channels began to glow.
Faintly at first, then brighter, shifting from red to a deep purple that matched the flames throughout the manor. The runes themselves started to pulse in rhythm with my heartbeat, and I felt the magic respond to my will like a living thing.
Yes. YES. This is REAL.
This is POWER.
I shaped the blood into a sigil—a simple one, just a circle with three intersecting lines, but it was mine. I'd created it. I'd made magic happen with nothing but my will and my blood.
The sigil hung in the air above the table, glowing with purple light, and I felt a surge of triumph so intense it was almost painful.
I did it.
I actually did it.
I have MAGIC.
I looked up at Corvus, expecting... I don't know. Approval? Surprise? Some acknowledgment that I'd just done something impressive?
His expression was unreadable.
"Adequate," he said.
ADEQUATE?
I just made GLOWING BLOOD MAGIC on my FIRST TRY and you're calling it ADEQUATE?
But then I saw it—the faintest hint of something in those pale eyes. Not quite approval, but... interest. Genuine interest.
"Most students take weeks to achieve even a flicker of response," he continued. "You did it in seconds. Either you're naturally talented, or something has fundamentally changed about your connection to magic."
Both. It's definitely both.
Thank you, Truck-kun. Thank you, reincarnation. Thank you, cosmic irony.
"Can we continue?" I asked, trying to keep the eagerness out of my voice and failing completely.
Corvus's lips twitched—not quite a smile, but close.
"We can," he said. "But first, you need to understand what you just did. Blood magic is not parlor tricks and pretty lights. It's dangerous. It's addictive. And it requires sacrifice."
He gestured to my bleeding palm.
"Every spell costs something. Blood. Life force. Sometimes sanity. The more powerful the magic, the higher the price. Do you understand?"
I understand that I don't care.
I understand that I'm going to die anyway, so I might as well use every drop of power I can get.
I understand that this is EXACTLY what I need to become legendary.
"I understand," I said.
"Do you?" Corvus stepped closer, his pale eyes boring into mine. "Because the original Isabel—the girl who came to this library and cried at basic spells—she understood the cost and it terrified her. She saw what dark magic could do and she ran from it."
He paused.
"You're not running."
"No," I said simply. "I'm not."
"Why not?"
Because I'm not her anymore.
Because I've already died once and I'm not afraid of death.
Because power is the only thing that matters in this world, and I'm going to take as much of it as I can.
"Because I'm not afraid of the cost," I said. "I'm afraid of being powerless."
Something shifted in Corvus's expression—a flash of what might have been respect.
"Good," he said. "Then we'll continue. But understand this, Lady Isabel—if you walk this path, there's no going back. Dark magic changes you. It marks you. It becomes part of who you are."
Perfect.
That's EXACTLY what I want.
"I understand," I said. "Teach me."
Corvus studied me for another moment, then nodded slowly.
"Very well. Let's see what you're truly capable of."
He moved to one of the shelves and returned with a small wooden box. When he opened it, I saw a dead bird inside—a raven, naturally, because apparently House Raven had a theme and we were COMMITTED to it.
Oh. Oh, we're doing necromancy.
We're doing ACTUAL necromancy.
This is the best day of my second life.
"Necromancy," Corvus said, placing the box on the table, "is the art of commanding death itself. It's the signature magic of House Raven, and it's what makes us feared throughout the kingdom."
He gestured to the dead bird.
"This raven died three days ago. Its body is preserved by magic, but its soul is long gone. Your task is to animate it—not truly raise it, not yet, but give it the semblance of life. Make it move."
Make a dead bird move.
Use magic to puppet a corpse.
This should horrify me.
I'm SO EXCITED I could scream.
"How?" I asked.
"The same way you shaped the blood sigil," Corvus said. "With will. With intent. With the understanding that death is not an ending—it's a transition. A state that can be manipulated by those with sufficient power."
He stepped back.
"Try."
I looked down at the dead raven. It was small, delicate, its feathers still glossy black despite being dead for days. Its eyes were closed, and if I didn't know better, I'd think it was just sleeping.
Okay. Okay, I can do this.
I made blood glow. I created a sigil. I can make a dead bird move.
I just need to... what? Push magic into it? Command it? Think really hard about it moving?
I reached out with my uninjured hand and touched the raven's feathers. They were cold—not just cool, but cold, the kind of cold that came from absence of life.
And beneath that cold, I felt something else.
Death. Actual, tangible death.
The space where life used to be.
The void that's waiting to be filled.
I closed my eyes and focused on that void, on the absence, on the potential. I thought about the blood magic I'd just done, about the way the energy had responded to my will.
Move, I thought. MOVE.
Nothing happened.
Come on. MOVE. I command you to move.
Still nothing.
I opened my eyes, frustrated, and saw Corvus watching me with that same unreadable expression.
"You're trying to force it," he said. "Death doesn't respond to force. It responds to invitation. To seduction. To the promise of purpose."
Seduction? I need to SEDUCE death?
That's... actually kind of hot.
Focus, Isabel. Focus.
I closed my eyes again and changed my approach. Instead of commanding, I invited. Instead of forcing, I offered.
You were a raven once, I thought, directing the thought at the void where the bird's life used to be. You flew. You hunted. You lived.
I can give you that again. Not true life, but... purpose. Movement. Existence.
Come back. Just for a moment. Just to fly one more time.
I felt something shift—a response, faint but real. The void wasn't empty anymore. It was... listening.
I pushed magic into that space, gently this time, filling it with energy and intent and the promise of movement.
Fly.
The raven's eyes opened.
They glowed with the same purple light as the blood sigil, and for a moment, I felt a connection—a thread of magic linking me to the dead bird, binding it to my will.
The raven stood up.
Its movements were jerky, unnatural, like a puppet on strings. But it was moving. It was standing.
I'd just animated a corpse.
I DID IT.
I DID ACTUAL NECROMANCY.
TRUCK-KUN, ARE YOU WATCHING? BECAUSE THIS IS AMAZING.
The raven tilted its head, its glowing purple eyes fixed on me, and I felt a surge of power so intense it made my head spin.
This is real. This is REAL. I have actual, genuine, terrifying POWER.
"Make it fly," Corvus said.
Oh, we're not done? We're going FURTHER?
PERFECT.
I focused on the thread of magic connecting me to the raven, on the energy flowing through it, and I pushed.
Fly. Spread your wings and FLY.
The raven's wings spread—stiffly, awkwardly, but they spread. And then, with movements that looked like they were fighting against gravity itself, the dead bird lifted off the table.
It flew.
Not gracefully. Not naturally. But it flew, circling above the table in jerky, uneven loops, its purple eyes glowing in the darkness.
I'd made a dead thing fly.
I'd commanded death itself.
I'd done MAGIC.
This is the best moment of my entire existence, including my first life.
This is POWER.
This is what I was MEANT to do.
I looked at Corvus, unable to keep the grin off my face, and saw something I hadn't expected.
He was smiling.
Not a big smile—just a slight curve of his lips—but it was genuine.
"Remarkable," he said quietly. "Truly remarkable. Most students take months to achieve basic animation. You did it in minutes."
MONTHS. I did in MINUTES what takes other people MONTHS.
I'm a PRODIGY.
Thank you, Truck-kun. Thank you, reincarnation. Thank you, EVERYTHING.
"Can we do more?" I asked, and I didn't even try to hide my eagerness anymore.
Corvus's smile widened slightly.
"We can," he said. "But not today. You've used a significant amount of energy, and blood magic takes a toll. You need to rest, recover, and let your body adjust to channeling this much power."
No. No, I want to do MORE. I want to learn EVERYTHING.
But even as I thought it, I felt the exhaustion hit me—a wave of tiredness that made my knees weak and my vision blur slightly.
Oh. Oh, he's right. I'm actually exhausted.
Stupid physical limitations.
I let the magic drop, and the raven fell back to the table, lifeless once more. The purple glow faded from its eyes, and the thread connecting us dissolved.
Rest in peace, little raven. Thank you for being my first successful necromancy.
I wrapped my bleeding palm in a handkerchief I found in my pocket—because apparently Isabel's body came with useful items—and looked back at Corvus.
"When can we continue?" I asked.
"Tomorrow," he said. "Same time. And Lady Isabel?"
"Yes?"
"Whatever changed in you—whatever caused this transformation—don't lose it. This is the Isabel that House Raven needs. This is the Isabel that could become truly powerful."
Oh, I'm not losing this.
This is who I am now.
This is who I'm GOING to be.
"I won't," I promised.
Corvus nodded, then returned to his scaled book, dismissing me without another word.
I walked out of the library on shaking legs, my palm throbbing, my head spinning with exhaustion and triumph.
I did magic.
Real, actual, terrifying magic.
I animated a corpse.
I made a dead bird FLY.
The hallways of Ravencrest Manor seemed brighter somehow, less intimidating and more... welcoming. Like the house itself recognized that I belonged here now.
A skeleton butler passed me in the corridor, and I grinned at it.
"Good afternoon," I said cheerfully.
The skeleton made a clicking sound that might have been acknowledgment and continued on its way.
I love this place.
I love this ridiculous, gothic, death-obsessed place.
And I'm going to become the most powerful dark mage it's ever produced.
I made it back to my rooms and collapsed on the bed, still grinning like a maniac.
Day one of magic training: SUCCESS.
I have power. Real power. The kind of power that can change the world.
Or at least make it significantly more interesting.
I stared up at the ceiling, at the carved ravens and the purple flames, and felt something settle in my chest.
Purpose.
Direction.
Certainty.
I know what I'm doing now.
I'm going to learn everything Corvus can teach me.
I'm going to master dark magic.
I'm going to become so powerful that the entire kingdom has no choice but to acknowledge me.
And then I'm going to use that power to become LEGENDARY.
My bleeding palm throbbed, and I looked down at it, at the cut I'd made for my first blood magic spell.
Every spell costs something, Corvus had said.
Good.
I'm willing to pay.
I closed my eyes, exhaustion finally winning, and let myself drift off to sleep with a smile on my face.
Thank you, Truck-kun.
Thank you for this beautiful, chaotic, PERFECT second chance.
I'm going to make it COUNT.