Another week passed, and the hellish routine began anew. Life in this new world had turned into a relentless nightmare—a daily grind of sweat and suffering instead of the charming tea parties, pretty dresses, and dashing men I once imagined. Instead, I'm surrounded by the overpowering stench of sweat and too many muscles.
Urgh! Why do these men find it thrilling to torture themselves with exercise? Oh gods—Buddha, Allah, or anyone who might be listening—please, just let me go back to my world! I swear, I'll never wish for an isekai adventure again! I'll even quit binge-watching anime!
Just as I was halfway through praying to every deity I could think of, the coach's looming figure appeared beside me, his face a mask of grim determination."
"What are you doing? Run."
Oh, fantastic! I hope you trip on your own sweat, Orc Monster Jerk! I thought bitterly, but I laced up and started running anyway.
"I told you to take your shirt off. It'll help you breathe better," he barked, effortlessly keeping pace with me while I struggled.
Yeah, right. And next you'll want me to dance a jig in a tutu!?
"No, thanks," I replied coolly, sprinting faster in the faint hope of escaping both him and his terrible advice.
I really want to rip this chest binder off! I feel like I'm suffocating. Oh, my poor twins, I'm so sorry for hiding you, but we've got to survive this hell!
After what felt like an eternity of running—36 laps to be exact—my legs were quaking like jelly. Maybe coming back from that cold wasn't my best idea. Forget about returning home; at this rate, I'll be a permanent resident of the Crippled and Sweaty Club!
After a quick break, we moved on to sword drills. I lifted the sword, which felt like I was hoisting my 16-inch laptop after a week of fasting. My hands were trembling and covered in scratches and calluses. My once soft, beautiful hands were gone.
"I can't do this anymore," I groaned, dramatically dropping the sword.
'That's it. I'm done. If I die, at least I won't have to endure this medieval boot camp anymore!'
"All of you are weak!" the coach barked, his voice cutting through the air like a lash. "At this rate, you'll be dead before you even step foot on the battlefield." His words landed like a slap, striking my already bruised pride.
"Why… why are we even going to war in the first place?" I shouted back, my frustration finally boiling over. "We're historians, not warriors!"
"It's His Highness's command. Or are you suggesting you'd disobey the prince himself?" His gaze drilled into me, daring me to defy him.
His Highness this, His Highness that. I bet he's lounging on some throne, sipping wine while we do all the heavy lifting!
"From what I recall, His Highness ordered us to be trained for self-defense, not to be turned into warriors. And if we're going to be forced to fight, shouldn't we have the right to choose our weapons? You're built like a tank, but we're… well, not tanks. If you're using a sword, why shouldn't we get to choose weapons suited to our own abilities? We're historians, after all."
The coach sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. "Oh? So you plan to study your enemy before striking? Use that big brain of yours to 'outwit' a sword? You're a fool if you think war is won with brains alone."
Another idiot.
I scoffed. "If brains don't matter, then why waste time drilling strategy? Who's the real fool here?" The words tumbled out, fueled by frustration and nerves. I felt like a tiny bird squawking at a hawk, but my irritation kept me going.
His eyes blazed. "What did you just say?!"
"T-Tuk, maybe you should stop…" Leon whispered, but I ignored him. I was too far gone to back down.
"No! They need to understand—this training is all wrong for us!"
"Then what do you suggest?"
The coach's retort was cut short by a sudden voice. I turned—and there he was.
The Prince strolled toward us with a presence so powerful it crashed over the field like a tidal wave. Immaculate, not a bead of sweat on him, his expression was calm yet commanding. The coaches dropped to their knees immediately. I remained standing—awkward, defiant.
"I apologize for this unseemly interruption, Your Highness," the coach stammered, reaching over to shove my head into a bow.
"It's fine." The prince's voice was smooth as silk, his smile touched with amusement. "I'd actually like to hear our historian's thoughts."
I nearly choked as the coach smacked the back of my head, nearly knocking me over in his version of "encouragement." I shot him a glare—he wouldn't dare retaliate in front of the prince. But as I took in the blood-splattered generals standing behind His Highness, my stomach twisted.
I was pushing my luck.
Sure, I'd screamed just let me die before, but I'd rather not go out as entertainment for these muscle-bound sadists.
I swallowed hard and steadied my voice. "Different weapons suit different abilities, Your Highness. A polearm's reach can counter cavalry. Sais or kunai work better for lighter builds. These swords are too heavy for us—we'd be more effective with weapons we can actually wield."
The prince's gaze lingered on me, his amusement deepening. "Interesting."
Here's hoping this doesn't end with me in a dungeon.
He turned to the generals, raising an eyebrow. "It seems we have a very… innovative little bird in our midst. What do you think?"
They exchanged uneasy glances. Their silence wasn't agreement—it was grudging compliance.
One of the coaches found his nerve. "Your Highness, are you truly allowing them to wield uncommon weapons?"
The prince's smile faded. His eyes glinted like steel. "Pierce, escort our historian to the Weaponsmith."
The air shifted.
A figure materialized beside the prince, moving with a silence that made my blood run cold. He barely seemed real—more shadow than man.
How many of these assassins look-a-like does he keep around?
"I look forward to the results." The prince turned and strode away, his words laced with something that made my skin prickle.
I exhaled shakily. Relief? Not quite.
The coaches' eyes were daggers in my back, resentment thick in the air.
Why did he even show up if he was just going to make everything worse for me?
***
Our training regimen got a serious overhaul after my suggestions. And just when I thought I'd earned a break, my workload somehow tripled. Between interviewing historians about weapon preferences and consulting with the weaponsmith, my schedule was packed tighter than a can of sardines.
"You have an impressive understanding of weaponry. This design style never occurred to me before," the weaponsmith said with a nod toward a well-built man standing like a statue by the door. "No wonder His Highness assigned you one of his Rank Warriors."
'Impressive? Nah, I'm just a master at copying RPG designs…' I thought, trying to keep a straight face.
"Rank warrior?" I asked, both intrigued and slightly alarmed.
"Those warriors are branded with the mark of the unyielding Maw and personally commanded by the prince. Rumor has it they're gifted with extraordinary senses—smell, sight, hearing—all the traits of perfect trackers and assassins."
Anxiety hit me like a hammer. Extraordinary senses? What if he could smell my fear? Or worse, my blood? Oh god, did I cross paths with one of these guys during that time of the month?
'Why is everything in this place a nightmare?' I thought, clenching my fists.
***
My days became a torturous routine: intense morning training, deciphering ancient scrolls, and endless discussions about weapons. At one point, I was even ordered to evaluate warriors under the general's command—a task I'd sooner call a new circle of hell.
And that's when I arrived at what could only be described as the "death ground."
"Is this what warriors do during training?" I whispered, eyes wide, as I watched the madness around me. Warriors sparred in bloody, brutal matches, others did push-ups with massive stones on their backs, while some poor souls dangled from ropes, dodging arrows and spears.
"That's right," the general said, smiling with sick pride. "Welcome to the Northern Warrior Ground."
'So, the coach wasn't exaggerating when he said we were doing the basics?!'
"To those who want to change their weapons, speak to our historian," the general announced, voice booming. "His Highness has given him full authority to assist you in adapting your skills. So, if you need anything, go to this little guy. Understood, warriors?"
"YES, SIR!" The ground literally shook from their voices.
"What… what?!" I stammered, as the general patted my shoulder hard enough to bruise. 'Hold up, I'm supposed to advise all of them?'
Towering warriors closed in on me, looking like a pack of hungry lions eyeing a very tiny snack. Or maybe a mouse in a lion's den full of angry, sweaty lions.
"Well, uh… where should we start?" I managed, plastering on a shaky smile.
And that's how I opened the next chapter of my personal hell. Sure, the warriors appreciated my input—at least that's what I told myself to stay sane. But agreeing to help was like opening Pandora's box; my tasks spiraled out of control.
Weeks blurred together as I barely found time to breathe, let alone rest. By the third week, exhaustion had me staggering like a zombie. Eventually, I just gave up on dragging myself to my room and collapsed right there on the historian's office floor. Oddly enough, the cool stone and flickering candlelight felt… comforting.
'Talk about an unfortunate series of unluckiness—I said the prince should be the one to cry a river, but it looks like he played an Uno reverse card on me instead.'
But, on the plus side, my training suggestions were working. As I got chummier with the northern warriors, I cleverly gathered intel on the prince's battalion. They weren't the brightest, so prying out details about the prince's secret warriors was like taking candy from a baby. All it took was posing as their number-one fan, buttering them up with praise about their battle skills. Soon enough, they were happily spilling secrets.
From what I learned, these secret warriors were terrifyingly real. Their numbers were unclear, but their tracking abilities were straight out of legend. One guy boasted that a single operative could smell a target a mile away. Another claimed he saw one scaling a tree like a monkey on a caffeine high. I even met one of these shadowy warriors—tall, silent, and mysterious. I couldn't figure out his exact ability, but his sheer presence made me nervous. And the fact that one of these guys had been assigned to watch me was the cherry on top of my anxiety sundae.
'Perfect. Another headache to keep me up at night. Does he think I'm a threat? Does he know I'm not who I say I am?'
In an effort to lay low, I started hiding out in the historian's office, pretending to pour over scrolls. But secretly, I was analyzing every detail, looking for any clue that might crack the scroll's secrets.
"There's something I'm missing," I muttered, glaring at the text as if I could intimidate it into giving up its mysteries. "There has to be a way to figure out the order of these scrolls. What am I overlooking?"
I circled the room, inspecting the edges and cuts of each scroll, desperately hoping to spot something, anything.
After what felt like hours, I finally noticed it—a subtle pattern in the strip cuts along the edges. My pulse quickened as the pieces began to click together.
"I'm actually getting scared of myself now…" I whispered, a mix of excitement and dread swirling in my chest.
The key to unlocking the scrolls' sequence was in those strip cuts!
This discovery was both exhilarating and terrifying, confirming that the puzzle I was unraveling was something I could crack.