My first life began amidst the grand, echoing halls of a ducal manor, born into a prominent family within a sprawling empire.
This world, vibrant and terrifying, was steeped in the ancient traditions of hierarchy, magic, and the undeniable presence of divine powers. Beasts roamed untamed in the north, and mythical creatures were whispered about in hushed tones, their legends woven into the very fabric of existence. It was a world of high fantasy, where every shadow held a secret and every sunrise promised new, fantastical revelations.
My mother, a princess from a faraway kingdom, possessed a quiet grace that was often spoken of in hushed, reverent tones. She was, by all accounts, a woman of profound intellect and an unyielding spirit for discovery.
My father, on the other hand, was a Southern Duke of the Axevran Empire, an entity renowned for its martial prowess and an unbroken string of victories. He was a force of nature, a man carved from the very stone of the empire's might. Not merely a duke, he was a Swordmaster of legendary skill, his name synonymous with strategic brilliance on the battlefield. Beyond the clang of steel, he was a shrewd and wise ruler of his duchy, his governance marked by both prosperity and justice. In the intricate dance of courtly politics, he was also a remarkably successful businessman, his ventures enriching not only his house but the empire itself. Most importantly, he was a Debelvoir.
The House of Debelvoir, known far and wide as the House of Emerald Dragon, was more than just an influential family; it was a cornerstone of history. Its lineage stretched back further than any other recorded house on the Vast Continent, its roots predating even the venerable Axevran Empire. The Debelvoirs were not merely ancient; they were enduring, a testament to their strength, wisdom, and perhaps, a touch of divine favor. Their legacy was etched into the very chronicles of the land, a beacon of power and prestige.
My birth, however, was not a result of passionate love or romantic union. It was, rather, the meticulously orchestrated outcome of a political marriage, a cold, calculated arrangement designed to forge alliances and secure power. My parents, despite their undeniable merits, harbored no affection for one another. Their union was a strategic partnership, devoid of the tender emotions that typically bind a man and a woman.
If my memory serves, their arrangement was a formal pact, a contract marriage in the truest sense. My mother agreed to bear an heir for my father, the gender of the child being inconsequential to the terms. In exchange, she would be granted the freedom to pursue her lifelong ambition: to become a renowned scientist, traversing the vast and mysterious Vast Continent. She had been, in essence, a princess in a gilded cage, and my father, with his pragmatic approach, offered her a key. Yet, his motives were far from philanthropic. He did not act out of pity; his decision was purely diplomatic, my mother's unique blend of intellect and ambition fitting perfectly into the intricate criteria he had meticulously outlined. She was a valuable asset, not a damsel in distress.
Three years after their marriage, I entered the world. My arrival was her signal, her release. As soon as her duty was fulfilled, she departed to chase her so-called dream, leaving me behind. I must concede, despite the stark reality of their convenience, my parents did uphold a curious form of respect for one another. Their contract, a testament to their shared pragmatism, was honored.
Yet, seriously, regardless of their agreement, to abandon her infant daughter with such swift detachment felt undeniably cold. What was breastfeeding, after all, but a trivial inconvenience to her grand scientific pursuits? She departed with an almost startling urgency, her face becoming nothing more than a painted image on the manor walls, a silent, beautiful enigma. I grew up with a gnawing, bitter jealousy festering deep within my heart, particularly when I witnessed other children my age nestled comfortably in their mothers' arms. It was a wound that never truly healed, a constant reminder of my unique, somewhat detached, upbringing.
My father, though far from a paragon of paternal affection, was not entirely without warmth towards me. He was a man consumed by the demands of his ducal duties, his schedule a whirlwind of meetings, military strategies, and administrative tasks. Yet, he would occasionally carve out a few precious minutes, often in the late hours, to spend with me. These moments were brief, almost fleeting, but they were there. He showered me with an endless array of dolls, intricate toys, and anything else a child could possibly desire, a veritable cornucopia of gifts. He also exhibited an almost obsessive concern for my health. Despite the Debelvoir lineage being known for its robust constitution and natural immunity to most ailments, the family physician visited weekly without fail, meticulously checking on me until I reached the age of five. This constant vigilance, though perhaps excessive, was a tangible expression of his care.
Our relationship, as I recall, was far from the conventional father-daughter bond one might observe in other families. It was structured, almost formal, yet stable.
This fragile equilibrium persisted until my seventh birthday, when an unexpected war erupted in the harsh, desolate lands of the far north, a brutal conflict against monstrous demonic beasts. My father, true to his martial nature, departed swiftly to lead his forces into battle. He returned two years later, a conquering hero, but not alone. Beside him stood a girl my age, her delicate beauty a stark contrast to the hardened warriors around her. Accompanying her was a woman, a few years older than my mother, possessing a striking, almost ethereal beauty.
The girl, I soon learned, was the daughter of a baron, a close friend of my father who had fallen heroically in the northern war. The woman was the baron's wife. The baron, a man of honor and courage, had left behind nothing but an impoverished family, bereft of both their patriarch and their worldly possessions. In a surprising display of charity, or perhaps, a continuation of his strategic foresight, my father, dearest, took them into our household.
Both mother and daughter were initially assigned roles within the sprawling household staff, expected to serve House Debelvoir in capacities befitting their new, dependent status. However, as is often the unpredictable nature of life itself, things did not unfold as initially intended. Fate, it seemed, had a more dramatic script in mind.
The woman, with her captivating beauty, possessed an almost supernatural charm. It was a beauty that seemed to ensnare the hearts of many men, and eventually, even my formidable father succumbed to her allure. He was a man of steel, his resolve legendary, but in the end, she managed to conquer him, winning his heart with an undeniable, almost frightening ease.
And so the story, a familiar trope in the grand tapestry of human drama, unfolded.
She became his mistress, and he, in a move that shook the very foundations of our household, adopted her daughter as his own. While he never formally married her, and I remained his sole, legitimate heir, every other aspect of our lives irrevocably shifted.
My father, once attentive, even if minimally so, seemed to lose all interest in his own daughter. He ceased his visits, his face becoming a distant memory, a presence never seen within the halls of our home. I had always understood, with a child's stark clarity, that he never truly loved me in the conventional sense. But before, there had been a semblance of care, a flicker of concern. Hence, the sudden and complete absence shattered my young heart, leaving me gutted and utterly bewildered.
Dramatic? Perhaps.
Reality? No doubt.
His mistress, a character seemingly plucked from the pages of a typical, melodramatic soap opera, reveled in her newfound power. She subjected me to relentless abuse, both physical and mental. My father, after taking in that woman—that bloody woman, as I often thought of her in my darkest moments—was rarely present in the house. His work, a convenient excuse, kept him away, and in his absence, she became the undisputed ruler of the household, her cruelty unbounded. The mistress's daughter, a veritable white lotus, was her mother's malicious accomplice. She systematically stripped me of everything, including my cherished Grand Chamber, a magnificent royal bedroom that my father had gifted me on my fifth birthday, a space befitting a princess of House Debelvoir. To have someone who was not even a Debelvoir, a usurper, snatch it away from me was a profound indignity.
But her cruelties did not stop there. She insidiously stole my only friend, a confidante who had been a source of comfort in my solitary world. Then, with an almost surgical precision, she maneuvered to steal my childhood crush, a boy I had adored with a naive, overwhelming intensity. She accomplished this by masterfully framing me, twisting innocent interactions into fabricated tales of my bullying her, painting me as a malicious villain. Despite the obvious evidence of my own physical wounds, the bruises and cuts that adorned my body, they believed her. They were, in my estimation, utterly thoughtless, blinded by their fervent infatuation for her, a naive and potent force they called love. It was, perhaps, just puppy love, but it was potent enough to obscure their judgment.
Then again, considering her angelic looks, her persona seemingly descended from the heavens above, a vision of pure, unblemished innocence, who could truly blame them for falling under her spell? She was a master manipulator, a siren cloaked in sweetness.
Do I sound bitter? Yes, because I am. The bitterness clung to me, a constant companion.
There were many moments from that dark period that my very core brain mercifully blocked. I recall falling gravely ill, succumbing to unconsciousness for days, simply from attempting to dredge up those painful memories as I grew older. And I must reiterate, a Debelvoir does not easily fall sick. This was a testament to the profound psychological toll her abuse exacted upon me.
My blood would boil every single time I dared to reminisce about my pitch-black past, a cauldron of resentment simmering beneath the surface. But what could I truly say? My father allowed it all to happen. There was no conceivable way, no possible scenario, in which a man as powerful, as astute, as he was, could remain oblivious to the cruel realities unfolding within his own damn house. I bore the physical evidence—the bruises, the cuts, the gauntness from being left to starve, the suffocating loneliness of being locked within my new, cramped room in the attic. Even if every single person in the household had conspired in my torture, it was utterly impossible to believe that my father knew nothing of my condition. His aides, I remembered clearly, were cunning and intelligent, their loyalty unwavering. It was simply beyond belief that he was unaware of my suffering. Things spiraled, worsening with each passing day, until I arrived at the grim conclusion that every single individual within the manor participated in, or at the very least, condoned, the relentless abuse. My endless, tearful pleas, echoing unheard through the cavernous halls, served as definitive proof.
And so, from the crucible of that suffering, a fragile spark of hatred ignited within me.
When I turned twelve, my father dispatched me to a distinguished academy, a prestigious institution located far across the continent. It was a calculated move, sending me far from the duchy, far from the empire, and most importantly, far from him and his new, ersatz family.
This final, crushing blow and ultimate rejection, fanned the nascent spark of resentment into a full-blown conflagration of hatred.
I never had a proper debut when I turned fourteen, the traditional coming-out into society that was customary for young ladies of my standing. Nor did I receive a coming-of-age ceremony when I reached eighteen, a significant rite of passage that marked one's entry into adulthood. I never once wrote home, my silence a deliberate act of defiance. My father's letters, when they arrived, remained unopened, their seals unbroken, a testament to my unyielding refusal to engage. I never returned to the estate, not even for school breaks, choosing instead to remain within the relative sanctuary of the academy. All of these choices were mine, deliberate and resolute. I was ready to sever all ties with those who had inflicted such profound pain. My heart, once fractured, was now shattering into countless pieces due to an unforgivable parental failure. And yes, I placed the blame squarely upon the shoulders of both my parents.
Despite the crushing weight of these misfortunes, one truly good thing emerged from the ashes of my despair. I had, it turned out, inherited my mother's formidable intellect. I was, to put it mildly, a motherfucking genius at school, excelling with effortless brilliance in every subject imaginable. Whether it was the intricate complexities of magical engineering, the rigorous logic of science, the profound depths of philosophy, or even the precise art of swordsmanship, I mastered it all.
The academy, though secluded from the wider world and relatively small in scale, became my sanctuary, my comfort zone. My achievements there were so significant that I quickly became a superstar, revered by my peers and admired by my instructors. It was within those hallowed halls that my arrogance, that self-centered bitch syndrome, began to truly blossom.
Years passed in this manner, a blur of academic triumphs and self-imposed isolation. Upon my graduation at the age of twenty, I was, by all rights, ready to claim my position as the next heir to the dukedom. I meticulously planned my journey back to the duchy in absolute secrecy, deliberately omitting any mention of my return to the duke. I envisioned a grand entrance, a spectacular surprise for him and his new family, a dramatic unveiling of the powerful woman I had become. In my mind, I had already begun plotting a meticulous, satisfying revenge.
But you, dear reader, might assume that was the culmination of my trials, the grand finale of my tribulations, might you not? If only.
A veritable cascade of unfortunate events unfolded during my arduous journey home, each more perilous than the last. Assassins, shadowy figures intent on ending my life, emerged from the darkness. I navigated their deadly traps, emerging bruised but victorious. Kidnappers, seeking ransom or perhaps something far more sinister, attempted to seize me. I outsmarted and outmaneuvered them, escaping their clutches. A carriage accident, a terrifying collision on a desolate road, left me battered but alive. Food poisoning, a subtle and insidious attack, laid me low but failed to claim me. I survived each harrowing ordeal, a testament to my resilience and perhaps, a touch of stubborn luck.
But the last one… I genuinely did not see it coming. A child, seemingly innocent, passing by on the street, unexpectedly plunged a knife into my stomach. It was quick, shocking, and utterly unforeseen. And with that mundane, yet lethal act, I died.
And then, I opened my eyes again, not to the familiar, fantastical landscapes of my first life, but to a completely different world, a strange, bustling city called New York.
**
My second life, while less overtly dramatic than my first, possessed an undeniable, almost eerie, parallel pattern.
I was born into a conglomerate family, a dynasty built on vast wealth and sprawling business interests. Once again, my parents' union was a marriage of convenience, forged with political and financial intent rather than genuine affection. The key difference this time, however, was that my mother died during childbirth, her life extinguishing as mine began. My father, a man of insatiable appetites, remarried with a shocking swiftness, seemingly incapable of keeping his desires in check.
So, for the second time, I grew up surrounded by opulence and privilege, yet lacking the fundamental comforts of a normal family life. My father's absence was a constant, palpable presence, a void that no amount of material wealth could truly fill.
Fortunately, this time, my stepmother was not a cruel, conniving bitch. She carried no burdensome baggage from a previous life, nor did she produce any of her own offspring, a fact for which I was eternally grateful. Her primary concerns revolved around her own appearance, her days dedicated to the meticulous art of adorning herself and maintaining her exquisite beauty. Occasionally, she would drag me to socialite parties, her purpose transparent: to parade me around as a testament to her impeccable taste, showcasing my charm and my remarkably well-behaved demeanor. Her vanity was, in a strange way, rather amusing to me.
My new father, while not an outright jerk like my previous one, harbored no discernible interest in me. He provided abundantly, showering me with an almost obscene amount of money, ensuring I lacked for nothing material. I was, undeniably, an heiress, filthy rich beyond measure. Yet, his emotional detachment remained a constant.
Despite my privileged but emotionally barren upbringing, my dear old brain remained remarkably intact. Even with my status, I was, once again, a prodigious overachiever in academics. I sailed through my studies with flying colors, earning my medical degree at the astonishingly young age of sixteen. By the time I turned twenty, I was an excellent Medical Doctor, renowned for my skill and diagnostic prowess. Beyond the halls of academia and the sterile confines of the operating room, I also won a national championship in Martial Arts, my victories transforming me into something of an Instagram celebrity, my exploits widely shared and admired. In essence, I was living my life, a whirlwind of accomplishments and burgeoning fame.
Until I wasn't.
On a rainy day in the bustling heart of Manhattan, as I crossed a busy street, a sudden, blinding flash of light, a jarring screech of tires, and then… Truck-kun. The dreaded, infamous Truck-kun, the harbinger of second chances in countless fantastical tales, slammed into me with undeniable force, sending me tumbling into the abyss.
And then, just as suddenly…
…I was Isekai'd back to my first life.
Ha.
Haha.
Hahaha!
Well, fuck you, Truck-kun!