. toilet paper.
Either blindingly white… or proudly carrying the crimson mark of monthly betrayal.
"Damn this body."
He stood there—no, she stood there—in a bathroom so luxurious it could host a royal banquet.
Marble walls gleamed like they'd been kissed by moonlight. The golden taps sparkled,
And there she was in the mirror.
A girl with long, silken blue hair, flowing like a river of stolen sky. Her violet eyes looked hand-painted by a perfectionist god. She was beauty carved into human form…
and right now, that beauty was on the verge of a breakdown.
Her reflection cracked. Not literally, but the spiderweb fissures crawling across the marble behind her made it look poetic enough.
You could already imagine the chaos of expressions on a man's face—fear, denial, disbelief. Too bad he was stuck in a woman's body, bleeding like a biology lesson gone wrong.
"Give me back my body!"
Sorry, kid. The return policy expired.
Enjoy the starter pack of pain, mood swings, and corporate propaganda wrapped in pastel packaging.
"Impossible…"
Then why is your body holding a blood-themed art exhibit right now?
She stared at the toilet paper again.
Either pure white… or an unpaid advertisement for the human reproductive system.
Inside that elegant, echoing bathroom, the universe laughed.
Lauren Phillip—once a man with pride and posture—was now a living metaphor for cosmic irony.
For twenty days, he'd endured a nightmare-ridden existence aboard a military airship bound for the Imperial Magic Guardian Academy.
Altitude sickness, motion sickness, and the sick joke of destiny—all rolled into one flying coffin.
Each night, he faced the same five nightmares: naked men chasing him, maid dresses, cat ears, bunny ears—sometimes all at once.
Sleep became a war he kept losing.
And now, the grand finale: his very first period.
The final erasure of his manhood.
Lauren Phillip was dead.
Eleanor Mathioth had taken his place.
"When will this suffering end…"
She muttered through gritted teeth, clutching a branded bag of sanitary pads. The tagline on the box promised "soft comfort for active teens".
He wondered if active teens ever had to question their gender in front of a marble sink.
Each motion was a public execution.
She followed the instructions like a soldier dismantling a bomb, her dignity dying one fold at a time.
When she finally stepped out of the bathroom, she walked out bathroom.
Students passed her in the corridor, all smiles and greetings.
"Good morning, Eleanor!"
He forced a grin. "Yeah… morning."
It came out halfway between "good morning" and "why me."
Every "hi" felt like a slap dipped in politeness.
If you stripped the emotions away, being a girl here wasn't the worst thing in the world—better dorms, better meals, less shouting.
But logic doesn't help when your stomach is declaring war on your insides.
"Damn this pain…"
Back in her room, she threw the old pad in the trash like a guilty criminal hiding evidence. Somewhere in there, a fragment of masculine pride whimpered its last.
And then—the voice.
Not divine, not human.
It echoed inside her skull like a broken speaker:
> {System Message: Heroine's System detected. You are approaching the Academy. Activating system...}
{Name: Eleanor Mathioth}
{Gender: Female}
{Class: Magical Combat Fairy}
{Mental State: Angry}
{Abilities: Deadly Flower Cannon}
{Dark Status: Active}
For twenty days he'd seen that floating window counting down, never knowing to what.
Surprise—it was the day they'd land at the Academy.
"Fantastic," she muttered. "From a calm, functional man to a hormonal magic fairy. Progress."
She remembered now—Eleanor Mathioth, the beloved heroine of his own novel.
Created by his idiot roommate Milosh, who'd also killed him with an exploding laptop.
Poetic justice, apparently, had a dark sense of humor.
Eleanor was strong, talented, beautiful.
Her mother, a feared general, sent her daughter to the Guardians Academy—the nest of chosen prodigies where the fate of humanity was scripted.
Demons invading, mana awakening, humanity's last stand... cliché, sure, but it sold copies.
And in that world, women possessed higher magical affinity than men.
They led armies, commanded respect, rewrote destiny.
Men were mostly background noise with abs.
Eleanor ranked second only to the hero himself—powerful, adored, and ultimately disposable.
He remembered writing her death: a noble sacrifice for the protagonist's emotional growth.
Poetic. Tragic. And completely idiotic.
He muttered under his breath,
"Note to self: never fall in love with the hero."
Even if the guy looked like a deity and smelled like one, dying for his character arc wasn't on the menu.
"And don't draw attention," he added. "Low profile, low death rate."
Outside, the airship trembled. The intercom crackled.
"Attention students, prepare for landing. Fifteen minutes to arrival at the Imperial Magic Guardian Academy."
He peeked at his luggage.
Makeup kits, hairbrushes, floral perfume.
"Perfect. Maybe I'll start a beauty vlog after saving the world."
Dragging the bags across the hallway, he cursed under his breath.
An hour later, the airship docked with a hiss of steam and applause from overeager students.
The gates opened to reveal the campus—a sprawling fortress of magic and ambition.
Students lined up, luggage stacked, discipline enforced by a woman in a tight military uniform who barked orders like thunder.
"My dear cubs! Check your belongings! Fifteen minutes before the station doors open!"
"Fifteen minutes," he grumbled.
As he waited, the voice returned—colder now.
> {System Update Received.}
{Solo Heroine Protocol Activated.}
{Main Objective: Prevent the male protagonist from forming a harem. He must choose one heroine only.}
{Reward: Restoration of original male body and lifetime fortune.}
{Failure: Soul disintegration. Permanent.}
A silence heavier than air hung inside his skull.
He barely had time to process before someone walked past—tall, confident, glowing like the center of every heroic cliché.
Their eyes met.
The hero. The protagonist.
The man who'd ruin—or save—everything.