It happened fast.
Before she even stepped onto the gate, right by the moving baggage belt, their eyes met. For a single, unplanned heartbeat, everything—noise, motion, time—just... stalled.
Then it broke.
[Solo Female Heroine System: Updated]
{Warning! Warning! Target [William Caesar] detected.}
{Anomaly within the entity's soul. Original soul likely absent.}
Unbelievable.
Three seconds. That's how long their eyes locked before the protagonist—her supposed creation—looked away as if she didn't exist.
Cold. Detached.
He simply turned, placed his bags on the moving conveyor, and walked off with his group until he disappeared around a corner.
A chill crawled down Lorian's spine. That brief glance carried something unnatural.
The system's voice still echoed in her head—its proclamation, that warning—splintering what was left of her fragile mental balance.
This wasn't just unfair. It was cruel.
"Bad... this is extremely bad."
Her voice trembled. The protagonist she'd written—a cheerful savior who smiled through ruin—would never act like this.
"If the soul's been altered... how will the plot even survive?"
In her novel, his purpose was absolute: save the world, no matter the cost.He was the only man with the innate "alpha" charisma required to attract and subdue the heroines in this woman-governed world.
If his soul had changed, that core drive could be gone.
And without it... there might be nothing left to save.
"Does he even know this is a novel's world?"
She moved through the baggage claim, now crowded with students. A woman behind the counter, layered in makeup thick enough to survive a storm, barely looked up.
[Frances Lonprett], her nametag read.
"Student's name," the woman droned.
"Eleanor Mathioth."
Frances slid a sleek card beneath the glass partition, hotel-style. "Pick up your official uniform bag from the girls' locker room. ."
A label printed. Bags shifted. Lorian's luggage joined the conveyor.
The protagonist's aura lingered in her mind—no warmth, no compassion. Just a cold, magnetic force.
"Attractive enough," she muttered. "A harem isn't far off."
And maybe closer than ever.
Still, the system's phrasing—"detected possibility"—kept circling in her mind.
Possibility, not certainty.
"What are the odds?" she whispered.
Higher than she wanted to admit.
She'd written the basics—faces, uniforms, locations—but left everything else vague: gestures, tone, pacing.
A fast-paced story didn't need the filler of body language.
Now she regretted it. That vagueness was rewriting itself.
Her solution formed quickly.
"The welcome speech for new students..."
That would be the first test. The first proof of who—or what—was in control of the protagonist's body.
Lorian examined the card in her hand. It listed the essentials with bureaucratic precision:
Age. Name. Year. Assigned class.
On the back, a flamboyant emblem: Guardian Academy.
It might have been exciting—had she not been trapped in this cursed body.
"First, the uniform," she sighed.
Her locker combination was printed on the form. The uniform awaited her.
Too tight, too glossy—fanservice stitched into every seam.
"A curse on these tight clothes.
She knew it was because of "fan service" that the decision was made to make the uniforms excessively tight, to accentuate the girls' figure
"That's a regret for another time... Maybe we can all just stroll around naked next time I decide to rewrite things ."
The system's directive...prevent the formation of a harem...pressed on her skull like a migraine.
How do you rewrite the core of a harem world without tearing it apart?
And worse, if the protagonist's soul had changed... the entire structure might collapse anyway.
Her only option left was grim acceptance.
"If that's the case, maybe I should just enjoy what's left before I die."
She sighed, her voice hollow.
"I just wish this would end already."
Lorian missed being a man. He hadn't chosen to wake up in a woman's body...let alone one that suffered cramps and aches so severe he could barely walk straight.
He could endure a lot, but not this dissonance between mind and flesh.
By the time he reached the changing room, his patience was thin.
He opened the door
.then froze.
There were barely any clothes in sight.
A paradise for any single man; a nightmare for one trapped in the wrong skin.
There was a serum labeled
"Asses plumped like prize-winning cattle... what in the actual hell?"
Perfumed air. Glitter. Creams, lotions, and powders scattered like confetti.
If his old self had walked in, his "lower half" would've sensed the party before his eyes did.
"F*ck me... this is too much."
His gaze caught a girl wearing underwear that could only be described as a declaration of war.
"I now understand why my mental state says 'Angry,'" he muttered. "I'm actually planning to punch someone."
In a men's locker room, nudity was nothing.
Here, it was unbearable.
And this wasn't his body to expose.
He tried to move toward the bathroom quietly.
He barely made it three steps before a cheerful voice sliced the air.
"Hi, Eleanor! Changing in the bathroom again?"
"Phobia? Or padding under that uniform?"
"That chest isn't natural, is it?"
Lorian froze. Great. Of course.
A group of naked girls surrounded him, laughing.
Damn it. This was the dream of every lonely man alive.
And yet, in this body, it was pure torture.
"Come on, join us!"
"No thanks. Bathroom's fine," he said through gritted teeth.
"What are you embarrassed about? We're all girls here!"
You're not the one trapped in a borrowed body, he thought bitterly.
"Please don't push this, it's impossible!"
Before he could reach the bathroom, someone grabbed him from behind. His coat slipped off his shoulders in one cruel motion.
"No! Stop!"
He couldn't fight back—not here. Using magic against students would get him expelled before day one.
Five minutes later, his shirt was gone, his sweater torn, and his last line of defense—green underwear—barely held.
"So this size is real," someone whispered.
"Are you sure there's no padding?"
But as the girls laughed around her, one of the wealthy girls pulled a Bluetooth speaker from her bag, along with a portable cooler carrying snacks and juices.
"Party! Party! Party! Party!"
Cans cracked open. Music blared.
They jumped and screamed until the floor trembled.
Lorian just stood there.
"What the hell are these songs?!"
He'd written them. Pop hits from Earth, reimagined for this world.
He fished out his phone—the fantasy equivalent—and toggled the playlist, pretending to adjust the volume.
The bass dropped. The room shifted.
Girls started dancing—wild, unfiltered, hypnotic.
One climbed onto a table, hips swaying in rhythm, eyes half-lidded.
"Get your hands off me! No! Impossible!"
The crowd didn't care. They pulled him toward the center.
"Dance! Dance! Dance!"
The chant rose like a storm.
"Damn you all," Lorian hissed.
"You want a dance? Fine. Let's begin."
{System Mission Activated: Earn 5 points and show them who dominates this party!}
He grabbed the mic.
Feet light as air, hips catching the rhythm.
"I learned to dance in my past life too," he said, voice low. "Let's see who rules this stage."
The beat dropped hard.
🎵 Moonlight – I'm not who I used to be... 🎵
🎵 Under the moonlight, can't you see? It's just me... 🎵
For a moment, everything stopped.
Then the room erupted in screams and cheers.
She owned the floor.
The author, the impostor, the trapped soul—commanding the stage like it was hers all along.