It had been three months since Haerim—now Elara Ventis—woke up in this world. Three months of armor chafing, sword fights, awkward social interactions, and waking up every day wondering how she'd survive another round of medieval chaos without either dying or being publicly humiliated.
She groaned as sunlight stabbed through the narrow window of her quarters. Armor clanked as she rolled over, joints protesting like a haunted accordion.
Note to self: sleep and armor do not mix.
Her limbs popped in every direction as she attempted to stretch. "Ouch. Ouch. Okay, not okay.
Why is everything broken? Why am I broken? Why is the world broken?" She muttered, because apparently existential dread came free with medieval mornings.
The courtyard outside was already alive with the usual soundtrack: swords clashing, boots stomping, yells of "HONOR!" and "GLORY!" that bounced off the stone walls and into her skull. Someone had clearly started their day by aggressively defining productivity.
She raised a hand toward the ceiling like it might magically cancel her obligations. "I didn't sign up for this," she muttered. "I just wanted to save a fictional character, and now I'm her. How does this even happen?"
She swung her legs out of bed—careful to avoid tripping on the chainmail that somehow expanded overnight—and sat up.
Her silver hair caught the sunlight, reminding her that yes, she looked tragically heroic. Too bad she felt like a soggy pancake.
"Okay, Elara," she whispered. "Today's goals: survive. Avoid death. Don't accidentally spark a magical war. And if possible… don't offend any mages before breakfast."
A sharp knock rattled the door.
"Lady Elara! The captain requests your presence in the training yard!"
Haerim froze. The captain who?
"The Captain of the Silver Order, my lady!" a voice added, cheerful but authoritative, like someone who could crush you with a smile.
Haerim groaned, burying her face in her hands. "Tell him I'm—uh—meditating!"
A pause.
"...With your sword, my lady?"
"Yes! Sword meditation. Very spiritual. Enlightened. Totally normal."
The footsteps receded, leaving her alone with her existential dread.
By the time she managed to wrestle herself into her armor—a process involving muttered prayers, complaints about metal chafing, and a minor existential crisis—she stepped outside and immediately regretted it.
The courtyard was chaos incarnate. Knights shouted at dummies, weapons clashed in sparks of metal-on-metal violence, and a few trainees ran in circles like caffeinated squirrels. Dust swirled. Sunlight bounced off polished armor in blinding arcs.
Elara tried to blend in. She failed spectacularly.
Her foot caught on a spear lying in plain sight.
Face. Meet dirt.
"My lady!" a young knight exclaimed, rushing to help her up.
"I'm fine! Totally fine! Just… practicing my stealth crawling technique," she said, groaning internally.
The knight blinked. "…As expected of Lady Elara. Ever diligent."
She gave him a shaky thumbs-up. "Yup. Diligent. Definitely not internally screaming."
Training was worse. Every swing of her sword reminded her that human joints were not built for thirty-pound metal rods.
Every block made her arms quiver like jelly on a rollercoaster.
"Why," she wheezed after ten minutes of sparring, "is sword-fighting cardio?!"
Her sparring partner frowned. "Are you unwell, my lady?"
"I'm fine," she gasped, collapsing onto the dirt. "Just experiencing… character development."
A few knights snickered. The captain, thankfully, called for a break before she passed out completely.
Haerim flopped onto a bench, staring at the horizon.
Her gaze fell on a group of robed figures at the far edge of the yard—elegant, glowing faintly, and exuding an aura of you-should-be-horribly-impressed.
Mages. Great.
If the novel's lore was right, knights and mages had a relationship somewhere between rival sports teams, grumpy neighbors, and sworn enemies.
One mage stood out. Dark hair. Sharp eyes. The aura of someone who thought swords were toys for children. He was staring at her.
"Who's that?" she whispered to a nearby knight.
"That's Kael Veylan," he said reverently.
"Youngest archmage of the Tower. Arrogant as sin, but deadly."
"Arrogant?" Haerim echoed. "Perfect. My favorite personality trait."
As if on cue, Kael walked toward her, every step precise and judgmental. Haerim straightened, trying to appear dignified.
"Lady Elara Ventis," he said coolly, voice crisp like a blade freshly polished. "I heard you survived the ambush."
"Surprise!" she said weakly. "Still kicking. Physically questionable, emotionally worse, but alive."
Kael's eyes flickered, unimpressed. "We mages sensed a surge of unstable mana during the attack. You were closest to the source."
"Oh, cool. Accused of magical crimes before breakfast. Love it," she muttered.
"It's observation, not accusation."
Haerim crossed her arms—or tried to, but chainmail protested. "Well, observe this: I don't even know how to spell 'mana.'"
Kael's lips twitched. "Knights: always blunt."
"And mages: always narrating prophecies like the world is an audiobook."
The knights froze. Tension filled the air. Kael arched an eyebrow. "Charming."
"Thank you," she said sweetly. "I try my best."
A bell rang, signaling the end of training. Haerim immediately stood. "Well! Fun chat! Let's never do that again."
Before she could retreat, the captain's booming voice called, "Lady Elara!"
She flinched. "...Yes?"
"You'll join the next expedition to investigate that mana surge. You and Archmage Kael will go together."
Haerim froze. Kael smirked. "Fate seems fond of irony."
She forced a laugh. "Haha. Totally hilarious. Very funny. Definitely not panicking."
When dismissed, she trudged to her quarters. "Of all the mages in the realm, I get the one who hasn't smiled since birth," she muttered.
"Still talking to yourself?" Kael's voice came from behind.
Startled, she turned. He was following, hands behind his back, calm and composed.
"Old habit," she said. "Very therapeutic."
He tilted his head. "Fascinating."
"Don't say it like I'm a lab rat," she muttered.
"Then stop behaving like one," he countered.
Her mouth fell open. "You—!"
He smirked faintly. "See you at dawn, Lady Ventis."
She flopped onto her bed, staring at the ceiling. New goals:
1. Survive the plot.
2. Avoid death.
3. Maybe punch a mage. Once.
She sighed. "Elara Ventis, meet your worst enemy—and maybe, someday, your biggest problem."
The next morning arrived too quickly, as mornings do when your life consists of sword swings, existential dread, and avoiding magical obliteration. Haerim dragged herself into the training yard, muttering to herself about the inherent cruelty of medieval furniture and human anatomy.
Knights were already sparring with the ferocity of caffeinated wolves. She attempted to blend in, failing almost immediately.
Her first attempt at a dramatic sword flourish ended with a spectacular slip, sending her flying sideways into a wooden practice dummy. Pieces of splintered wood bounced off her armor like confetti at a poorly planned parade.
Kael was already there, arms crossed, observing her with a look that clearly said: Why does your life exist?
"Are you always like this?" he asked casually, voice calm, detached, judgmental.
"Like what?" she wheezed, wiping dirt from her cheek.
"A whirlwind of chaos in silver armor."
"Why yes, thank you for noticing. It's my signature style."
The knights nearby were holding back laughter. Not her dignity. She tried a dramatic recovery, spinning the sword in an attempt to regain some semblance of competence.
Instead, she pirouetted like a wounded chicken and ended up face-first in a mud puddle. Her helmet floated away like a small, shiny buoy.
Kael raised an eyebrow. "Graceful."
"Thanks," she muttered, flopping onto the ground and muttering to herself.
"Just wait till you see my next trick: spontaneous dismemberment… of my pride."
Training Mishaps
The morning devolved into a series of escalating disasters:
Accidentally cleaving a target dummy in half mid-spin, creating a cloud of splinters and panic.
Trying a new footwork maneuver she read about in a fanfic—fell flat on her back, armor scraping, groaning for dramatic effect.
Tripping over a bucket of water while trying to "practice balance," soaking half the nearby knights.
A rogue chicken, apparently with a vendetta, pecked at her boot until she screamed like a banshee.
Kael followed all of this with that same serene observation, occasionally muttering corrections like he was a walking magical instruction manual with sarcasm included.
"Step forward with your left foot," he said, voice calm.
"No, not that left. Your other left."
"I… left? Both left?" she asked, blinking.
"Wait, are you trolling me?"
"Focus," he said smoothly. "You're supposed to be a knight, not a cow flailing in a storm."
Haerim stared at him, deadpan. "Thanks. Motivation noted."
By midday, she was exhausted, bruised, muddy, and convinced the universe was conspiring against her. She trudged to a bench, arm draped dramatically over the back, and stared at the sky.
Her thoughts drifted to her old life: her ramen, her fanart collection, and most importantly, Elara Ventis—the character she had loved so much that now she was trapped inside her.
I didn't ask for this, she whispered.
But if this is how it is… I'll survive. And maybe teach that smug mage a lesson or two.
Interactions With Other Knights
Her solitude didn't last long. A few fellow knights approached, eyes curious, trying to gauge if she'd completely lost her mind.
"Lady Elara, the captain wants you for sword drills," one said nervously, glancing at her mud-covered armor.
She groaned. "Oh joy. More sword drills. My favorite way to demonstrate my incompetence."
A younger trainee approached with a stack of practice daggers. "Do you… want me to demonstrate a combo?"
She shook her head. "No. Watching you would be traumatic for everyone's morale."
Despite her sarcastic façade, she noted that the knights seemed strangely fond of her.
Perhaps because she never held back her failures—honesty and chaos were apparently endearing qualities in a knight.
Unexpected Mage Antics
Later that afternoon, Kael appeared again, hovering near the edge of the yard with an invisible aura of judgment. He wasn't speaking—just watching.
"Spying, huh?" she muttered, tossing her training sword aside.
He arched an eyebrow. "Observation. Not espionage."
She sighed. "Sure. Observation. Watching me flail like a baby dragon is so productive."
He tilted his head, amused. "You're… interesting. For a knight."
Haerim blinked. "Interesting? That's it? Interesting? I literally could die from exhaustion any second now."
"You won't," he said smoothly. "Not unless you make a critical mistake."
She raised an eyebrow. "Gee, thanks for the pep talk, archmage. Very comforting."
The rest of the knights gave small chuckles, clearly entertained by the verbal sparring.
A Small Victory
Despite her ongoing disasters, the day wasn't entirely hopeless. She managed a clean block against a junior knight's sword strike—a move so surprising that even Kael raised an eyebrow.
"Not bad," he admitted. "For someone who could've broken every bone in her body by now."
Haerim beamed inside. Small victories, she reminded herself. That was progress.
And progress, in this world, was measured not by medals but by surviving another day without humiliating herself beyond repair.
Evening Reflection
That night, she collapsed onto her bed, staring at the starlit sky visible through the window. Her thoughts drifted to Elara Ventis—her former fictional self. I didn't ask for this, she whispered again. But if this is my life now… I'll survive it.
She clenched her fists. And maybe, just maybe, I'll survive the smug mage too.
The stars twinkled like cosmic punctuation, as if the universe was silently chuckling at her.
🕊️ End of Chapter one — sword, sweat, and severe regret.