Chapter 1: Transmigration, But as a Second Personality

This whole thing is honestly bizarre.

It took me years to figure out that after my death, I transmigrated into a fantasy novel I had read in my previous life.

Transmigration—everyone’s heard of it, right?

Crossing over to a fantastical otherworld, becoming a hero, a warrior, a mage, embarking on grand and wondrous adventures—that’s the gist of it.

Of course, when I say bizarre, I don’t mean the transmigration itself. I’ve read my fair share of transmigration novels, steeped in their tropes for decades.

My common sense has long been warped to the point where seeing a truck barreling toward me makes me think it’s a one-way ticket to another world.

My mind often wandered to impractical fantasies like, ‘With all the isekai tropes I’ve memorized, if I ever transmigrate, I’ll surely dominate, mowing down enemies and living an easy life in another world.’

So, when I opened my eyes again and saw a medieval-style pointed window and an old man with a white beard dressed in priest-like robes, chanting incomprehensible scriptures while emitting a green glow from his hands—straight out of an RPG’s healing spell—I only thought to myself, ‘Ah, so it’s finally happened, huh?’

That’s right, just transmigrating wasn’t enough to faze me. In fact, the moment I realized what was happening, I was already plotting my dazzling new life:

Would I become a hero, gathering companions for an epic adventure? Would I become a mage, delving into mysteries and unlocking the potential of arcane magic?

Or perhaps a lord, building a faction, dominating a region, and using modern knowledge to spark a revolution in this otherworld?

As I indulged in these grand visions, a faint whimper suddenly slipped out from somewhere.

No, not from somewhere else.

That cry, faint at first but growing louder, seemed to come from my own mouth. Even if I was reborn as a baby, I had no intention of crying—that’d be too embarrassing.

Was this some kind of infant instinct? Like a knee-jerk reflex, beyond the control of my mind?

I cried and puzzled over it at the same time, but soon enough, the answer became clear.

***

“Young Mistress, it’s time for your painting lesson.”

An old maid in a black-and-white apron, her gaze strict and meticulous, looked at the silent ten-year-old girl before her.

The girl’s silver-gray hair was tightly braided, revealing a smooth forehead.

Kritiya Airandil, the esteemed daughter of the Airandil Duchy, had her life filled with lessons since she was old enough to remember at six.

“Yes.”

Having just finished an etiquette lesson and rested for a mere half-hour, the girl obediently stood and followed the old maid to the painting classroom.

As they passed through the corridor, she glanced discreetly out the window, catching sight of her two older brothers, shirtless, swinging training swords in the snow-covered courtyard.

“Young Mistress, keep your focus while walking,” the old maid said with a frown.

Kritiya quickly averted her gaze.

In the painting classroom, an elegant man with curly hair awaited.

Hailing from the capital, he had once served as a court painter, yet now found himself in the frigid lands of Airandil as a private tutor.

It was clear the Duke spared no expense for his daughter’s education.

“Young Mistress, let us begin the lesson,” the painting teacher said with a smile.

The old maid quietly exited, closing the classroom door behind her.

Kritiya sat silently on a high stool before the easel. As the lesson began, her eyelids started to droop.

“Master Salaion of Roland County, sixty years ago, was the first to systematically propose the principles of perspective.

He fully implemented these in the murals of the Radiant Sanctuary, and thereafter, the laws of perspective became…”

Noticing the girl’s unfocused eyes, the teacher paused the lesson and gave a faint smile.

“Miss Airandil, you seem tired. Would you like a break?”

“I’m sorry… I’ll focus.”

Kritiya lifted her head to look at the teacher, and through her eyes, I saw the man’s face clearly.

‘That’s right, it’s him… the dark sorcerer of the Jiye Cult—Ross,’ I thought, recognizing his true identity.

This world is the one from the fantasy novel I read in my previous life.

The man before me isn’t some harmless painting teacher but a follower of an evil god, sent to Airandil to find a suitable target and plant the Seed of the Evil God.

And yet, knowing all this, I’m powerless to act. I’m nothing but a lingering soul attached to Kritiya’s body.

I can hear what she hears, see what she sees, feel what she feels, but I can’t control this body. It’s like being stuck in the spectator mode of an FPS game.

At first, it was novel—experiencing a little girl’s growth from a first-person perspective, whether it was embarrassing or touching, was a rare experience.

But soon, it turned into a longing for freedom. Being unable to act on my own will is, without a doubt, a torturous ordeal.

And now? There’s no novelty, no torment, just endless, boundless boredom.

My vision moves with Kritiya’s gaze.

I can tell that, despite her outward show of attentiveness, her mind is wandering. But I don’t blame her.

A grueling schedule from dawn to dusk is too much for a ten-year-old’s immature mind to bear.

But there’s no helping it—her fate was sealed from the start.

I know this world’s future through the fantasy novel I read in my previous life. Kritiya is the story’s villainous supporting character.

The Duke arranged all these lessons to mold Kritiya into a refined noble lady for a marriage alliance.

In the Duke’s vision, at fourteen, she’d be sent to the capital to study, mingling in high society, building connections for the duchy, and securing a powerful ally in the imperial court through her marriage.

A duke with military power scheming so meticulously might seem unusual, but it’s precisely the predicament the Airandil Duchy faces.

Though titled a duke, the Airandil family rose to prominence only eighty years ago as border nobles vassalized by the Empire.

Their lands, in the frigid north, lie just a step away from the beast-infested wilderness.

The main populace of Airandil, the Weilin people, were seen as foreign barbarians by the capital’s residents a hundred years ago.

Only when monster invasions intensified did they submit to the Empire, and the duke’s title was merely a pacifying gesture.

Thus, the Duke of Airandil desperately seeks alliances with the Empire’s orthodox nobility.

The Duke’s best plan?

Send his daughter to the capital for a marriage alliance. Having witnessed the grace and poise of noblewomen and ladies in the capital, he resolved to shape his daughter, Kritiya, into one of them.

‘I think the Duke’s completely off the mark. No wonder Kritiya in the original story turned into such a twisted villain,’

I thought, fighting the drowsiness creeping up alongside Kritiya’s.

That’s right—because the Weilin are a warrior people, the Duke applied the same rigorous methods used to train warriors to Kritiya.

He thought swapping swordplay, weightlifting, and dueling for art lessons and etiquette would produce a refined lady who could thrive in the capital’s social scene.

In my previous life’s terms, it’s the so-called Spartan education.

But the results were the opposite of what he intended.

Kritiya, armed with over a decade of training, arrived in the capital only to find she couldn’t keep up with its trends. Her attempts to fit in with orthodox nobles were met with rejection.

A slight provocation from a rival stripped away her dignity, leaving her mocked by all. The “elegance” she’d painstakingly cultivated for years was shattered in an instant.

So, Kritiya gave up on herself.

In the capital, far from the duchy’s constraints, she vented her anger and grievances on commoners and lesser nobles.

Wielding her status as a duke’s daughter, she bullied the weak, savoring the taste of power over those beneath her—until she crossed the wrong person.

Namely, the novel’s male protagonist.

What followed was the classic villain-beatdown arc.

Humiliated by the humble yet unyielding protagonist, she harbored a grudge.

Her repeated attempts at revenge escalated the conflict, fueling the protagonist’s growth.

Eventually, the Duke learned of her actions and ordered her back to the duchy for punishment.

But Kritiya, enamored with the capital’s decadence, feared her father and dreaded returning to the stifling duchy. Desperate, she turned to her childhood painting teacher, Ross, a covert follower of the evil god.

Ross offered her a magical ritual, claiming it would reshape others’ perceptions of her, making her popular and eliminating those who looked down on her.

Kritiya believed him and performed the ritual.

What she didn’t know was that her body was inherently suited to host the evil god. As a child, her scheming teacher had planted the hidden Seed of the Evil God in her.

Over the years, it grew with her negative emotions, and the ritual provided the final key.

The evil god descended, turning the capital into an abyss.

Kritiya, suffering a fate worse than death, became the vessel for the god’s power, transforming into a mindless, monstrous fiend haunting the capital’s ruins.

It wasn’t until chapters later, when the upgraded protagonist and his party returned to reclaim the capital, that they slew the monster she’d become, granting the girl her final rest.

Is this the original author’s twisted sense of humor?

It’s a kind of “reshaping perceptions,” I suppose.

Recalling the novel’s plot, I realized Kritiya’s tragic fate was about to unfold before my eyes.