Chapter 3: The Approaching Shadow

Back in the room, I calmed down, realizing how reckless my earlier dash out the door had been.

Speaking of which—how strange.

Why could I suddenly control Kritiya’s body?

I stood before the floor-length mirror, gazing at the reflection of a small, gray-haired girl.

Even after over a decade in this body, the sensation felt oddly surreal at this moment.

So short—I had to stand on tiptoe just to reach the windowsill.

So frail—it felt like a strong gust could snap her in half.

How did she endure those horsemanship and swordsmanship lessons?

And that gray-black hair—the tightly bound braid felt like it was yanking my scalp off, utterly uncomfortable.

I tried removing the hairpin, gently undoing the clasp, and her long hair cascaded down, softly covering her neck and shoulders.

“It looks so much better loose,” I muttered, twisting my neck in front of the mirror before turning to serious matters.

“Thinking about it, the reason I can control her body—the only thing different today was Kritiya being implanted with the Seed of the Evil God…

Could it be because of the Seed? No, wait—Kritiya didn’t die, did she? Is that why I can—”

The thought made me panic.

In typical isekai soul-transmigration stories, the transmigrator takes over after the original owner’s consciousness fades, allowing them to assume the new identity and live freely in a second life.

But I’m different.

I’ve watched this child grow up bit by bit.

When I first realized my situation and recalled Kritiya’s hysterical behavior in the original novel, I couldn’t help but feel a chill of disgust.

But as she grew, and I experienced her bleak childhood firsthand, even knowing what she’d do in the future, I couldn’t muster any hatred.

If it didn’t concern me, I could self-righteously say something like, ‘A tragic past doesn’t justify harming others,’ and go on despising her without a second thought.

But now, what right do I have to stand on a pedestal and say such lofty things?

After all, experiencing something firsthand is worlds apart from hearing it secondhand.

“If Kritiya died because of the Seed of the Evil God, what am I supposed to do?”

I let out a sigh and collapsed onto the bed.

***

I must have fallen asleep unknowingly last night.

When I came to, I realized control of the body had returned to Kritiya.

The inability to act on my own will was infuriating—especially after tasting freedom so briefly.

But seeing Kritiya alive and well, her consciousness intact without any signs of collapse, brought me some relief.

Right now, Kritiya was wearing a woolen coat and a furry hat, gripping the reins as she trudged through the biting northern winter wind.

Morning horsemanship lessons, I thought.

Her two brothers, Trik Airandil and Diers Airandil, were riding their chestnut ponies, racing each other along the mountain path.

“Young Mistress, feel the rhythm of the horse’s muscles, sense its intentions—only then can you control it.”

The old maid helped Kritiya onto the horse.

She wasn’t wearing her usual apron but riding breeches instead, mounting the horse herself to guard Kritiya from behind.

The horse’s direction was controlled by the old maid.

The Airandil family hadn’t lost all sense—letting a ten-year-old whose feet couldn’t reach the stirrups control a horse would be absurd.

But I was certain this so-called horsemanship lesson was nothing like the leisurely rides of noblewomen in the capital, sidesaddle in long dresses, strolling through fields or performing fancy dressage for social occasions.

Under the old maid’s urging, the black-and-white speckled horse broke into a gallop, the wind slicing across my face like a knife.

Kritiya’s two brothers had already vanished ahead, guided by their own instructors, while I was merely led by the old maid.

Suddenly, the old maid pulled the reins, slowing down.

“Look, Young Mistress, there’s a snow rabbit in the bushes ahead.”

Kritiya peered closely.

A snow-white rabbit was calmly nibbling grass, its long ears twitching, utterly adorable.

The old maid drew a short crossbow from a leather pouch and handed it to Kritiya.

“Would you like to try?”

“I…”

Kritiya opened her mouth, but the loaded crossbow was already in her hands.

Silently, she raised it as she’d been taught, aiming at the rabbit.

I felt Kritiya deliberately shift her aim off-target before pulling the trigger.

The bolt flew, embedding itself in the ground a foot from the rabbit.

Startled, the rabbit kicked up a cloud of dust and bolted forward.

But the old maid, still on horseback, nocked an arrow and shot, piercing the rabbit’s neck with precision.

“Go pick it up,” she said calmly.

“Yes.”

Kritiya paused, then dismounted, wading into the dry grass to retrieve the dead rabbit by its ears, her face expressionless.

The old maid hung the kill on a saddle hook, helped Kritiya back onto the horse, and resumed riding.

“We Weilin people are farmers by nature, but to fend off demon wolves, we mastered the art of mounted archery—”

The old maid spoke unhurriedly about tradition and history.

I listened half-heartedly.

The novel never mentioned the Weilin people.

In typical fantasy stories, the focus is naturally on races like elves, dwarves, or demons.

But in this real world, even a seemingly insignificant human ethnic group remembers and distinguishes its unique identity.

What about Kritiya, then?

What did she feel hearing this?

I tried to sense her emotions but found her mood low, her attention far from the old maid’s words.

Because of the snow rabbit, perhaps?

I guessed—children often can’t resist cute creatures, even if such rabbits appear daily on the duchy’s dining table, roasted golden.

The old maid guided the horse along the mountain path behind the ducal castle, a route that a fast rider could complete round-trip in an hour.

But today was far from ordinary.

Suddenly, a gust of wind whipped up, stirring sand and stones, startling the horse into a neigh.

The old maid dismounted, pulling me down to wait out the wind, but it didn’t relent—it grew fiercer.

Kritiya tugged her furry hat tighter, uneasily scanning the surroundings, seeing only barren slopes, rocks, and dry grass.

“Young Mistress,” the old maid said suddenly, “get behind me.”

“What’s happening?” Kritiya asked after a moment’s thought.

“A mage is causing trouble,” the old maid replied curtly, drawing a curved saber from the saddle.

At the end of the mountain path, a figure cloaked in a black robe emerged slowly.

“How foolish,” the old maid said, her gaze turning icy.

“A mage daring to reveal their true form.”

Magic—I felt Kritiya’s heart pound.

I knew this was a fantasy world, but in all my years here, I’d seen magic only a handful of times.

No, now’s not the time for this.

The mage clapped their hands casually, and the earth surged.

Amid a tremor, two clay golems, nearly ten feet tall, rose from the ground.

“A prepared trap…” the old maid muttered.

The golems charged toward them with heavy steps.

Then I saw the old maid, stern and rigid for over a decade, move like the most graceful dancer.

She spun her body, leapt dozens of feet into the air, and slashed her saber across a golem’s back with precision.

As if striking a weak point, the fearsome golem crumbled into a pile of dirt before it could unleash its strength.

The old maid didn’t stop.

The moment her feet touched the ground, she charged the black-robed mage, her saber flashing a silver arc.

The robe burst like a punctured waterskin, spraying a curtain of blood.

“Young Mistress, when fighting a mage, never get caught in their spells—always target their body directly,” the old maid said, standing tall, not a drop of blood on her clothes or saber.

She looked at Kritiya with a teacher’s sternness.

“I… I understand…” Kritiya stammered, shaken by the bloody scene.

As for me?

I was desperate to speak but couldn’t.

Because I saw the corpse on the ground slowly extend its limbs at an unnatural angle.

The old maid had noticed too.

She swung her saber, severing the mage’s arms, and sneered.

“I knew you were playing dead!”

Pfft!

Before her words settled, a black, sinister tentacle shot from the mage’s chest wound like lightning, piercing the old maid’s chest.

“Urgh—”

Blood gushed from the old maid’s mouth, but she wasn’t dead yet.

She swung her saber at the mage, aiming to take them down with her, but the tentacle’s eerie, vibrant patterns glowed with a bloody light.

The old maid, still fighting like a cornered beast, withered instantly, like a desiccated corpse.

Clang!

The saber fell to the ground.

The tentacle flicked, hurling the old maid’s body away.

It snapped in two like insect-riddled wood, not a drop of blood spilling.