"Yan… Yan?" A voice echoed softly against the brick walls of the Grand's chamber in Mort mansion. Shrin, the maid, moved cautiously, bending low as if searching for a lost cat.
"Yan, where are you? Grand Ersi is looking for you." She called again, her voice sharper this time. She swept the corners of the kitchen, the laundry area, the library… all the usual hiding places, but Yan was nowhere. Shrin paused, hands on her waist, catching her breath. "Where is that girl?"
She wiped the sweat from her brow and glanced toward the old willow tree across the pond. There—Yan lay sprawled on a branch, five meters above the ground, arms and legs dangling, eyes blankly tracing the leaves above.
Shrin advanced slowly, her exhaustion making each step heavy, her body refusing to straighten.
"Yan… I've told you… not to… wander…" Shrin called from below, voice trembling slightly with effort.
Yan heard her but did not flinch.
"You're so high up. Come down now. Grand Ersi is looking for you." Shrin called again.
At the mention of Grand Ersi, Yan's body reacted immediately. She leapt from the branch with effortless grace, her speed shocking Shrin into widening her eyes. Yan's gaze met Shrin's stunned expression, and for a fleeting moment, she regretted showing such reflexes.
Sometimes she forgets to hide her abilities when startled—and Grand Ersi's name had been enough to push her over the edge these past few weeks.
Yan forced an awkward smile at Shrin, who studied her with suspicion.
Shrin's eyes drifted to the branch Yan had just leapt from. "You know, you really should stop wandering. I've told you that Lord Azron's generals sometimes come here in secret," she warned.
Yan nodded and fell into step beside her.
As they walked toward Grand Ersi, Yan's gaze lingered on Shrin's back. Shrin had seen Yan perform stunts no ordinary young woman could, yet never confronted or reported her. Yan sometimes wondered if Shrin suspected more than she let on.
Shrin's parents had been servants of the Mort family, and she, by birth, was a servant too. Among all the maids of Grand Ersi's chamber, Shrin was distant, disengaged—and for that, Yan was quietly grateful. Somehow, Shrin's presence made her feel at ease within the Mort mansion.
….
Yan
It had been five months since I arrived in this strange place—so strange that, for a moment, I almost thought I'd been trapped inside one of Master Lin's novels. The kind she used to leave me, full of daring adventures and impossible worlds. But this was no game.
There was no magic here, just an ordinary land filled with people who seemed centuries behind the time I knew. Yet I was certain this past had never been written in my world's history. By "my world," I mean the reality I had come from.
After Master Lin's death, I remembered standing at the airport, carrying out her last wish: to experience living an ordinary life. A life without contracts. A life without killing. I was headed to an island, planning to hide from everything and everyone.
I had been an assassin. That had been my life since I was released from the training prison, where I had been held since I was five, along with a group of girls my age. I had never known a life without weapons, without watching my back at every moment.
And yet, here I was—perched on an old willow tree, the wind brushing my face, completely unguarded. A killer haunted by the families of all I had taken, and yet, for the first time, I could close my eyes in the open.
THE FIRST DAY
The memory was still sharp in my mind. I was pushing my luggage toward the airplane when everything around me shifted. The moment I stepped inside, I was no longer on a plane—I was in a forest.
Shock made me drop my bags. My hand went instinctively to the knife hidden at my waist, scanning for danger. Maybe it was a trick by one of my enemies. But before I could react, a blinding light slammed into my face. Pain throbbed in my skull, and I collapsed.
When I woke, I was in a wooden carriage, surrounded by three men in bloody armor. Their long hair was slick with blood, and every cut and gash spoke of battles I had never seen. These were not ordinary fighters. My survival instincts flared—I had to assess before acting.
I didn't know what world I was in, or who these men served. I couldn't challenge them, not yet. So I stayed still, pretending to be unconscious.
One of them was badly injured. Another pressed his hands against the wound, trying to stop the bleeding. The third's eyes swept across the injured man, oblivious to me. The movement of the carriage made the injured groan. Though he tried to stifle it, I could feel the agony. That wound needed stitching soon, or he'd bleed out.
"My Lord, I fear I'm not going to make it," the injured man gasped, clutching the arms of the man in blue armor.
"We're almost home, Dan. Hang in there," the man near me replied. Both wore red armor, while the one in blue seemed their commander. Wait—he called him "Lord"? And… where was I? My mind raced, trying not to draw attention. The blood on them was real. Was this a dream?
The man in blue held the injured tightly. "I order you not to die." His voice was deep, resonating like a drumbeat of danger. I dared not move. Though known as the Angel of Death, feared even by assassins, facing a warrior of his size and skill would not be easy.
I weighed escape options when a scream pierced the air: "Ambush!"
The man in red leapt from the carriage. Outside, swords clashed violently, but I remained still, feigning unconsciousness. Am I in real combat? What is happening?
An arrow suddenly streaked toward me. My hand caught it instinctively. But when I opened my eyes, the man in blue moved with lightning speed, raising his sword toward me. I lunged to defend myself—but he pinned me to the floor, the blade pressing against my neck.
Blood from his hair dripped onto my forehead as he knelt above me. The stench of death clung to him, overwhelming my senses. For the first time, I felt weak. I tried to loosen his grip, but I couldn't.
Our eyes locked. His green eyes were like sharpened glass—cold, unblinking, and merciless. There was no rage in them, only certainty: the kind born from a man who had ended lives without hesitation and would do so again without regret. His stare was a warning, silent but unmistakable—one wrong move, and it would be my last.
I didn't flinch. I had faced threats before, but none had ever come this close. Pain throbbed in my head, yet I managed to point the arrow in my hand toward his neck. If he meant to kill me, I would take him with me.
Outside, the battle raged on, but he still pinned me to the floor.
"My Lord, we're surrounded!" a voice shouted.
He lowered his head to mine. "Don't let him die—or I'll kill you." With that, he lifted his blade and left the carriage.
I peeked through the window and froze. Hundreds of men clashed with swords, spears, and arrows. My stomach lurched. Had I really traveled back in time?
I assessed my chances of escape. My head throbbed, and I knew I couldn't make it far. The chaos outside would catch me before I could run.
My gaze fell on the injured man, half-conscious, tall and broad, clad in ancient red armor marred by blood and battle. His long, curly hair hung damp and messy around his face. He breathed slowly, each inhale heavy, but his eyes burned with courage and determination. Even wounded, he looked like a soldier who would never surrender.
He seemed important. Perhaps if I treated him, the man in blue armor wouldn't kill me. I searched the carriage and found one of my four luggage pieces in the corner. Luckily, it contained my medical supplies—standard for any assassin who expected injury.
The injured man's eyes followed my every move. "What… are those?" he asked with what little strength remained. I didn't answer. Not a word.
I removed his breastplate to examine the wound. Blood gushed, but fortunately no organs were damaged. He was weak from blood loss, but otherwise intact. I drew a small vial of lidocaine from my supplies and carefully applied it to the wound before stitching. The numbness dulled the pain, allowing me to work efficiently. He watched every motion, curiosity in his eyes. "I don't feel anything," he murmured as I finished.
Outside, the sounds of combat faded as I secured the bandages. The man in blue armor returned, his sword slick with blood, sweat dripping from his face. I kept my dagger at my waist, ready if he attacked.
He approached the injured man, diverting his eyes from me. "How are you feeling?"
"I'm better, Lord Azron. This woman has some skills," the wounded man replied.
That day, I survived my first hours in this place. Lord Azron assigned me to care for his wounded warriors on the journey to Mort City. I didn't speak a single word. They believed I was mute—and I let them think so.