In the year 1803, death smelled like iron and damp earth.
She was only twenty-five when she died.
Yet by then, she had already lived the life of ten men.
She was born into a crumbling noble household—no sons, only a daughter. In those days, that was a curse dressed up as fate. When the empire demanded soldiers, her father did not hesitate. He cut her hair with shaking hands, bound her chest tight enough to steal her breath, and told her one cruel truth:
"If they know you're a girl, you'll die before you ever reach the battlefield."
So she became a boy.
She learned to walk like one, speak like one, fight like one. Tears were beaten out of her early; mercy followed soon after. At fifteen, she entered the army under a borrowed name. At seventeen, she was already feared. At twenty, she was promoted to knight—a title she earned with blood, bone, and brilliance.
She was unstoppable.
On horseback, she moved like a storm. With a sword, she was precise, brutal, and terrifyingly calm. Enemy lines broke when she charged. Allies trusted her back without question. Generals praised her as a prodigy, a weapon shaped by war itself.
They called her the Empire's Blade.
No one knew the truth.
No one knew she wrapped her wounds alone, bit down on cloth during injuries she wasn't allowed to show weakness for, or stared at her reflection each night—short hair, scarred hands, a body that never got to choose its own fate.
She never loved. Never rested. Never lived.
And when she finally died—betrayed in a battle that should have been a victory—her last thought was not regret.
It was exhaustion.
If there is another life, she thought as blood soaked the ground,
I will live it on my own terms.
Then—darkness.
Bright lights replaced the battlefield.
Sirens replaced screams.
And somewhere in modern Seoul, Han Seo-jun stepped out of a black luxury car like the world owed him an apology.
He was thirty-one, devastatingly handsome, and disgustingly rich.
Heir to a chaebol empire that touched film, real estate, finance, and entertainment—Seo-jun didn't just have money. He threw it. Problems disappeared when he waved his card. People smiled wider when they saw his name. Directors bowed. Reporters waited for crumbs of his attention.
To the public, he was a famous actor—talented, sharp, untouchable.
To those who knew him personally, he was cold.
Heartless.
Arrogant.
A man who treated people like transactions.
What no one knew was why.
When Seo-jun was eighteen, his mother died in a hit-and-run accident.
The driver was found. Evidence was clear. Witnesses existed.
But the man was poor.
And the world decided her life wasn't worth justice.
Money buried the truth. Connections erased guilt. The case vanished like it never existed. Seo-jun learned something that year—something that hollowed him out permanently:
Feelings don't protect you.
Money does.
So he became ruthless.
He trusted no one. Loved no one. If people wanted him, they had to be useful. If they failed, he discarded them without hesitation. Sympathy was weakness. Attachment was stupidity.
He lived fast, reckless—cars, alcohol, late nights—like daring the universe to hit him again.
And one rainy night, it did.
The impact was sudden.
Metal screamed.
A body flew.
Seo-jun slammed the brakes too late, heart pounding as he stepped out into the rain—only to see a woman lying unconscious on the road, blood trickling from her temple.
For the first time in years, fear clawed at his chest.
She woke up in a hospital bed, white sheets too soft, the air too clean.
Her instincts screamed danger.
She tried to sit up—pain exploded through her skull. Strange machines beeped angrily. The clothes felt wrong. Her body felt… lighter. Different.
Her hand rose instinctively to where her sword should be.
Nothing.
No armor. No scars she remembered earning.
Her reflection in the glass stopped her cold.
A woman.
A modern woman.
Short hair. Pale skin. Sharp eyes that didn't belong in this century.
She stared at herself, breathing slowly, calculating.
I survived death, she realized.
And woke up in a world that makes no sense.
Outside the room, Han Seo-jun stood frozen, staring through the glass.
This was supposed to be simple.
Pay the hospital. Compensate the victim. Move on.
So why—when their eyes met through the glass—did his chest tighten like something ancient had just awakened?
And why did the woman look at him…
Like a warrior sizing up an enemy?
The woman in the mirror stared back at her.
Same face.
Same eyes.
But everything else was wrong.
Her fingers traced her arms slowly, methodically, like she was inspecting stolen goods. Smooth skin. No old blade scars. No burn marks. No calluses earned from years of gripping steel. Her shoulders were narrower, her waist softer, her legs lacking the coiled strength that once let her stay mounted for days without rest.
This body had never known war.
Her jaw tightened.
"Weak," she muttered instinctively.
Not an insult. An assessment.
She turned sideways, lifting the thin hospital gown. The muscles were there—but untrained, unused. A civilian body. A life untouched by blood and command.
Someone had taken her weapon and dropped her into peace like it was a favor.
She hated it.
The beeping machines irritated her nerves. The smell—clean, sharp, unfamiliar—made her uneasy. Battlefields smelled honest. Death, sweat, earth. This place smelled like lies pretending to be safety.
Footsteps approached.
She turned just as the door opened.
A man in white stepped in, smiling too much, clipboard clutched like a shield.
"Miss, you shouldn't be out of bed yet—"
Her eyes flicked to the metal tray.
Scalpel.
Small. Sharp. Balanced.
Her hand moved before thought caught up.
In one smooth motion, she grabbed it, pivoted, and had the blade at the doctor's throat before he could finish his sentence.
The machines went wild.
"W–wait—!" the doctor froze, eyes bulging. "Miss, please calm down—"
She pressed the scalpel closer, just enough to nick skin.
"Answer," she said flatly. "Now."
Her voice wasn't loud. Didn't need to be. Command lived in her bones.
"Where am I?"
"H-hospital—Seoul General—"
"What year?"
The doctor blinked. "…Two thousand twenty-six."
Her grip tightened.
"Who am I."
"Y-you're—your name is listed as—"
She leaned in, eyes cold enough to stop breath.
"I asked who I am. Not what's written."
The doctor swallowed hard. "A civilian. You were brought in after a traffic accident. You've been unconscious for three days."
Traffic.
Accident.
She absorbed the words like foreign weapons—unfamiliar, but clearly lethal.
"Who hit me?"
The doctor hesitated.
Bad move.
She glanced toward the glass doors.
And that's when she noticed him.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Perfect posture that screamed money and control. A face sculpted like it was designed to ruin lives casually. He stood there, hands in his pockets, eyes fixed on her with an intensity that didn't match his calm expression.
He didn't look guilty.
He looked… unsettled.
She followed her instinct.
"That man," she said, blade never wavering. "Who is he."
The doctor's voice shook. "H-Han Seo-jun. He… he's the one who brought you in. He called the ambulance himself."
So.
The enemy stood close.
Interesting.
Seo-jun watched through the glass, heart pounding in a way he didn't recognize.
This wasn't shock.
This wasn't fear.
This was the same feeling he got on set right before a dangerous stunt—when instinct screamed that something was about to go very, very wrong.
She wasn't crying.
She wasn't confused.
She was assessing.
Like a predator waking up in unfamiliar territory.
When her gaze locked onto his, it felt like being struck by something ancient and sharp. Not hatred. Not blame.
Judgment.
She looked away first.
Back to the doctor.
"Explain this world," she ordered. "Why I have no armor. Why no weapon. Why men dress like peacocks and buildings touch the sky."
The doctor nearly fainted.
"N-nurse!" he yelled hoarsely. "Security—!"
She clicked her tongue.
Annoyed.
"You summon reinforcements without permission?" she said, clearly unimpressed. "Bad strategy."
She lowered the scalpel—then smoothly flipped it and placed the flat edge against his chest.
"Relax," she said. "If I wanted you dead, you'd already be cooling."
She stepped back, finally releasing him.
The doctor stumbled away like a man who had just survived an execution.
Outside, Seo-jun exhaled slowly.
So this was the woman he'd hit with his car.
Not screaming. Not demanding money.
Threatening medical professionals with surgical precision.
…Fantastic.
As staff rushed in, she allowed herself to be guided back to the bed, eyes sharp, mind racing.
New body.
New era.
New rules.
But war had taught her one thing well—
Survive first.
Dominate later.
And as Han Seo-jun stood there, watching her with an expression he hadn't worn since he was eighteen and helpless—
She decided something else too.
That man would either become
her greatest liability
or her most useful shield.
Either way?
He was not leaving her battlefield anytime soon.