Another week passed, and the hellish routine began anew. Life in this new world had turned into a relentless nightmare—a daily grind of sweat and suffering instead of the charming tea parties, pretty dresses, and dashing men I once imagined. Instead, I'm surrounded by the overpowering stench of sweat and too many muscles. Urgh! Why do these men find it thrilling to torture themselves with exercise? Oh gods—Buddha, Allah, or anyone who might be listening—please, just let me go back to my world! I swear, I’ll never wish for an isekai adventure again! I’ll even quit binge-watching anime!
Just as I was halfway through my desperate prayer, my coach appeared beside me, his face set in grim determination.
“What are you doing? Run.”
Oh, fantastic! I hope you trip on your own sweat, Orc Monster Jerk! I thought bitterly, but I laced up and started running anyway.
“I told you to take your shirt off. It’ll help you breathe better,” he barked, effortlessly keeping pace with me while I struggled.
Yeah, right. And what's next? you’ll want me to dance a jig in a tutu!
“No, thanks,” I replied coolly, sprinting faster in the faint hope of escaping both him and his terrible advice.
I really want to rip this chest binder off! I feel like I’m suffocating. Oh, my poor twins, I’m so sorry for hiding you, but we’ve got to survive this hell!
After what felt like an eternity of running—36 laps to be exact—my legs were quaking like jelly. Maybe coming back from that cold wasn’t my best idea. Forget about returning home; at this rate, I’ll be a permanent resident of the Crippled and Sweaty Club!
After a quick break, we moved on to sword drills. I lifted the sword, which felt like I was hoisting my 16-inch laptop after a week of fasting. My hands were trembling and covered in scratches and calluses. My once soft, beautiful hands were gone.
“I can’t do this anymore,” I groaned, dramatically dropping the sword.
‘That’s it. I’m done. If I die, at least I won’t have to endure this medieval boot camp anymore!’
“All of you are weak,” the coach barked, his voice cutting through the air like a lash. “At this rate, you’ll be dead before you even step foot on the battlefield.” His words landed like a slap, striking my already bruised pride.
“Why… why are we even going to war in the first place?” I shouted back, my frustration finally boiling over. “We’re historians, not warriors!”
“It’s His Highness’s command. Or are you suggesting you’d disobey the prince himself?” His gaze drilled into me, daring me to defy him.
His Highness this, His Highness that. I bet he’s lounging on some throne, sipping wine while we do all the heavy lifting!
“From what I recall, His Highness ordered us to be trained for self-defense, not to be turned into warriors. And if we’re going to be forced to fight, shouldn’t we have the right to choose our weapons? You’re built like a tank, but we’re… well," I can't help but to glance at Leon and the others for a bit, "not tanks. If you’re using a sword, why shouldn’t we get to choose weapons suited to our own abilities? We’re historians, after all.” I added
The coach sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. “Oh, so you’re going to study your enemy before striking? Use that big brain of yours to ‘outwit’ a sword? You’re a fool if you think brains are all that matter in war.”
This jerk!
“If brains aren’t needed, then why waste time drilling strategy?” I shot back, the words tumbling out in a mix of anger and nerves. I felt like a tiny bird squawking at a hawk, but my frustration kept me going.
“T-Tuk, maybe you should just stop…” Leon whispered, but I ignored him, too far gone to back down.
“No, they need to understand their training is all wrong for us!”
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“What did you say to me?!” he roared, eyes blazing.
“Then what do you suggest?” The coach’s retort was cut off by a sudden voice at my back, I turned to see the prince strolling toward us with a presence so powerful, it was like a wave crashing over the field. He was immaculate, not a bead of sweat on him, his expression calm yet commanding. The coaches immediately kneeled, leaving me standing—awkwardly defiant.
“I apologize for this unseemly interruption, Your Highness,” the coach stammered, reaching over to push my head into a bow.
“It’s fine. I’d actually like to hear our historian’s thoughts,” the prince said with an amused smile, his voice as smooth as silk.
I almost choked as the coach smacked me on the back of my head, nearly knocking me to the ground in a rough “encouragement” to answer. I glared up at him, knowing he wouldn’t dare retaliate in front of the prince. I was so sick of these power games! But seeing the prince and the blood-splattered generals behind him, I realized I was lucky they hadn’t decided to kill me on the spot. Sure, I’d shouted “let me die” before, but I’d rather it be painless, not served up as entertainment for these muscle-bound sadists!
I took a breath, fighting to keep my voice steady. “Different weapons suit different abilities, Your Highness. For instance, a polearm’s reach can help fend off cavalry, while smaller weapons like sais or kunai work better for those of us with lighter builds. These swords are too heavy for us; we’d be better trained with weapons we can actually use effectively.”
“Interesting.” The prince looked thoughtful, the amused smile lingering as he watched my little rebellion unfold.
Here’s hoping this doesn’t end with me in a dungeon instead!
“It seems we have a very… innovative little lark in our midst,” he said, raising an eyebrow at the generals. “What do you think?”
The generals exchanged uneasy glances, nodding reluctantly. They probably wanted to finish the discussion and didn't even think of anything since the prince’s word was law.
One of the coaches mustered the nerve to object. “Your Highness, are you truly allowing them to wield uncommon weapons?”
The prince didn't speak but his gaze darkened, his eyes glinting like steel. “Pierce, escort our historian to the Weaponsmith.”
The air shifted, and a shadowy figure materialized beside the prince with ninja-like stealth. He barely seemed real, more a specter than a man, and he made my blood run cold. How many of these shadowy warriors did the prince keep around? Was there some secret audition for assassins?
“I look forward to the results,” the prince said with a faint, knowing smile, before turning and striding away.
I let out a shaky breath, but my relief was short-lived. The coaches’ eyes bore into me like daggers, their resentment practically pulsing in the air around us.
Why did he even show up if he was just going to make everything worse?
---
Our training regimen got a serious overhaul after my suggestions. And just when I thought I’d earned a break, my workload somehow tripled. Between interviewing historians about weapon preferences and consulting with the weaponsmith, my schedule was packed tighter than a can of sardines.
“You have an impressive understanding of weaponry. This design style never occurred to me before,” the weaponsmith said with a nod toward a well-built man standing like a statue by the door. “No wonder His Highness assigned you one of his special warriors.”
‘Impressive? Nah, I’m just a master at copying RPG designs…’ I thought, trying to keep a straight face.
“Special warrior?” I asked, both intrigued and slightly alarmed.
“These warriors are branded with the mark of the great ape—meaning they’re personally commanded by the prince. Rumor has it they’re gifted with extraordinary senses—smell, sight, hearing—all the traits of perfect trackers and assassins.”
Anxiety hit me like a hammer. Extraordinary senses? What if he could smell my fear? Or worse, my blood? Oh god, did I cross paths with one of these guys during that time of the month?
‘Why is everything in this place a nightmare?’ I thought, clenching my fists.
My days became a torturous routine: intense morning training, deciphering ancient scrolls, and endless discussions about weapons. At one point, I was even ordered to evaluate warriors under the general’s command—a task I’d sooner call a new circle of hell.
And that’s when I arrived at what could only be described as the “death ground.”
“Is this what warriors do during training?” I whispered, eyes wide, as I watched the madness around me. Warriors sparred in bloody, brutal matches, others did push-ups with massive stones on their backs, while some poor souls dangled from ropes, dodging arrows and spears.
“That’s right,” the general said, smiling with sick pride. “Welcome to the Northern Warrior Ground.”
‘So, the coach wasn’t exaggerating when he said we were doing the basics?!’
“To those who want to change their weapons, speak to our historian,” the general announced, voice booming. “His Highness has given him full authority to assist you in adapting your skills. So, if you need anything, go to this little guy. Understood, warriors?”
“YES, SIR!” The ground literally shook from their voices.
“What… what?!” I stammered, as the general patted my shoulder hard enough to bruise. ‘Hold up, I’m supposed to advise all of them?’
Towering warriors closed in on me, looking like a pack of hungry lions eyeing a very tiny snack. Or maybe a mouse in a lion’s den full of angry, sweaty lions.
“Well, uh… where should we start?” I managed, plastering on a shaky smile.
And that’s how I opened the next chapter of my personal hell. Sure, the warriors appreciated my input—at least that’s what I told myself to stay sane. But agreeing to help was like opening Pandora’s box; my tasks spiraled out of control. Weeks blurred together as I barely found time to breathe, let alone rest. By the third week, exhaustion had me staggering like a zombie. Eventually, I just gave up on dragging myself to my room and collapsed right there on the historian’s office floor. Oddly enough, the cool stone and flickering candlelight felt… comforting.
‘Talk about an unfortunate series of unluckiness—I said the prince should be the one to cry a river, but it looks like he played an Uno reverse card on me instead.’
But, on the plus side, my training suggestions were working. As I got chummier with the northern warriors, I cleverly gathered intel on the prince’s battalion. They weren’t the brightest, so prying out details about the prince’s secret warriors was like taking candy from a baby. All it took was posing as their number-one fan, buttering them up with praise about their battle skills. Soon enough, they were happily spilling secrets.
From what I learned, these secret warriors were terrifyingly real. Their numbers were unclear, but their tracking abilities were straight out of legend. One guy boasted that a single operative could smell a target a mile away. Another claimed he saw one scaling a tree like a monkey on a caffeine high. I even met one of these shadowy warriors—tall, silent, and mysterious. I couldn’t figure out his exact ability, but his sheer presence made me nervous. And the fact that one of these guys had been assigned to watch me was the cherry on top of my anxiety sundae.
‘Perfect. Another headache to keep me up at night. Does he think I’m a threat? Does he know I’m not who I say I am?’
In an effort to lay low, I started hiding out in the historian’s office, pretending to pour over scrolls. But secretly, I was analyzing every detail, looking for any clue that might crack the scroll’s secrets.
“There’s something I’m missing,” I muttered, glaring at the text as if I could intimidate it into giving up its mysteries. “There has to be a way to figure out the order of these scrolls. What am I overlooking?”
I circled the room, inspecting the edges and cuts of each scroll, desperately hoping to spot something, anything. After what felt like hours, I finally noticed it—a subtle pattern in the strip cuts along the edges.
My pulse quickened as the pieces began to click together. “I’m actually getting scared of myself now…” I whispered, a mix of excitement and dread swirling in my chest.
The key to unlocking the scrolls’ sequence was in their strip cuts! This discovery was both exhilarating and terrifying, confirming that the puzzle I was unraveling was something I could crack.