The next morning, I woke up in the worst possible state. Again. I brought this upon myself in the evening to have a few more hours for myself.

“Good morning, Miss Charlie,” my watch chirped, entirely too smug about my suffering.

I groaned, shoving my face deeper into my pillow. “Not yeeet...” I whined, voice muffled and pathetic. But no matter how much I protested, my body, traitorous as ever, started dragging itself out of bed.

I was miserable.

I hated being awake.

I hated I had to function.

“You say that every morning,” Jerry reminded me, utterly devoid of sympathy.

“Because it’s true!” I snapped, rubbing the bleariness from my eyes. “And for the record, I recall telling you my social battery is low. No talking.”

“You said you didn’t want to talk to people,” Jerry countered.

“You also count,” I grumbled, trudging toward the shower like a condemned prisoner marching to the gallows. The pod had auto-sanitation, sure, but there was something irreplaceable about hot water. The way it scalded my skin awake, steaming away the last remnants of exhaustion—it was less about hygiene and more about survival at this point.

Twenty glorious minutes later, I emerged, damp and refreshed, but still very much naked. Not that it mattered. I was just going straight back into the capsule, anyway.

“Before you go,” Jerry’s voice chimed in again, coming from... somewhere. “I, um… thank you. For what you said earlier.”

I paused, blinking. “What did I say?” My brain was still booting up, and retrieving yesterday’s data was not in its priority queue. I sat down at the capsule, leaving the lid open while I tried to piece it together.

Oh. He counts!

I let that sink in for a moment before a small smile tugged at my lips. “Well, yeah. You do.”

Jerry didn’t respond right away, but something about the silence felt… pleased.

I chuckled. “Bye, Jerry.” And with that, I climbed into the capsule, the world around me dissolving into the familiar hum of Rimelion.

I slipped through the halls, careful to keep my footsteps light against the stone floor. The last thing I needed was someone spotting me and thinking I was available for conversation. Or worse—paperwork.

The corridors were quieter at this hour, the usual clatter of armored boots and hurried messengers reduced to an occasional echo in the distance. I hugged the walls, ducking past open doorways, moving with the grace of someone who definitely wasn’t sneaking out of her own fortress.

Almost made it.

Then, right as I turned a corner, I nearly collided with someone. My breath caught, but I pivoted at the last second, plastering myself against the nearest pillar as if I belonged there. A soldier strolled past, eyes focused on whatever report he was holding. He didn’t see me.

Perfect.

I exhaled slowly, giving it a few beats before moving again. The entrance was just ahead, and—most importantly—there were no bureaucrats in sight. No one to drag me back inside with urgent matters that absolutely couldn’t wait.

When I finally reached the entrance, undetected and free, I grinned so wide I could barely contain it. A flawless escape.

And then—

“My Lady!”

Two guards snapped to attention, their backs straight as spears, their voices perfectly synchronized.

My grin froze. Then twisted into something more pained.

“At ease…” I muttered, giving them a half-hearted wave as I hurried past, my not-so-stealthy exit thoroughly ruined.

I was nearly clear of the fort when—

“Lady!”

Alma’s voice rang out like my whip‘s crack, and I turned around with the slow, deliberate movement of someone preparing for impact.

There she was, standing in the training yard—or whatever they called it here—looking positively thrilled. Behind her stood seven men and three women, all lined up in sharp formation.

“I formed your personal guard!” she announced, practically vibrating with excitement.

Smile. Come on, me. Just... smile.

“Alma! That’s wonderful!” I said, my voice a little too enthusiastic, a little too forced. But hey, I was trying.

Alma practically skipped, her excitement rolling off her in waves. She bowed deeply before spinning on her heel and motioning grandly toward the assembled soldiers. “The best!” she declared, chest puffed with pride.

And I had to admit, they looked the part. Their armor gleamed in the morning light, a striking silvery-green that somehow was both elegant and undeniably intimidating. The craftsmanship was leagues beyond the standard imperial gear, each plate shaped for both mobility and defense.

But the actual star of the show?

My snowflake crest, engraved across the upper half of their backs in bold, icy silver.

Ah, yes. Nothing inspires fear and respect like a bunch of battle-hardened warriors rocking an aggressively decorative snowflake.

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

I folded my arms, nodding as if I had designed the whole thing instead of just existing as the inspiration. “That’s wonderful, Alma,” I said, keeping my tone measured, like I wasn’t totally surprised by how actually competent she was. “I will personally appoint you and the guard in ceremony this evening.”

Alma beamed, practically glowing. I could almost hear the pride swelling in her chest.

She was about to say something when I quickly added, “Now, I have to… inspect some things.”

I waved my hand vaguely toward everything and nothing, because frankly, I had no idea what I was inspecting. But it sounded important, and more importantly—it gave me an out.

Alma, ever eager to fulfill her role, straightened immediately. “Do you need an escort?”

Oh, she was really committed to this.

“No need, thank you. Keep up the good work. Bye.” I turned on my heel, making my escape so abrupt it was probably rude. But hey, I was a noble now.

A little eccentricity is expected.

Somehow, the players seemed more alive than the NPCs. The area in front of the fort was a chaotic mess, absolutely teeming with activity. Makeshift stalls stretched out like some bizarre medieval flea market, but the real monstrosity?

The tents.

Massive, wooden-framed monstrosities, the kind of over-the-top beer hall setups that screamed Oktoberfest. At least the germans at the bar claimed their tents were as big as these. But it was as if their Oktoberfest had been raided by an ambitious, wood-obsessed carpenter with no concept of restraint.

Weird.

My clerks—who apparently worked for me now—were manning the stalls like diligent little merchants. Neat little price tags in crisp Imperial Central adorned every good, their pristine organization in direct contrast to the utter anarchy surrounding them.

System translation kicked in, and I was immediately bombarded with an overwhelming wave of numbers.

We were buying everything.

And I meant everything.

People bustled around, trying to sell literal garbage—useless wares, miscellaneous trinkets, blades so rusted they were probably biological hazards, and grass. Yes, grass.

Naïve players.

I smirked, ducking and weaving through the madness, but damn it was hard to push through. Someone actually had the audacity to try selling me a rock.

Just as I neared the edge of the market, a voice cut through the noise.

“… So much mud. Pelt ruined…”

Mud?

Wolves!

“HEY!” I spun on my heel, instincts kicking in before my brain could catch up, and within seconds, I was back inside, charging through the market like a woman possessed.

Tens of clerks sat behind their wooden counters, dutifully manning their stations, their storage crates neatly stacked behind them. This was a well-oiled machine, a—

Don’t get distracted!

“Why aren’t we buying mud wolf pelts?!” My fury crackled through the air as I stormed toward the table.

The poor clerk, a thin young man, froze, caught red-handed, rejecting a pelt that very clearly belonged to one of those stupid, mud-obsessed gray wolves.

He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, a guard near the entrance—who I hadn’t even noticed existed—snagged my sleeve with all the enthusiasm of a man who had lost the will to live.

“Excuse me, adventurer, but—”

“Mud wolves are the enemy!” I snapped, wrenching my arm free like I was about to declare war right then and there.

“Out.” The guard grabbed me again, this time with actual intent, and my brain finally caught up with my body. I blinked, just staring at him like he’d insulted my entire lineage.

Nearby players either giggled or muttered something about noobs. “We go out,” he repeated, as if I had the processing speed of a turnip.

“Yeah, yeah, I follow,” I murmured, allowing myself to be dragged along with all the enthusiasm of a cat being forced into a bath.

It would probably be a terrible idea to declare war on mud, right?

…Right?

But damn, was it tempting.

I had specifically told myself no drama or social interactions this morning. Yes, there was the afternoon plan: attend the teleport event, get Lisa her fire class, maybe enjoy a peaceful moment of… filing the paperwork.

Okay, maybe being noble isn’t that good. But being physically escorted like a troublemaking child was kinda fun. On the plus side, I now had six glorious, unscheduled hours of freedom. The universe had gifted me a miracle.

“How am I supposed to walk in mud?” I muttered, mostly to myself.

“Girl, you’re already doing it,” the guard chuckled as he kept dragging me through the crowd.

I glanced down.

Oh.

He was right.

My heels weren’t sinking into the mud. They weren’t sticking, slipping, or making that horrible schlop sound that usually accompanied ill-advised footwear choices.

I opened my mouth, then snapped it shut, my glare dropping hard onto my glorious heels.

“Flawless Grace!“ I hissed.

What even were these stats?! “No stopping, or I’ll use force,” the guard warned, clearly unimpressed with my revelation.

“Sorry,” I flashed him an overly sweet smile, deciding to lean into the absurdity. “You take your duty very seriously. Is the owner that bad, or are the rumors just exaggerated nonsense?”

People saw a guard escorting me and moved out of the way far faster than they would have otherwise, so I let him keep up the heroic rescue mission.

No sense in fighting convenience.

“I haven’t seen her yet,” he admitted with a casual shrug. “But… yesterday, she formed her personal guard by commandeering doan personnel.”

I gasped, pressing a hand to my chest with mock offense. “Hey! I can do that!”

His expression remained neutral.

“Okay, technically I should’ve asked first,” I conceded, rolling my eyes. “But it was just a few papers.”

He eyed me—really looked at me this time. His gaze swept over my outfit, lingering for a moment on the subtle embroidery, the rich textures that definitely screamed not a random commoner. Then his eyes locked onto my crown.

And stayed there.

His entire posture stiffened, like someone had just yanked the rug out from under his brain. His hand twitched ever so slightly, a subtle tremor betraying his sudden uncertainty.

“What do you mean by… you should’ve asked?” His voice wasn’t quite steady anymore.

I sighed, already regretting this interaction. With a casual flick of my wrist, I held up my ring and let a trickle of mana surge through it, making the insignia pulse with a soft glow.

Not a definitive proof, but good enough.

“I’m Princess Charlie. Don’t worry about it,” I said, keeping my tone light, almost bored. Like this wasn’t the fiftieth time someone had just realized they were manhandling a noble.

He froze on the spot.

Gulped.

Visibly recalibrated his entire existence.

I smiled, just enough to let him know I wasn’t actually planning to throw him in a dungeon. “Just escort me out of the market like an unruly kid, and everything’s fine. I’m not mad. You’re just doing your job.”

He swallowed hard, then gave the stiffest, most awkward nod I’d seen all week. “Yes, Lady,” he said, his voice suddenly a lot more careful. His grip on my arm instantly softened, shifting from firm authority to something closer to… fear?

The crowd thinned out the moment we crossed an invisible dividing line—one of those unspoken, social physics things that players and NPCs instinctively obeyed. No more shoulder-to-shoulder jostling, no more pushy merchants hawking overpriced junk. Just space. Blessed, breathable space.

The guard, sensing the shift, released his grip like he’d just realized he was holding a live grenade.

I exhaled, stretching my arms dramatically. “Thanks for the escort. And, uh… sorry for my outburst. Bye.”

No ceremony, no lingering awkwardness—I just turned on my heel and booked it before anyone else could decide they needed something from me.

I shouldn’t be awake so early. Especially later on diplomacy quests.

Jogging felt good. It shook off the morning grump, helped clear the lingering irritation of paperwork, and—wait.

I blinked.

Where the hell was I going?

Pulling up my map, I squinted at the blinking marker. Right, right—Ngoc Dungeon. Solo practice time. No people. No distractions. Just me and whatever poor creatures lived in there for a few hours.

A grin stretched across my face as I picked up the pace.

“Alright. Let’s go break some things.”