----------------------------------------

Dear Diary,

It's been a hot minute since my last scribble, marking my two-month anniversary of twirling my metaphorical mustache as the resident villainess.

I must say, I'm nailing it.

I can't help but wonder about the impending novel storyline. Will I be a classic villain, or are we opting for a plot twist where I start a bakery and live happily ever after?

Life update: I've woven my web of connections with Daniel and Zach. Still waiting for a tea session with my stepmother – she's as elusive as a cat in a laser pointer factory, and my father is MIA, probably running a marathon of avoiding family drama. But hey, I've got all the time in the fictional world.

Eli, the recluse extraordinaire (yours truly), finally decided to rejoin the social circus.

People now think she's an open book.

Yet, my eyes still have them sprinting for the nearest therapy couch.

Guess what? I've cracked the code on scaring the bejesus out of people with my eyes. It turns out, with a bit of mental gymnastics, I can tone down the fear factor. Call it the "Eyes that see but don't give you nightmares" technique. Still a work in progress, but it's a start. Slip-ups occur, but hey, Rome wasn't terrorized in a day.

Let's talk skills. [Fearlessness]. I've discovered it's more than just the ability to brave a haunted house without breaking a sweat.

It's a full-on fear vanishing act.

I'm evolving into this detached, aloof creature. Consequences are like yesterday's news – mildly interesting but not my problem.

I fear (or not) I might end up like Eli from the novel, and [Fearlessness] refuses to play hide and seek. So, here I am, on a quest for balance – the middle ground where I can still be human without feeling any fear.

Added priority: pursuit of sanity (and maybe a sprinkle of fear).

Next up, the expedition – straight from the rumor mill, courtesy of Marie.

Tomorrow marks the day I join the adventure. It's official. Time to get acquainted with the dangers of this cruel world.

I've been living in my little sheltered bubble for too long – time for a reality check.

In other news, my magical endeavors are soaring to new heights. I've cracked the code on drawing mana directly from the core, and guess what? I'm ahead of schedule, beating the training manual's timeline by solid five months. Maybe it's my past-life mana amnesia working in my favor – I'm practically a mana prodigy.

Speaking of mana, it's like this tingling sensation. I get goosebumps like I'm listening to a killer playlist every time I channel it. I've become a mana junkie, addicted to the thrill of weaving mana. Now, I can even multitask – painting and mana channeling, the dynamic duo of my current pastime.

Update on my magical shenanigans: the rate of my spellcasting is on the up and up. As of now, my spell repertoire is as extensive as my patience during a family reunion – a grand total of two spells. Not that I'm complaining; it's quality over quantity, right?

Spell numero uno – [Twilight Veil]. It's like a lightless area that plays peekaboo with everyone's vision in a vast area. Paired with my [Visionary Mastery] skill, I've basically turned it into a useful spell without the usual downside.

Numero dos – [Fatigue Hex]. From minor yawns to emergency bathroom breaks, I've got a range that spans from "mild inconvenience" to "I might need to call an exorcist." Test subjects include the ever-charming Richard, a gossiping maid, and, surprise, Richard again.

Results? Let's just say, I've found my magical calling card.

Now, let's talk offense. [Lethal Precision] is my go-to, but swords? Not my vibe. Zach's commissioned sword will be gathering dust.

So, before the expedition, I'm in the market for a weapon upgrade.

Fingers crossed that Marie's intel isn't just a product of her vivid imagination.

Ah yes, Marie, my trusty rumour monger, has caught wind of my fascination with exotic things, particularly the sharp variety.

I've spun it to her as a refined noblewoman's hobby of collecting, making it sound as sophisticated as sipping tea at high noon. Little does she know, behind the facade of a cultured lady lies a mind actively suppressing the urge to turn everything into a pincushion.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

She was equally enamored when I mentioned my interest in painting – clearly, Marie has a soft spot for what she deems "proper noble lady hobbies."

If only she knew that my collection of sharp objects wasn't destined for some high-society showcase but for the sole purpose of curbing my slightly unhinged inclinations.

The irony is almost poetic.

Ignorance truly is a blissful state.

Finally, tier one blessing, the system screen said.

Possibility of more tiers, it hinted.

You'd think I'd be terrified of gradually transforming into something less human, but my mind has this incredible talent for not giving a single fuck.

Yet, here I am, scribbling down the fears that I'm supposedly incapable of feeling.

It's like trying to describe a color I've never seen – an exercise in futility. I'm scared, dear diary. Deep down, there's a part of me that's truly terrified of the shadow I might become.

Consider these ramblings my desperate attempt to throw a lifeline to my humanity, a thread woven with ink and paper.

Maybe, just maybe, these words will be my tether, a connection to my more human self in the vast expanse of future uncertainty.

Fearfully (or something like that),

Your Eli.

----------------------------------------

****

I snapped the diary shut, feeling like I'd just spilled the tea to my literary confidante. Evening had draped its cozy shadows, and I marveled at my linguistic rebellion – English in a world that would probably think Shakespeare is a type of medieval sausage.

The closing lines rattled in my head like a neurotic tambourine, a constant reminder of fear that I couldn't quite catch. So, with a nose pinch that could rival a disgruntled toddler, I accepted the fact that some secrets were destined to play hide-and-seek within the ink-stained sanctuary of my diary.

My eyes landed onto the covert ensemble laying on my bed.

A green tunic with more secret pockets than a magician's hat, leather breeches with a pocket revolution, a cloak that could smuggle a small village, a belt boasting more pouches than a kangaroo's marsupial daycare, a bandana with a pocket so minuscule even my sanity doubted its existence, and boots that could store enough secrets to rival a politician's memoir.

Marie, the sorceress of secrecy, had outdone herself under the pretext of providing “exotic clothes with pockets.” It was an investment in the art of concealment, a promise to future endeavors yet unknown.

Ah, the price of fashion in a world that doesn't appreciate the value of a good pocketed ensemble – one shiny gold coin. A hefty investment, but hey, a girl's gotta have her secret storage spaces.

I waltzed over to my room's drawer, home to Zach's thoughtful gift, the Resonant Barrier. With all the grace of a seasoned cat burglar, I slung it around my neck.

Out with the old clothes, in with the clandestine couture – a quick change that would put Superman's phone booth routine to shame.

Blue locks tucked into a bun, hood artfully draped over – voilà, a refined young lady transformed into a seasoned thief. Mirror check confirmed it – I looked more sneaky than a raccoon eyeing your picnic.

Now, for the checklist before the grand masquerade:

Outfit? Check.

Spells? Check.

Weapon? Zach's commissioned sword hanging by my side – check.

Skills? …Mostly check.

In my skill repertoire, there was this one act called [Adaptation] that I had tiptoed around, hesitant to push to its limits.

Its original description was a cryptic "Changing bodily functions on a whim," which sounded like a recipe for a sci-fi horror movie. So, naturally, I had held off on becoming my own guinea pig.

Unlike the other skills that practically tapped me on the shoulder when they were ready for action, passives like [Adaptation] played hard to get.

After some trial and error, I had finally cracked the code. Let me tell you, the potential for body horror was there, lurking like a monster under the bed.

In my past life, as I battled cancer from the confines of a bed, I took it upon myself to become the Stephen Hawking of human biology. Everything delicately balanced, a complex symphony where a single off-key note could spell disaster. Yet, despite my past endeavors, I treated [Adaptation] like a contagious disease, avoiding it like the plague.

I mean, who wanted to mess with a finely tuned biological masterpiece? Not me, even if I did have a nifty skill urging me to play mad scientist.

But, being the fearless young lady that I was (….), I decided to throw caution to the wind and embrace the allure of [Adaptation]. Suicide button? Nah, I needed every leverage in my repertoire.

Starting with the finesse of a contortionist at a circus, I began with the basics – finger-bending. It was like a chiropractic session, transforming my joints into a whole new realm of flexibility. Soon, I moved on to other joints, giving them a twist (literally) that would make yoga instructors jealous.

Soon, I graduated to grander moves, the magnum opus being the 180-degrees neck snap – my party trick for turning heads, quite literally.

I embraced my role as the possessed character in a horror movie.

Sure, I had dreams of elongated limbs and fingers, but alas, it seemed I was missing the instruction manual for those advanced moves. Some areas of [Adaptation] remained uncharted, like they should.

For now.

Oh, and the hunger! Using this skill turned me into a walking snack fiend. Dried meat became my trusty sidekick, ready to save the day whenever munchies struck.

So, as I assessed my checklist:

Skills? Check.

Unconventional party tricks? Double check.

I wrapped up my preparations as the sun took its final bow. With night poised to reclaim its throne, it was my cue to make an exit.

I had everything planned for my departure. Ordinarily, my absence would slide under the radar, but skipping the dinner table might raise a few well-groomed eyebrows.

To preempt any gossip, I spun a tale for Marie. I informed her that I was leaving the county with one of Zach's knights, embarking on a quest for exotic collectibles.

She seemed unsure, but the strategic play of dropping Zach's name and hinting at my training left no room for questions. Marie offered to tag along, but I swatted that idea away, citing the need to create a smokescreen for my disapproving father.

Seeing her hesitate, I sweetened the deal. I granted her a three-day grace period. If I hadn't waltzed back by then, she had the green light to report me missing.

It seemed the promise of juicy capital scandals was the key to unlocking her cooperation. I figured I could endure a bit of scandalous gossip as a reward, and if I played my cards right, I might even enjoy it.

I wove a similar tale for Daniel, his hush-money reward amounting to a princely sum of fifteen candies. A small price to pay for a sealed lip. Sweet bribery at its finest.

Percival, on the other hand, needed a more delicate touch. I looped in Marie, enlisting her to inform him that I wasn't in the best of health, thus skipping our regular training sessions.

Trusting Marie for this delicate task was a calculated gamble. Sure, she might be a walking rumor mill with ears in every nook and cranny, but only to me did she unveil her treasure trove of discretion.

Night would soon drape its curtain over the land.

I was ready.