Prologue: The Cliché I Once Believed In
I still remember it. The cliché of being reincarnated into another world. The cliché of being overpowered. A clueless human who picks up a sword in an unfamiliar land, blessed with overwhelming talent. Cutting down enemies, meeting companions, basking in the cheers of the people, and finally becoming a hero of the war. I expected that kind of obvious, predictable story. So I, too, simply smiled like everyone else and lifted my sword with style.
There was the minor issue of my body being female, but the performance of this flesh was unmatched by anyone. The moment I gripped the sword, the world seemed to slow down. I figured that even if I couldn’t build a harem, I could at least live happily in this world. I would race across battlefields, defeat powerful foes, make my name known, and someday earn everyone’s recognition. Then I’d buy a quiet mansion, drink in peace, and grow old comfortably.
“Vodka.”
I rolled the empty glass with my fingertips and muttered.
“Bring more vodka.”
“Lady Irina… any more than this…”
Aah. It’s only the fourth bottle. The maid’s voice trembled with caution, and for a moment I laughed because that tremor sounded exactly like the dying breaths of soldiers on the battlefield.
“Hey. Don’t mumble in front of me.”
If you don’t want to die.
Warning: High alcohol blood concentration detected. Continued consumption may trigger PTSD episode.
The maid’s shoulders flinched. She looked at me with eyes full of fear, the kind you’d see in a recruit facing a superior officer for the first time. I clicked my tongue and waved my hand dismissively.
“Just bring it. I’ll drink alone.”
“…Understood.”
She bowed deeply and left the room. The heavy oak door closed with a dull thud. Silence settled over the dimly lit chamber. Only the faint crackle of the fireplace and the distant howl of the night wind remained.
I stared at the empty glass for a long time. The amber liquid that had filled it moments ago was already gone, evaporated like the lives of those who once followed me. Four bottles. No, five if you counted the one I finished before dinner. It still wasn’t enough to drown the screams echoing in my head.
Why did it turn out like this?
The thought rose unbidden, as it always did when the alcohol began to thin the walls I’d built around my memories. I had believed in the cliché. I had laughed brightly and swung my sword, convinced that this world would reward me the way stories promised. Overwhelming talent. Unstoppable momentum. The adoration of the masses. A peaceful epilogue.
But reality was different.
The empire that once cheered my name now treated me like a rabid dog that needed to be kept on a leash. The comrades who had fought beside me were either dead or had turned their backs the moment the war ended. The enemies I had cut down with a single stroke now haunted me every night, their faces clearer than the faces of the living.
Post-traumatic stress disorder. That was the term the imperial physician used. A fancy way of saying my mind had been shattered on the battlefield and never quite pieced back together. They gave me medals, a title, and a luxurious mansion on the outskirts of the capital. Then they told me to stay quiet and out of sight.
A war hero who had become an inconvenience.
I laughed bitterly and reached for the new bottle the maid had left on the table. The glass clinked as I poured. The sharp scent of vodka stung my nose. In this body, even the sense of smell was absurdly sharp. Sometimes I wished it wasn’t.
“To the cliché that betrayed me.”
I raised the glass in a mock toast toward the empty air and emptied it in one gulp. The liquid burned down my throat like liquid fire. For a brief moment, the screams in my head quieted. But I knew they would return soon. They always did.
The fire in the hearth popped. Shadows danced across the walls like ghosts of fallen soldiers. I closed my eyes and leaned back in the chair. The sword that had once felt like an extension of my arm now hung on the wall, untouched for months. Its blade was still flawless. Unlike its owner.
I wanted to live happily. I really did.
But happiness in this world had never been meant for someone like me. Not for a woman who had been thrown into a man’s war. Not for a hero whose very existence reminded the empire of all the blood it had spilled to win.
The bottle was already half empty again. I didn’t remember drinking that much. Time slipped away whenever the memories came. I stared at my reflection in the dark window. Silver hair that reached my waist. Eyes the color of frozen lakes. A face beautiful enough to make nobles stutter. This body was perfect in every way. A cheat character given by the world itself.
Yet the person inside it was broken beyond repair.
I set the glass down with a heavy clink. The room spun slightly. The maid would probably scold me again tomorrow. She always did, even though she was terrified of me. Everyone was terrified of me. The great Irina, the hero who single-handedly turned the tide of the ten-year war. The monster who laughed while drenched in enemy blood.
They didn’t know that the monster was more afraid of herself than they could ever be.
Another glass. Another memory. The face of a young soldier who had called my name as he died. The scent of burning villages. The roar of dragons falling from the sky. The cheers that had once filled me with pride now sounded like accusations in my nightmares.
I gripped the edge of the table until my knuckles turned white. The wood creaked under my fingers. This body’s strength was still ridiculous. Even drunk, I could probably cut a mountain in half if I picked up that sword again.
But what was the point?
The war was over. The story had ended. And the protagonist had been thrown away like a used rag once the credits rolled.
I laughed again. The sound echoed hollowly in the empty room. It sounded more like a sob than laughter. Maybe it was both.
“Bring me more…” I whispered to no one. “I still can’t forget.”
The fire crackled on. Outside, snow began to fall silently over the imperial capital. Another cold night in a world that had promised me everything and given me nothing but scars.
I reached for the bottle once more.
The cliché had lied.