In the hall illuminated by translucent black crystals, a girl in a black dress stared at me with icy eyes. Her right hand dragged a corpse, blood spreading across the dark crimson carpet.

Not a single drop stained the black-dressed maiden. Her face was pale and clean as she asked in a delicate yet frigid voice, "Who are you?"

Her words carried a killing intent sharp as glacial wind.

My sword hand trembled. I swallowed hard, forcing out an explanation: "I’m just... a passerby who accidentally appeared here."

"A passerby?"

It was true. I’d only just woken from a nap at home—blinked open my eyes to find myself floating midair, then crashed onto an unfamiliar throne. An iron sword stood embedded beside me.

I’d pulled it out on instinct.

Then I noticed two others in the hall behind me: the black-dressed girl and a corpse. She’d tossed the body several meters away, now watching me like her next victim.

She looked sixteen or seventeen, raven-black hair spilling over her shoulders. Black mist curled from her right wrist. After discarding the bleeding corpse, she stepped toward me. Her boot heel struck the crimson carpet with a dull *thud*—deliberate, heavy. Proof her mood was foul.

"Return the Demonic Sword to me."

Her all-black attire resembled a devil from the abyss.

A black dress. Ink-dark pupils. Less devil, more a cold, solitary sorceress.

"Return the Demonic Sword!"

Her voice grew increasingly unsettling.

"Miss... sister?"

"*Sister?!*"

I’d triggered something dangerous. Her eyes darkened further, black mist swirling around her body.

"W-wait! Let’s talk this through!"

"Unnecessary."

Her black boot slammed the ground. She shot toward me at impossible speed, her slender arm lashing out from behind her back.

No escape. I couldn’t even muster a look of panic.

But her arm didn’t pierce my heart as expected. It changed trajectory, clamping around my throat, lifting me until my feet dangled.

Unpleasant. My neck ached. Breathing vanished. Words died.

The black crystals glowed faintly.

From above, I saw her pitch-black pupils—utterly devoid of hesitation, emotion, or mercy.

Eyes truly made for slaughter.

"Keep your stupid Demonic Sword! I never wanted this rusty iron blade anyway!"

I flung the sword from my right hand. It clattered to the floor, bouncing twice.

She loosened her grip, dropping me onto the throne behind me. I rubbed my throat, gasping, then struggled upright.

Ridiculous. Teleported here out of nowhere, nearly killed—I might be a shut-in, but I valued my life.

After coughing a few times, I watched her. She picked up the iron sword, frowning as she examined it, fingers tracing the blade.

"It’s just a piece of junk," I muttered.

"Silence!" Her icy glare cut me off.

I sulked onto a nearby step. This palace-like hall stretched far ahead, a crimson carpet running from distant doors to these steps. A simple, heavy throne sat atop them—ancient, unadorned.

"Where is this place?" I asked.

No answer. She kept studying the sword like it was a priceless treasure, touching every inch.

"What *is* that thing?"

"The Demonic Sword."

"*That’s* the Demonic Sword?"

"Did you pull it out?"

"Well... you saw it. I fell from above, yanked it out by accident. Take it if you want." Not generosity—fear. I’d rather give up the blade than die for it. Life mattered more than scrap metal.

Her silence lasted one, two seconds. The air thickened. Then she said something unexpected—her name.

"I am Eunice."

I froze. A Western name. Only then did I realize: this language was utterly foreign, yet I understood it perfectly. As if another tongue had been woven into my mind overnight.

So I really had transmigrated. A wave of melancholy crashed over me—but with this volatile girl nearby, I shoved it down.

"Uh... Eunice? What is it?" Why announce her name? Should I introduce myself too?

Things didn’t go as I thought.

Eunice instantly leveled the iron sword at my chest, her black eyes calm as still water.

"Knowing my name before you die is the greatest mercy I can grant a despicable thief."

"W-wait—"

*What are you—?*

No time. The blade plunged into my body. Pain flooded my mind. Blood gurgled up my throat, bubbling from my lips.

"Your sis—"

Words failed. Strength faded. Consciousness blurred. Even the pain vanished. Darkness swallowed my vision.

Darkness. Endless darkness.

"*Hssk—*"

Like waking from a nightmare, I jolted upright, eyes wide. No sword. No beautiful girl in black. Only a high ceiling and softly glowing black crystals.

Still the same hall. I hadn’t died. Ha. *Ha ha.*

The joy of survival surged through me—I still loved being alive.

My heart hammered against my ribs. I pressed a hand to my chest, trying to calm myself, to savor this second chance.

But something felt... off.

The fabric of my clothes had changed.

No—the entire outfit.

I stood, examining myself.

Raven-black hair. A Gothic Lolita-style dress. Pale legs sheathed in over-knee black stockings. Crimson ankle boots hugging my feet.

Calm shattered. I remembered one terrifying person.

*Eunice.* The girl who’d killed me with one thrust.

*No. This isn’t real. It can’t be.*

*Damn it! Who dressed me like this while I slept?! Cross-dressing is weird for guys! I don’t have that fetish!*

This was absurd!

I told myself it was just a costume change—but panic clawed up my throat anyway.

I pushed up my sleeve. Slender, delicate arms. My hands—small, smooth fingers. Time to face reality.

I touched my throat. No Adam’s apple. A soft cough escaped my lips—definitely a girl’s voice.

My legs gave way. I collapsed onto the floor.

*What kind of joke is this? I’ve become Eunice?!*

*Where did Eunice go? Is she sleeping inside this body? In my subconscious?*

I forced myself up, trembling. I held none of Eunice’s imposing aura. If she was a sorceress, I was just a harmless, pure-looking girl.

Her style had shifted—brighter, almost cute. No longer radiating that instinctive dread.

*Maybe this change is for the best,* I thought desperately. *Gender doesn’t matter. Happiness is what counts.*

*Happiness my ass! How can I be happy?!* I grabbed my hair, frustration boiling over.

*Why did I become Eunice? Where is she?*

Bloodstains marred the steps—familiar. *This is where she killed me.*

*Where’s my body?*

I followed the trail. At the foot of the steps lay my corpse, facedown.

A strange chill ran through me as I stared at my own dead self. Then—the corpse *twitched*.

Yes. It *moved*.

*A dead body moving?!*

My knees buckled. I tumbled down the steps, pain flaring in my waist, my arms.

Gritting my teeth, I realized I’d rolled right beside my corpse—face to face.

That blood-drained, pallid face made my heart lurch. It pounded like a frantic alarm—*beep-beep-beep-beep*—nonstop.

Time seemed to freeze. The corpse’s tightly shut eyes snapped open.

And I stared into a pair of black, bewildered pupils.