Early this morning, an uneasy hush settled over the castle. Through Observer Unit 2’s main camera, I scanned the corridors—knights and squires were assembling. Lilia, already armored, stood on the training ground, barking orders for the knights to prepare for departure. Her heroic stance stirred a flicker of envy in me.
“Martha,” I cut the visual sync. “The halls are chaotic. What happened today?”
“My apologies, young mistress,” Aunt Martha lowered her head. “I’ll remind the servants to move quietly.”
“No need. I’m not bothered by the noise,” I shook my head. “I just want to know why it’s so loud.”
“Well…” Martha hesitated. “A northern village lost contact recently. The rescue team sent by the local lord was ambushed by yetis—casualties were severe.”
“The village’s name?”
“Dusk Snow Village.”
Hearing it, a memory surfaced. In my past life, when Freud half-coerced me into developing the Iron Golem, he’d argued Casworth needed stronger knights to face dangerous magical beasts. He sent battle records; one location stuck with me—Dusk Snow Village.
The Duke’s knights suffered devastating losses.
Of the 200 who deployed, 88 died, 70 wounded—including Commander Lilia.
My past self would’ve rushed out to warn them. But I’m no longer that naive, goody-two-shoes girl who carried the world’s happiness on her shoulders. That laughably tender sentiment? I flushed it down the drain long ago, letting it turn to ash in the flames that burned me at the stake.
Now, I saw not disaster—but a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
I’d use these sacrifices to cement my place in the Duke’s household.
“Martha, I’m resting today. Don’t wake me unless urgent.”
“Yes, young mistress.” She exhaled softly. “You truly need rest. Around the manor, only His Grace seems busier than you.”
Truth was, I wasn’t busy—my puppet was.
I secured the Psionic Headband and sank into the plush bed. Far comfier than Luther’s attic chair. Faking sleep? My specialty.
“Enter!”
Vision blurred backward, then stabilized inside the cold workshop. I guided the puppet to stand, approaching the exoskeleton prototype locked on its frame. Final assembly complete; crimson armor polished to a mirror sheen. Originally meant to gather Iron Golem data, the Duke of Northberg liked it—so I upgraded it. Redesigning, I grasped his vision: a compact, maintainable single-soldier combat exoskeleton. Issued like plate armor, its near-invulnerable plating could crush infantry, deflect arrows and bolts, and hold firm against magical beasts. Dual-purpose. Perfect.
But Freud wanted something else—a colossal, weapon-laden war machine. Cost and upkeep? Secondary. He craved a battlefield decider, ignoring local beast threats. What twisted him over ten years—from a scheming yet ambitious youth into a ruthlessly calculating old fox? Even naive me sensed the dangerous ideology buried deep: he wanted total annihilation, at any cost.
After my death, that despicable pair, Elizabeth and Edward, would surely unravel the empire. Few factions could inherit its legacy. Under Freud, Casworth commanded unmatched industry, fueled by two reactivated ancient smelters. Metals flowed endlessly—enough to arm a legion. He’d likely seize the throne. Tyrant or sage emperor? None of it mattered. I was already ash on the pyre.
“Activate the Arcane Reactor.”
Power hummed to life. Arcane circuits etched into the Magisteel frame glowed cobalt-blue—like luminous circuitry, lending the frame a sleek tech aura. I stepped the puppet into the cockpit, gripped the inner control rods. Armor plates sealed with a metallic *shunk*. Far from final design—makeshift solutions everywhere. The helmet’s narrow vision slit was the worst flaw. Peering out? Unbearable. Cameras would fix it next.
“Open the gate.”
Hydraulics hissed. A freezing gust howled in, swirling snow. I piloted the exoskeleton into the blizzard. Auto-balance held steady. The Chainsaw Blade on its back nudged balance slightly—but manageable. I turned the puppet’s head; the helmet rotated smoothly along neck rails. A slight visibility boost—still inadequate. The training ground stood empty. Lilia’s knights were gone. Time to move.
I deployed the calf-mounted skis, fired up the arcane thrusters on the back. Blue flames scattered the snow.
Good. It works.
Let’s go!
Gliding forward, speed built fast. No prior skiing skill needed—the servos handled balance. Just steer and pace. Castle guards gaped as I shot past snow-dusted streets, exiting Golden Lion City’s northern gate. Outside, I launched the two Observer units embedded in the frame. Observer Unit 3 spotted them quickly: 200 knights and squires, led by Lilia, galloping northwest toward Dusk Snow Village on sturdy Casworth ponies—broad-hoofed, thick-maned, built for blizzards. Swift. Resilient.
I trailed silently. No foolish reunion. I’d appear only at the perfect moment.
Two hours later, a blizzard slammed down, slowing the knights. I monitored via Observers, keeping distance. Lilia reined her mount roadside, rallying troops. Crimson hair whipped in the gale. Words and action forged her into a living Valkyrie. She had every trait of a legendary commander—pity she died young. A thought flickered: if she lived… could she become my ally? Freud valued my skill. Lilia genuinely cared. Together, my standing in the Duke’s house would be unshakable.
But meddling with fate risks karmic backlash.
I’d tested it with Brother John—he escaped flogging, lived healthy. No consequences. Later, bolder: I even ended two lives. Causal law? Ignored me completely. Still, I tread carefully—only interfere when revenge demands it.
Night fell. Knights pitched camp. I parked the exoskeleton in a windbreak, wrapped it in a thermal cloak.
Temperature plunged to -20°C. Tents glowed faintly through snow. Campfires flickered against the wind. Guards in thick robes stood spear-in-hand, eyes locked on the shadowed forest.
Tonight tested the prototype—and my puppet. Fail the cold, and their value in Casworth vanishes.
“Disconnect.”
The psionic link snapped. I awoke nestled in warmth.
Compared to Lilia braving the storm… yeah. I was blissfully, selfishly happy.
