Chapter 2 – Silks and Stolen Skin
Sam woke up and smacked himself in the face with his own hair.
"Gah—!"
The silky strands coiled around his neck like a vengeful octopus. He flailed instinctively, flipping half the futon in the process.
It took a solid five seconds—and a violent sneeze—before he remembered.
Right. Princess. Magic world. Red hair. Boobs.
"Oh no."
He sat up and, sure enough, gravity betrayed him again. The unholy jiggle of his chest was now a persistent reminder that he was no longer a six-foot-something assassin built like a truck. No. He was now wrapped in the body of a porcelain goddess—only 5'1" tall, with impossibly smooth skin, dainty hands, and curves that defied both logic and gravity. Her waist was narrow, her chest unreasonably buoyant, and her legs—while short due to her petite 5'1" frame—were still sculpted to give the illusion of length, making the proportions feel surreal. It was like someone had merged a compact runway model with a living anime character and added a layer of ethereal glow for flair.
His newly petite legs tangled in the silk sheets—legs that felt far too short and delicate for the instincts wired into him. He tried to stand, misjudged the balance, tripped on the hem of the robe, and toppled face-first with a panicked oomph—straight into the pillowy trap of his own cleavage.
He lay there a moment, defeated by anatomy and gravity, muffled against soft skin that wasn't supposed to be there.
This was his life now. And it jiggled.
As he sat up again and rubbed his face, something caught his eye—a strange shimmer along his shoulder. He pushed the robe down slightly and froze.
"Tattoos?" he muttered.
Japanese-style tattoos adorned her body in sweeping, fluid artistry. On her right arm, flames danced from shoulder to wrist—bold, red-orange lines that flickered faintly with her pulse. On the left, cool blue waves cascaded in elegant streams, like living ink.
His gaze dropped to her chest, where nestled between collarbones sat the glowing symbols of the sun and moon—one burning gold, the other silver and serene.
He shifted to look over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of her back in the mirror. Wind swirls wrapped around one shoulder blade, while earthy vines curved beneath it, etched like ancient runes.
"Were these... always here?" he wondered aloud, heart pounding.
They didn't look inked. They looked alive.
Still dazed, Sam groaned and rolled onto his back, trying to make peace with the fact that even lying down felt dramatic in this new body. He hadn't even left his chambers, and the day was already winning.
A knock came at the door, light and polite.
Sam muttered a dramatic sigh, pulling the blanket over his face. But the maids were punctual and relentless. He didn't have time to adjust to one awkward thing before the next arrived.
The doors slid open with a soft shff. Three maids entered in coordinated steps, their expressions polite but unreadable. Without waiting for permission, they gently helped her to her feet and wrapped a robe around her shoulders.
"Your morning bath awaits, Princess," one of them said softly.
Sam squinted at them, groggy. "Wait—can't I just... skip that today? Or maybe bathe myself later? Or never?" he muttered, clutching the robe like a lifeline.
The maids blinked in confusion, then exchanged silent glances. One of them offered a mild, practiced smile. "The bath has already been drawn. The water is at the perfect temperature."
Before Sam could argue again, the other two gently tugged her along, as if handling a sleepy kitten. "Hey—! I can walk myself! I used to lead black ops recon missions, for crying out loud!" he hissed. The maids did not pay attention as they don't understand anything he says.
Still too disoriented to resist properly, Samara shuffled through the corridors, dragged along in a silk robe, her feet tripping over themselves as her short legs struggled to match the maids' elegant pace. The whole scene felt less like royal service and more like an overly polite abduction.
Eventually, they brought her to the bath.
"You mustn't overexert yourself, Princess Samara," the maid whispered as she poured warm water into a stone basin.
"I'm not—ugh. Fine."
Three maids stood by, all demure smiles and lowered eyes. Sam eyed the steaming bath like it was a battlefield.
They expected her to undress. With help.
His soul died a little.
When the first hand reached for the sash at her waist, he instinctively stepped back, palms up like a hostage negotiator.
"I got it, thanks."
"But Princess—"
"I said I got it."
The maids blinked, startled. Her voice had come out a touch too deep, too commanding.
They bowed and backed away—but hovered nearby like trained vultures.
As Sam slowly peeled off the robe, the tattoos across her skin were revealed—flames, waves, celestial symbols, and runes glowing faintly in the steam.
Two of the older chamber maids watching from the door exchanged glances and sighed. One of them whispered, just barely audible, "Cursed... that's what happens when one defies death."
Sam flinched and instinctively clutched the robe tighter against her chest.
But before shame could set in, her three personal maids quickly stepped closer.
"You don't need to listen to them, Princess," one said gently.
"Their words mean nothing to those who know your heart," added another.
"We don't see a cursed woman. We see the same Princess Samara who helped bring medicine to the outer villages and carried water during the last drought," the third finished, offering a small, genuine smile.
Sam blinked, surprised. A weird warmth stirred in her chest. She looked away quickly and muttered, "Tch… just hurry it up before I change my mind."
It took Sam five minutes to undress. Not because it was complicated, but because every time he caught sight of his own reflection, he had to stop and mentally scream.
"I have hips. I have hips," he muttered, folding her underclothes with militant precision like he was defusing a bomb. "And is this… a waist?! How is anyone supposed to balance with this body? It's like piloting a luxury sports car with marshmallow airbags."
One maid let out a snort before she could stop herself.
Sam glared at her like a betrayed war general. "Is this funny to you? I used to bench-press insurgents."
The maid ducked her head, muffling laughter behind her sleeve. "Apologies, Princess. It's just… you fold linens with such rage."
"Yeah, well, one wrong move and I'll be sued for public indecency," Sam muttered, still avoiding direct eye contact with his own reflection. "There's nowhere safe to look—not even down."
Clothes Are a Form of Torture
Sam's next enemy? The kimono.
Getting dressed was supposed to be simple. But nothing—and Sam meant nothing—could have prepared him for the gauntlet that was traditional female formalwear.
Thirty minutes later, Sam stumbled into the hallway with the grace of a drunken giraffe on stilts. Her arms were out slightly for balance, like she was navigating a minefield rather than a palace corridor.
Her geta clicked unevenly against the polished floor, each step a battle against physics. The obi cinched her midsection so tightly it felt like a tactical chokehold. The sleeves of the kimono billowed and dragged like twin scrolls of parchment possessed by malicious spirits, while the layers of fabric brushed her thighs with maddening softness.
"How do women live in this thing?" she growled under her breath, adjusting the collar for the sixth time. "I've worn ghillie suits that breathed better."
The maids had giggled behind their sleeves when she tried to step into the underrobe and fell backwards into a rack of folded towels. One had tried to explain how to 'glide' properly in the ensemble—Sam had scoffed and then promptly tripped on the hem.
"This outfit is trying to assassinate me," she hissed, yanking at the waist again. "Death by fashion."
A passing noble paused, bowed politely—and then walked into a support pillar because he couldn't stop staring at her chest.
Samara scowled. "Eyes up, buddy," she snapped, flinging a sleeve with all the force of a wet noodle.
It slapped against the air with a fwup and fell back against her side.
Dignity? Gone. Grace? Dead. And Samara? Still somehow walking, despite it all.
The Discovery of Her Glass Cannon Physique
By the time she reached the courtyard, Sam had had enough. She needed to blow off steam.
She kicked off her sandals, tied her hair in a messy bun (which still somehow looked too elegant), and tried to sprint across the lawn.
Ten seconds later, she was wheezing.
"What the—?"
Her legs were burning. Her lungs? Useless. Her arms flailed like noodles.
Sam collapsed under a tree, glaring at her own thighs.
"She's all legs and no power. What is this nonsense?"
She pinched her arm.
Skin like porcelain.
No muscle tone. None. She was built like a fantasy model—graceful, soft, inhumanly flawless.
Short, too. Only 5'1", and every inch looked like a doll come to life.
"If I ever meet the god who designed this body, I'm going to strangle him with her hair."
She let out a tired puff of air and stared up at the sky, the branches above her gently swaying in the breeze. It was peaceful, but her thoughts weren't. Her arms felt like jelly, her legs like overcooked noodles, and the day had only just begun.
Then, the bells tolled.
Low, sonorous, and ceremonial.
Samara blinked. "Oh no. Not more pageantry."
A maid came rushing into the courtyard, breathless. "Princess! The Ceremony of Awakening is about to begin. We must hurry to prepare you."
Samara groaned. "Of course it is."
She dragged herself up with the grace of a dying cat and dusted off her robes, muttering curses in three languages as she followed the maid.
The Ceremony of Awakening
Word spread like wildfire.
The forgotten princess had survived her suicide attempt. Now she was walking. Speaking. Glowing, even. Whispers turned into rumors. Rumors into legends.
And legends brought crowds.
Samara stood in the Great Hall beneath ancient banners and divine statues, her hair braided with gold, each step echoing down the marbled aisle. Every eye was on her. Every whisper, she imagined, was about the tattoos. The curse. Her death.
She hated this.
Don't trip, she told herself. Don't wobble. Don't pass out from the corset.
"Place your hand on the stone," the high priest instructed, his voice echoing through the vaulted chamber.
Sam hesitated. Just a moment. Her palms were sweaty.
She pressed it down.
Nothing happened.
A long, stretching silence filled the hall. The crowd shifted uncomfortably. A cough echoed from somewhere near the back. Samara kept her palm flat against the cold stone, her heart pounding like a war drum.
Was it broken? Did I break it? Did I not press hard enough?
She glanced at the priest, who frowned deeply, already preparing to whisper something to a nearby scribe. The nobles were leaning in, whispering behind raised fans and sleeves.
Oh God. I'm about to get publicly booted from a magic ceremony. I'm going to be the first so-called cursed daughter who fails to activate the rock. Great. That'll just confirm everything they've ever said about me.
Images flashed uninvited through her mind—memories not hers, but deeply etched into the body she now wore. She saw Samara's younger self, standing here years ago with her hand on the same stone. Nothing had happened then either. Only awkward silence.
She remembered how her siblings had laughed, trying and failing to hide their glee.
"Maybe she is adopted," her older sister had whispered.
One uncle chuckled cruelly. "Must've drained the magic from her mother in the womb."
And the emperor—her father—hadn't even said a word. Just turned his back and walked away.
The memory settled over her like a second skin.
No pressure, Sam thought bitterly. Just don't fail again.*
A tremor shivered up her arm.
The light beneath her hand pulsed once—then twice.
The stone hissed.
Then the world flared.
It didn't explode all at once—it expanded, like the slow opening of a heavenly gate.
A ring of heat rippled outward from the stone, warping the air like a mirage. The wind turned cold. The marble beneath her feet trembled. The torches around the hall guttered, and shadows spiraled upward toward the high ceiling.
A child in the crowd cried out.
Then came the fire—not from above, but from the stone itself. Flames licked upward in crimson arcs, curling toward the vaulted ceiling like fingers from the underworld.
Lightning followed—crackling blue bolts that danced between the columns and scorched the gold inlays of the floor.
Water surged from the base of the dais, a low roar sweeping through the air like a distant sea.
Wind screamed last, slamming the banners against their poles, tugging the nobles' cloaks and shaking the ornamental chandeliers.
The hall shuddered.
Several of the weaker guests collapsed, unconscious. A priest fell to his knees, clutching his head. One noblewoman shrieked and had to be carried out, her dress soaked with elemental dew.
Magic pulsed in the air—so thick it pressed on the lungs, rattled the teeth. It was alive.
And in the eye of it all stood Samara, hand on the stone, face bathed in light.
Unmoving. Unflinching.
Gasps broke out.
"Divine-tier?!" someone shouted.
The nobles leaned forward. The priests murmured. Emperor Tenchi, who had barely looked at her since she recovered, now sat up straight.
Sam caught his eye. He didn't look proud. He looked calculating.
Finally, a daughter worth something.
A hush fell once more as the air shifted again—colder, more focused. The energy in the room crackled like distant thunder.
An elderly man in imperial blue stepped forward. His long beard was braided with golden threads, and his robes shimmered with celestial runes. The Great Mage—Archmagus Relthorn—keeper of the Empire's arcane laws, and master of the Soul-Reading Flame.
He studied the glowing readings still radiating from the stone.
"In all recorded history," he said, his voice solemn and clear, "only seven individuals have ever awakened with this level of resonance." He paused, turning slowly to face the court. "Divine-tier. The highest a human can achieve."
Gasps rippled like waves across the floor.
Even Sam had to blink at that.
Divine-tier? Are they sure this isn't reading someone else nearby? I'm just here squatting in someone's body...
The Archmagus turned toward her now, with reverence in his ancient eyes.
"Princess Samara. The stone has spoken. You are now to receive your Calling." He motioned with one elegant hand. A silver scroll floated down from a glowing crystal—old, humming with magic.
"Hold the scroll," he instructed. "Let it reveal your destined path."
Samara took it.
The scroll pulsed.
It hovered just above her palms, casting faint reflections of golden light on her wide eyes. The entire hall held its breath.
It spun slowly—agonizingly slow—like the turning of some ancient clock that hadn't moved in centuries. Arcane characters emerged one by one, crawling across the surface in blazing runes, flaring then fading, shifting as though unsure.
A priest near the dais whispered a prayer. Another clutched his beads. The Archmagus narrowed his eyes, reading every flicker of light.
Sam could feel the tension compressing the air. Everyone waited—for a revelation, for a prophecy, for divinity given form.
And then... it stopped.
One word glowed, final and absolute.
Job Class: BLACKSMITH
Silence.
It was like someone had unplugged the entire hall. Then came the laughter.
"A blacksmith?!"
"What use is a divine-tier princess who hammers swords?"
"She should have stayed dead!" one voice muttered too loudly from the side.
Sam's fists clenched at her sides. Her jaw locked. Her shoulders twitched like she was about to throw someone.
Then came the silence.
It rang louder than any of the laughter.
The nobles watched her like she was a broken artifact—rare, powerful, but ultimately unusable. She could feel their disdain. Their satisfaction. Let the cursed daughter be pawned off. Let her rot elsewhere.
A voice pierced the air, clear and cold.
"You will marry Skaal of Valheim," the Emperor said, as though passing judgment from a high seat. "Even cursed goods can be traded."
The words hit like a blade to the ribs—sharp, impersonal, final.
The crowd shifted. Some nobles nodded in approval, murmuring among themselves.
"A politically sound decision," one commented. "The Valheim bloodline needs strengthening, and the Emperor gets rid of a problem."
"She awakened Divine-tier magic," another added with a calculating smile. "Even if she's odd, that potential is a rare prize."
But not all were impressed.
"She has no magic," a noblewoman scoffed. "That cursed daughter was manaless her whole life—how could she be chosen over someone trained and worthy?"
"She failed her first Awakening," another sneered. "And now she's gifted to Skaal? As what? A symbol of pity?"
Sam didn't move. Didn't breathe. Her anger was a scream trapped behind her teeth.
And despite everything, the worst part—the absolute worst—was that she hated the idea of marrying a man. She didn't even know who Skaal was, but the title alone made her skin crawl.
The humiliation didn't wash over her. It boiled.
Sam blinked. Skaal? Who the hell was Skaal? That sounded like a viking disease.
Her vision swam. Not from fear—but rage. But she couldn't speak. Couldn't lash out. Because in the crowd, faces turned. Some stared with awe. Others with hatred. All with expectation.
She barely heard it all.
Because as judgment fell like ash and the crowd roared, a whisper echoed through her mind.
"One rule you must never break," the Unknown God had warned before casting him into this world. "No one must know you are not of that world. Should anyone uncover your true origin, the pact will collapse. Your soul will be erased. Not returned. Not judged. Simply... nothingness."
Sam swallowed hard, forcing a tight, practiced smile.
He stood there now, in silks and stolen skin, feeling like a weapon displayed for sale.
No one could know.
Not even the girl whose body he now wore.
The crowd was still murmuring when Emperor Tenchi stood abruptly. He didn't look at her. Didn't offer a word. Just turned, his robes billowing behind him as he strode out of the hall, fury radiating from every step.
The Grand Chamberlain clapped his hands once, sharply. "The ceremony is concluded. You may all return to your duties."
The nobles dispersed like smoke—some with laughter, others with disdainful silence. Only the sound of her geta echoed in the vast chamber.
Her three maids hurried to her side, eyes wide with concern.
"Princess…" one of them began.
"Don't," Sam said flatly, her voice low and tight.
Another reached out gently, "He shouldn't have said that. The Emperor—he—"
"I said don't."
Her hands trembled. Her jaw locked. Her chest burned.
"We know what they see," the third maid whispered. "But we saw someone else. We saw you standing in that storm of magic like a flame that wouldn't go out."
Sam didn't answer.
Because her rage was a wildfire, roaring beneath her skin.
She had kept her head down. Bitten her tongue. Endured every insult.
But this?
This felt like betrayal written in front of the whole world.
And betrayal had never sat well with her.
The scroll still hovered where she'd dropped it.
She stared at it for a heartbeat longer.
A blacksmith? she thought, bitterly. What kind of cosmic joke is that?
She looked up at the now-empty dais, then the towering banners of the empire waving silently above.
"Really?" she whispered. "You dump me into a cursed princess with a body made of glass and boobs that defy Newton—and then give me a job class that makes horseshoes?"
Her fists curled. She trembled, but it wasn't from sadness.
How am I supposed to defeat a Demon Lord with a hammer and an apron? What, I forge him a nice dagger and politely ask him to off himself?
The Unknown God's voice echoed again in her memory—stern, divine, final.
No one must know you are not of this world...
"Well maybe no one will," she muttered through clenched teeth. "Because at this rate, I'll be buried under a pile of horseshoes before anyone even notices I exist."
She let out a bitter laugh, hollow and sharp.
"Let's say I really do become a blacksmith," she mumbled under her breath, voice tightening with each word. "How exactly am I supposed to do that with this goddess-like body?"
She looked down at herself—at the soft arms, the elegant wrists, the delicate collarbones.
"This body is too weak to even lift itself out of bed without tripping over silk. What the hell am I supposed to do, forge a sword with vibes and mascara?"
Her voice rose with fury, edged in disbelief. "An armor? A cauldron? A battle hammer? With what?! My soft hands and aerodynamic boobs?!"
The scroll behind her dimmed slightly, as if even it was ashamed.
"I swear, if this is some divine joke, I'm going to climb back to that floating throne room and choke a god out with my own tiara."
She turned away from the scroll, jaw locked.
Her three maids followed in silence, trying not to meet her gaze. But Sam could hear them. The nervous shuffle of feet. The worried glances. The unspoken pity.
She clenched her fists tighter with every step, fury pulsing beneath her skin.
Each footfall echoed like a spark in dry leaves.
Something was smoldering.
Something was building.
And when it ignited, it would not be quiet.
TO BE CONTINUED...