CHAPTER TWELVE
The pain started just before dawn.
Samara stirred in the darkness, blinking against the bluish moonlight spilling through the paper screens of her chamber. The palace was quiet—eerily so, the kind of silence that comes only after storms. The memory of last night's council meeting still echoed in her head, heavy with judgment and expectation. A cold wind slipped through the open balcony and brushed against her cheek like a warning.
And then it hit.
A cramp—low, hot, twisting. Sharp.
Not the kind Sam remembered from dehydration, broken ribs, or post-mission shrapnel. No—this was different. This was… personal.
It wasn't just pain. It was the kind that curled inward like a clenched fist wrapped in heat and betrayal. Sam didn't even know the abdomen could ache like this without something rupturing. It felt ancient—like this new body had been harboring a centuries-old grudge, waiting for the right moment to get even.
And the worst part?
She had no idea what the hell was happening.
It wasn't just pain—it was helplessness. Confusion. That quiet kind of horror that came from realizing you were trapped inside flesh you didn't understand. Her instincts told her to check for wounds. To search for poison. But none of this matched the mission logs she used to live by.
A low groan escaped her as she curled further into the silk sheets, clutching her stomach like something inside her had declared war.
"Why is this my life now?" she whispered to no one.
From the corner of the room, a soft shimmer flickered. Iyashi—now fully evolved from her earlier doll-like form—moved with the ease and quiet confidence of a seasoned maid. Her steps were light, fluid, and completely human. No more hard angles or clicking joints. She radiated warmth now, and her skin, while faintly luminous under the moonlight, had the texture and softness of real flesh. She even breathed, her chest rising and falling in a calm rhythm. The only hint of her magical origin was the faint pulse of green mana that curled lazily beneath the surface of her veins. She emerged from her resting spot beside the wardrobe with the sleepy grace of someone who'd simply been waiting for the right time to reappear—not as a servant, but as someone real, someone dependable.
"Iyashi—don't sneak up on me like that!"
"You are exhibiting symptoms of discomfort. Should I initiate healing protocol?"
"No! I mean—yes. No? I don't know!" Sam flailed, burying her face into her hands again. "You can't fix this. I'm… I think I'm on my period."
Iyashi blinked slowly, processing. "Ah. That cannot be cured."
Samara pressed a palm to her forehead and let out a long, theatrical sigh.
"Perfect. The magical doll can fix fatal wounds and brew healing light, but not this. Not this pain from hell."
She flopped backward onto the bed, tossing her arm over her face like a drama queen from a stage play. "This body just keeps throwing new rules at me—none of which I signed up for. Everything aches, everything's a surprise."
She huffed, glancing once more at Iyashi, who stood silently nearby. The earlier panic still tingled beneath her skin, but curiosity had begun to creep in around the edges. As her muscles continued to protest, a familiar ache rose in her chest—sharp, hot, and sudden. Her breasts, already tender from the hormonal onslaught, throbbed with each breath. She cradled her chest with a soft hiss.
"Now even these hurt too... great," she muttered, wincing as she stood up.
Moving was a task in itself. Her abdomen burned, her chest screamed, and her balance felt like it had been handed to someone who barely read the instructions. With every shift, it was like her body reminded her of the biological pact it had made—one she never agreed to.
She swung her legs off the bed, catching sight of the vanity across the room. It stood there like a silent witness, and right now, it felt like the only thing in the room she could rely on. She stumbled forward, each step deliberate, and clutched the edge of the vanity like it was a lifeline.
That's when a sharp knock echoed from the door, followed by Ayato's voice.
"Samara? Are you awake?"
She groaned, pulling herself upright, and pushed off the covers with effort. Her joints protested. Her abdomen burned.
She winced, trying not to jostle herself as she rose. It felt like the whole upper half of her body had turned against her. Even breathing too deep was risky. There was no tactical training for this. No mission prep or recon. Just raw, hormonal betrayal packed behind soft curves she hadn't asked for.
s she swung her legs to the floor, she caught sight of the vanity across the room—the one she had barely touched since arriving in this world. But now it felt like a small anchor. She gritted her teeth and stumbled forward, clutching the edge of the vanity like it was a lifeline.
"I'll be out in a minute!" she shouted, voice cracking slightly from pain and irritation.
"Wait a minute… Iyashi, do you actually feel things now? Like… real pain? Emotions?"
"I do, Mistress. Since my evolution, I've begun experiencing sensations and emotional responses. I even feel warmth when the sun shines through the windows."
Samara gave her a sly, lopsided grin—the kind that curled more from mischief than mirth, hinting at a shared future of suffering.
"Well, when your time of the month comes," she said darkly, "I'll be right here. Smug and sympathetic."
Iyashi blinked, a rare flicker of uncertainty crossing her face. "I… I hope that never happens."
She gulped, her synthetic throat bobbing as her posture straightened. There was a flicker of tension in her gaze—an unspoken realization that her master's smile, while playful, carried a sharpness honed by experience. For the first time, Iyashi sensed it: that strange, teasing hostility rolling off Samara like a slow-rising tide.
...
By the time she emerged into the hallway, Ayato was already waiting—arms crossed, brows knit, and a worried line carved between his eyes like he'd been standing there for hours.
He blinked, immediately stepping forward. "Samara. Are you okay? You look pale, and you're walking funny. Did something happen? Should I call a healer?"
"I'm regal," she muttered, trying to force a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Trying to be, anyway. Isn't that what royalty's supposed to do—suffer in silence and still look expensive?"
He frowned deeper, ignoring her tone. "You look like you're smuggling knives in your stomach. You shouldn't be pushing yourself. Maybe we should postpone the briefing. I can talk to Father."
"Maybe I am," she muttered, then under her breath, "and maybe I should stab someone with one."
"Samara—seriously." His voice lowered, all concern and intensity. "Tell me what's wrong."
"I'm. Fine." Her tone was firm now, irritated. Her teeth were clenched so tightly it hurt. The more he hovered, the more it pressed down on her already fraying patience. Everything hurt, and now he was making it worse by acting like she might break in half if the wind blew too hard.
But Ayato wasn't done. "You look like you're in pain. Did you hit something in your room? Did the bleeding come back from the last fight? Say something—"
Samara shot him a glare. "The only thing I want to hit right now is you."
He flinched but stepped closer again. "Just tell me what's wrong. I can handle it."
"You? Handle this?" she snapped. "Unless you've got spare mana for uterus repair, I doubt it."
By the time they reached the inner courtyard, she was ready to throw him into a bush.
Ryuuka stood waiting, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
"You're late," she said coolly. Then her eyes flicked to Ayato. "And you're far too naive to understand what she's going through."
Ayato scowled. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Ryuuka's tone was flat but sharp. "It means you hover too much, ask the wrong questions, and think a warm blanket and excuses fix everything."
"I'm worried about her," he shot back, gesturing to Samara who looked ready to bite both of them. "She was limping, pale, clearly in pain."
"And yet, she still showed up." Ryuuka gave Samara a nod of quiet approval before turning her sharp gaze back to him. "She's a woman. She doesn't need coddling. She needs space."
Samara opened her mouth to argue but only managed an awkward half-cough, half-whimper. "Had... a personal issue," she mumbled, glaring at Ayato from the corner of her eye.
Ryuuka's gaze sharpened. "She's on her period. That's why she's pale. That's why she's limping. And considering she just came back to life, it's probably the first time she's had to deal with it again."
Ayato's expression froze. His mouth opened slightly, then closed. Color surged up his neck and into his cheeks.
"I... I didn't know," he stammered. "I just— I thought something was seriously wrong—"
"You were smothering her," Ryuuka replied simply.
Ayato cleared his throat and looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. "I... I'm sorry. To both of you."
Ryuuka exhaled. "You try too hard. And no matter how well-meaning, you can't protect her from everything—especially not this. This isn't a battlefield you can win for her. Only women understand what it's like to fight from the inside out."
Together, they continued toward the ceremonial hall.
The doors to the ceremonial hall creaked open.
Inside, Tenchi Kintaro stood at the head of the gathering chamber, one arm tucked into the crimson cloak draped over his shoulder. Despite the missing limb and the deep exhaustion etched across his face, he looked composed—imperial even. His eyes scanned the three as they entered, lingering just a second longer on Samara before he turned toward the chamber.
With a low voice, he began.
"Before the trials begin, you must understand the world you stand in—and the gods who forged it."
He turned toward the large, circular mural carved into the wall behind him. It depicted eight radiant beings circling Ertha, their hands outstretched, casting light, flame, water, wind, and more across the lands. The colors glimmered faintly in the firelight—reds for flame, golds for light, blues for tide, greens for wilderness. The mural seemed alive, a sacred window into a time when divinity still walked the world.
"Long ago, Ertha was created and shaped by eight major gods. Each of them ruled over a domain—protecting and guiding the races that called this land home."
Tenchi stepped forward, the floor echoing beneath his feet.
"The gods entrusted each of the eight nations with power and order:
The land of the humans—our Nippon—was watched over by Tsukuyomi, god of honor and flame.
The southern lands of Dhi'l-Bad, home to beastfolk, were shaped by Vahana, the god of wilderness.
The elves and fae of the northern Valheim followed Aradia, goddess of balance and growth.
The merfolk of Atlantis, in the West, were led by Myrrhene, goddess of tides.
The dwarves of Ethiped, now lost, were guided by Grumbar, god of stone and fire.
The skybound islands of Angelios, home to the angels, revered Zephyriel, god of light and law.
Longwei, the land of dragons, followed Shenlong, the dragon god of storms and wisdom.
And finally, the shadowed empire of Dyawol—ruled by no mortal race, but by the dark will of Dyavol, the Demon God."
His voice dropped, now a whisper heavy with age and memory.
"Dyavol grew envious. Where others created balance, he sought dominion. He believed one god should rule all. When the others refused, he declared war."
He gestured to the bottom of the mural where a figure wreathed in shadows loomed over broken cities, the god's hand reaching to crush what the others had built.
"To carry out his ambition, he appointed Makaius—his most powerful general, now known as the Demon Lord."
The room chilled. Even the fire in the sconces seemed to shrink.
"Their conquest began with Ethiped. The dwarves fell first. Then the demon armies advanced, pushing into every region. Some resisted. Some fell. The world fractured."
Tenchi's face hardened.
"That war never truly ended. And it's why we still have the Trials."
He motioned to the carved obsidian gate behind him. Its surface shimmered faintly, pulsing like it knew what was to come.
"The Trial of Flame was a gift left behind by the gods to test us. It is the only dungeon in all of Nippon that measures a warrior's worth not just by strength—but by spirit, endurance, and will."
He stepped aside, revealing the entrance behind him.
"There are 150 floors. Three dungeon bosses. And each time a challenger fails, every beast and guardian within is reborn. No one—not even Ryuuka—has ever reached the top."
Ryuuka's jaw tightened.
"Those who pass the trial are given the right to rise. To wield authority. And more than that... they prove they are worthy of their rank."
His eyes locked on Samara.
"Samara Kintaro. Today, you enter that dungeon. And when you emerge—you will no longer be the 'weakest daughter.' You will be who you choose to be."
The silence that followed was not of hesitation—but of reverence.
Then Tenchi spoke once more, his voice heavier now, but resolute.
"One last thing, Samara. You will not be allowed to bring Sumire into the Trial of Flame. This is a path walked alone—measured by your own soul, not guarded by another's blade."
Samara opened her mouth to protest, but Tenchi raised a hand gently.
"However, Iyashi may accompany you. She is not just a companion—she was born from your mana. She is an extension of your will and spirit. The dungeon will recognize that bond."
He looked between the two of them.
"Let no one else interfere. From this moment forward, every step you take in the Trial will be yours alone."
TO BE CONTINUED...