Arthur opened his eyes.
For a moment he stayed still, staring at the dark wooden ceiling full of small cracks and a single spiderweb in the right-hand corner.
The air carried the familiar smell of iron, coal, and homemade soap.
It was his room.
The same as always.
Then the memories arrived all at once.
Not one at a time.
All of them.
As if someone had opened two doors inside his head and let two entire lives flood in at the same moment.
On one side there was Arthur: eighteen years old, son of Brandt and Ysolde, apprentice in the family forge at Valenford.
Shy, weak, used to receiving pitying looks whenever he couldn’t lift a hammer that was too heavy.
He lived with his younger sister Tessa, who teased him every single day and at the same time defended him like a lioness if anyone insulted him.
On the other side there was… him.
Twenty-two years old.
He worked in a smartphone design studio.
Screens, prototypes, endless meetings, coffee that was too bitter, and the constant feeling of being nothing more than a replaceable cog.
He had fallen asleep on the couch of his small apartment after an overtime shift.
And now…
Now he was here.
Arthur brought a hand to his face.
The fingers were the same as always: a little calloused on the right side from the light work in the shop, but still too thin and not muscular enough to belong to a real blacksmith.
He sat up slowly, feeling the straw mattress creak under him.
“What the fuck…”
The word came out low, almost a breath.
In his life as Arthur he almost never spoke like that.
In the previous life, though, he did.
He looked at his arms, then at the chest covered by the old linen shirt.
Everything the same.
Nothing had changed physically.
Only his head was complete chaos.
He got up and went to the small window.
Outside, Valenford was waking up.
The sky was still the grey-pink of dawn, and already the first carts and the voices of merchants preparing their stalls on the main street could be heard.
The family forge was on the ground floor of the same building.
The smell of heated metal was already seeping up through the cracks in the floorboards.
Arthur rested his forehead against the cold glass.
“Did I get reincarnated…?
Or transported?
Or what the hell happened?”
He didn’t have time to think about it any further.
Someone knocked hard on the door—three sharp raps.
“Brotherrr!
Are you still in bed?
Dad’s already lit the forge!”
Tessa’s voice.
Lively, a little shrill in the morning, and full of that energy that had always made him feel even more tired.
Arthur swallowed.
“Y-yeah… I’m coming.”
His voice came out strange.
Too aware.
Too full of thoughts that shouldn’t be there.
The door opened anyway.
Tessa had never been good at waiting for permission.
She came in with her brown hair still messy and a shirt thrown on in a hurry.
She was fifteen, but sometimes she seemed older when she put on that big-sister air.
“You’ve got a weird face,” she said right away, narrowing her eyes.
“Are you sick?
Have you got the weakness fever again?”
Arthur shook his head.
“No.
Just… I had a strange dream.”
Tessa stared at him for another second, then shrugged.
“Then hurry up.
Mom’s already made breakfast and Dad says the royal blacksmith’s commissions are coming in today.
If you don’t at least help organize the nails and the sharpened blades, he’ll get angry.”
She started to leave, but stopped on the threshold and looked at him again.
“And don’t make that kicked-dog face.
I already know you can’t handle the heavy work.
Nobody holds it against you… well, almost nobody.”
Then she disappeared down the stairs, leaving the door ajar.
Arthur stood in the middle of the room, feeling his heart beat too hard.
Two lives.
Two personalities trying to occupy the same space.
Arthur’s shyness and the resigned weariness of the other him mixed into a single confusion.
He ran a hand through his hair and, without thinking, murmured:
“Status.”
He didn’t even know why he’d said it.
Maybe because somewhere deep down he already knew what to expect.
In front of his eyes a translucent window appeared, bluish-silver, filled with orderly writing.
text
Name: Arthur Age: 18 Level: 1 Class: Apprentice Blacksmith (Weak) Strength: 4 Agility: 6 Endurance: 5 Magic: 3 Intelligence: 12 Dexterity: 8 Skills: – Basic Sharpening (Lv.2) – Tool Organization (Lv.3) – Excessive Shyness (Passive) [Curse: Gender Transformation – Blood of Lysara] Phase: 1/4 Progress: 0%
Arthur’s mouth fell open.
Then he read the curse line again.
And his blood ran cold.
Right as he stared at it, a small additional description opened beneath the curse.
Ancient curse linked to the awakening of the divine blood of Lysara, Goddess of the Mutable Cycle.
Progress advances naturally over time.
Situations of strong arousal or intimate contact significantly accelerate the transformation.
Physical effects become more evident as the phases advance.
Note: Lysara’s blood reacts strongly to intense emotions and sensory stimuli.
Caution is advised.
Arthur felt his stomach clench.
He forced his eyes shut and shook his head.
“No.
No, no, no.
This is a dream.
One of those heavy nightmares.
In a minute I’ll wake up on the couch with my phone stuck to my face and everything will go back to normal.”
He opened his eyes again.
The Status window was still there, floating and calm.
At that exact moment he heard Tessa’s footsteps racing back up the stairs.
“Arthur!
If you’re not down in two minutes Mom’s going to throw cold water on you like last time!”
He made a nervous gesture with his hand, trying to dismiss the window.
To his great surprise, the Status disappeared immediately.
“I’m… I’m coming down!”
He quickly straightened his shirt, ran a hand over his face, and went down the stairs trying not to look like a man who had just discovered he was cursed.
Downstairs the air was already warm.
The forge was lit and the low roar of the fire could be heard.
Brandt, his father, was bent over a still-dark piece of metal, his bare arms covered in old burn scars.
Ysolde, his mother, was setting out bread, cheese, and a light soup on the worn wooden table.
Tessa was already seated and eating with her usual enthusiasm.
“Finally,” she said without raising her voice too much.
“You looked like a ghost earlier.
Feeling better?”
Arthur sat down slowly.
“Yes.
Just… a bad dream.”
Ysolde set a bowl in front of him and stroked his hair with her usual gesture.
“Your eyes look strange this morning,” she observed.
“The grey seems lighter and the violet darker.
Did you sleep badly?”
Arthur lowered his gaze to the soup.
Those eyes.
One almost white-grey, the other violet.
He’d had them forever, but now they seemed like another sign that something was wrong.
“Maybe,” he answered simply.
Brandt didn’t lift his eyes from the metal, but spoke with his usual low, practical voice.
“Today three commissions are coming from the merchants’ quarter and a request for reinforced nails from the barracks.
You take care of sharpening the finished blades and checking that the handles are properly fixed.
No heavy work, as usual.”
Inside that sentence was the usual dose of resignation.
It wasn’t cruelty.
It was just habit.
Arthur was weak, and in a blacksmith’s shop weakness showed.
“All right,” he answered.
While he ate in silence, the part of him that was twenty-two and designed smartphones observed the scene with almost clinical detachment.
This was his family.
These were his days.
And now there was also a curse that, apparently, wanted to turn him into a girl.
And worse still: the more he got aroused, the more it accelerated.
Arthur almost choked on a piece of bread.
Tessa glanced at him sideways.
“You’re getting really weird.”
“Leave me alone,” he muttered, sharper than usual.
His sister raised her eyebrows, surprised, but didn’t reply.
After breakfast Arthur headed to the front part of the shop, where the benches for lighter work were.
He took an already forged blade and began sharpening it with precise, almost automatic movements.
Arthur’s hands knew what to do.
The mind of the other him, however, couldn’t stop thinking about the percentage.
0%.
Still 0%.
But for how long?
Mid-morning, while he was checking a batch of nails, he felt that small shiver behind his eyes again.
Without meaning to, the Status reappeared for a second.
The progress was still at 0%.
He let out a breath of relief.
Then, just as he was about to close the window, he noticed that line again.
Note: Lysara’s blood reacts strongly to intense emotions and sensory stimuli.
Caution is advised.
Arthur stared at the workshop wall.
“Caution,” he repeated under his breath.
“Easy to say.”
From the back of the shop came Brandt’s voice:
“Arthur!
When you finish with those blades, take the light load to the warehouse on Bridge Street.
And don’t be late, or your mother will worry.”
“Yes, Dad.”
He ran a hand over his face, still feeling the skin a little too sensitive under his fingers.
Maybe it was just his imagination.
Or maybe Phase 1 had already started working in silence.