If anyone back in the nineties told me I’d spend my second life hitting forty years old as an elven teenager shredding an armored electric string-axe, I would have thrown my beer at them, I thought to myself, my eyes narrowed as I stared into the dark, smoky canopy of the split-stone canyon.
Before I was Fadwin Fay Arcaneya, the Second Prince of the High-Elf Monarchy, my name was Sara Jordain. Back on Earth, I lived for the gritty, sweat-soaked underground punk rock scene, spending my nights screaming into broken microphones and hauling heavy guitar amplifiers up basement stairs. I was a proud rock star and a lesbian, living life entirely on my own terms until my time cut short during the pandemic, and my past life faded to black. When the light faded on Earth, I expected absolute nothingness. Instead, I woke up inside the glittering, overly aristocratic magical hierarchy of a High-Elf dynasty.
At first glance, being reincarnated as a male prince with a Bard lineage looked like a great gig. I had a tall frame, an incredibly handsome face, and a direct ticket to eventually meet my new fiancée, Princess Kirra Fay Befredon, and attend the prestigious Befredon Royal Dungeon Diving Academy for my last ten years of school. But my music-born brain ran headfirst into a massive, world-changing roadblock the second I audited the foreign political landscape of my marriage contract.
While my homeland of Arcaneya operated under a traditional crown rule, the kingdom of Befredon—the nation I was marrying into—was a strict, unyielding Matriarchy.
Worse, I had been in this new world for forty years now, but under elven biological metrics, forty was still considered a teenager. In elven society, you aren't legally or physically recognized as a full adult until you cross the fifty-year threshold. So while my mind was sitting on seventy-seven total years of raw experience, my physical form was still locked in the reckless, fast-firing growth of a teenager. And as a teenage male prince marrying into a foreign Matriarchy, I possessed absolutely zero political power in the grand scheme of governance.
In Befredon, women held all the lines of sovereign succession, the legislative control, and the true administrative authority. Men were treated as frontline military utilities—heavy-duty vanguard units meant to lead the mosh pit on the battlefield and secure dynastic bloodlines through strategic contracts, but completely barred from the actual seats of legislative power. The second I married Kirra, she would hold all the real authority while I functioned strictly as her high-tier defender.
To make matters more intense, my older brother back in Arcaneya, the First Prince, was a power-hungry, aristocratic psycho who absolutely wanted me dead. He couldn't stand the fact that a rogue vanguard Bard like me was securing a direct marital alliance with the future Matriarch of the Befredon crown, and he had spent my entire elven youth actively trying to assassinate me to clear his own path. Which was exactly why I had completely ignored the high court's diplomatic transport guidelines, deploying a tight guard instead of riding in a safe, velvet-lined royal carriage where my brother's killers could easily corner me.
"The wind smells like burnt silver, Prince!" a harsh, rapid-fire voice snarled from the brush at the edge of the canyon trail.
Sprinting out of the tree line to flank my immediate path was Retar. My closest friend, my favorite frontline partner, and the absolute undisputed anchor of my mosh pit was a twelve-year-old Ratkin Berserker. Because his species matured on a much faster biological timeline than my slow elven heritage, twelve placed him right in the middle of his fierce, hyper-aggressive teenage years. He stood exactly one meter tall, a compact ball of unbridled adrenaline covered in rich brown fur, with a distinctive, sharp black patch of fur running straight over his left eye like a natural combat mask. He wore a maze of mismatched, welded plate-metal scrap armor that clinked with pure chaotic weight, his remaining yellow-slitted eye darting frantically down toward a hidden ravine while his long hairless tail whipped the dirt and his ears twitched to the internal tempo of the battle.
As an Intermediate-tier Berserker, Retar didn't give a single damn about the elegant spells of the high court. His entire style was built on pure, unenchanted physical rage and muscle-bound kinetic output.
"Goblin outpost right below us, Fadwin!" Retar barked, baring his long, yellow teeth as he aggressively pointed a massive, iron battleaxe toward a large canvas tent structure nestled in the deep woods of the Befredon Forest. "They've got high-elf cages down there! A harvesting line! They're getting ready to move prisoners to the breeding pens!"
My mind instantly ran a high-priority pass on the tactical layout. Twelve of my heavily armored vanguard soldiers filed in silently behind Retar, their pristine armor catching the dim canopy light as they held their weapons at absolute readiness. No slow diplomats. No heavy bureaucracy. Just twelve elite high-elf knights and one twelve-year-old, brown-furred Ratkin ready to systematically clear the camp.
"Twelve knights on the flanking lines, Retar on the center breach," I commanded with royal authority, a savage, manic grin splitting across my face as I unlatched my masterwork guitar-axe from my chest harness.
I didn't use a traditional, elegant, sylvan instrument like a lute or a flute. My weapon was a heavy, aggressively angled stringed instrument forged out of dense, resonant High Elf steel and ironwood, its flat surface etched with thick, parallel silver conduits that perfectly mirrored the copper wiring of a vintage guitar amplifier. Turning to my squad, I gestured toward the massive, unthrottled amplifier arrays packed into our heavy storage wagons.
"Unleash the audio field," I ordered smoothly, my fingers aggressively slamming down onto the heavy steel strings. "Let's crank the volume until the static clears out of the loop."
BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZT!
The custom instrument violently detonated with a deafening, white-hot screech of raw, distorted lightning magic. Moving down the ravine path, I tore into a fierce, heavy, and heavily distorted eight-chord rock progression. The soundboard pulverized the air parameters, blasting straight through the canyon walls and the canvas structures below with an absolute, bone-rattling stadium-scale concussion.
And then, I leaned into the vocal processor, letting my voice boom over the unthrottled musical cacophony, shouting the anthemic lyrics with raw power:
"It's the eye of the tiger, it's the thrill of the fight! Rising to the challenge of our rivals!
"MOSH PIT!" Retar screamed with absolute berserk fury.
The twelve-year-old, brown-furred Ratkin vaulted cleanly over the ridge line, his massive double-bitted iron battleaxe spinning in a fluid, terrifying rotation arc that carried immense kinetic power despite his one-meter frame. He crashed straight through the center boundary fences. Beside him, my twelve high-elf knights surged forward with high-tier iron shears and master keys, their blades clashing against goblin steel to the steady, driving beat of eighties arena rock.
For fifteen grueling minutes, it was an absolute slaughterhouse out there. The goblin harvesting line was being systematically liquidated in real-time. High-pitched, blood-curdling shrieks of absolute terror and dying agony erupted across the outer campground layout, completely sliced through by the heavy thud of our baseline and my driving guitar riffs. Retar was an absolute machine of pure kinetic output, his iron axe cracking skull-bones and reducing their hide huts to smoking piles of black ash while my chords tore their defensive ranks apart.
The unthrottled carnage slowly ground down, the high-pitched shrieks fading into the damp air until nothing was left but the low, crackling hum of burning camps and the final, lingering feedback of my guitar riff dying out across the campground layout.
I slung the steel instrument back over my shoulder, adjusting the high-tier crest across my breastplate. "Let's check the central tent," I told Retar, wiping a streak of green blood from my gauntlet.
I stepped cleanly into the central aisle of the large iron cage facility, my deep, piercing emerald green eyes scanning the dark rows until they landed dead center on a suspended, purple-haired elven frame dangling from a central timber post. Her crystal-blue eyes were wide, running what looked like a rapid diagnostic pass on my visual parameters.
Striding forward with absolute executive confidence, my pristine armor clinking softly across the dirt floorboards, I looked up at her suspended chassis.
"Are you okay, miss?" I asked, my voice smooth, measured, and entirely clear of any localized stress markers. "We just finished cleaning up the blasted goblin camp."
"We spotted it while I was on my way to the Befredon Royal Dungeon Diving Academy for my last 10 years of school," I explained smoothly, gesturing casually toward the open tent flap with my leather-gloved hand before bowing with absolute, unthrottled high-court etiquette. "Hi, I am Second Prince Fadwin Fay Arcaneya. Son of Thorion Fay Arcaneya, High King of the Kingdom of Arcaneya... and fiancé to Princess Kirra Fay Befredon, future Queen of the Kingdom of Befredon."
Turning on my heel, I signaled my twelve vanguard soldiers. "Let's get these chains off and these people out of here."
My knights stepped forward with heavy metallic clinks, their high-tier iron shears forcefully severing the shackles binding her wrists to the timber post. Her hybrid frame dropped back down to the dirt floorboards, stumbling slightly as her boots struck the soil.
I stepped closer, offering a steadying gauntlet while my long eyebrows narrowed in polite concern. "What’s your name, ma'am? And the little girl's name?"
She didn't respond, remaining in total, uncalibrated shock. Backed by my guards, we walked outside into the open-air parameters of the Befredon Forest, where goblin corpses spread out everywhere across the blood-slicked dirt, and my rock band packed up our massive amplifier arrays into the storage wagons.
It took until that night by the campfire for the silence to finally break.
The crackling orange flames licked up against the damp evening air, casting long, dancing shadows across the edge of our temporary wilderness camp. The surrounding forest and mountains in the distance had faded into a deep, silent black wall. I sat across from the purple-haired elven woman, elegantly tossing another sulfur log into the crackling campfire to keep the thermal grid stable. Beside her, a little freckled girl named Amy was clinging tightly to her green leather ranger vest.
Suddenly, the woman forced her jaw to move, her deadpan voice cutting through the quiet hiss of the burning timber logs:
"My name's Princess Kirra Fay Befredon," she announced flatly. "Thank you for the rescue."
I turned my head, my long eyebrows narrowing slightly in total, absolute system shock, before my deep emerald green eyes softened with high-court warmth. A wide smile broke across my face—a genuine, unthrottled expression of pure relief that highlighted the noble contours of my face as I looked at my hidden fiancée.
Beside me, Retar’s twelve-year-old brown ears suddenly pinched completely flat against his skull, the black patch over his left eye crinkling in immediate fury. His long hairless tail went violently rigid, his single yellow optic widening in immediate tactical panic as his rodent snout twitched in the air.
Something is wrong, my internal executive-punk processor redlined, my fingers instantly twitching toward the neck of my steel instrument as my elven survival instincts locked down. I was operating purely on a veteran vanguard's muscle memory.
Before I could even shout a warning to my twelve knights patrolling the perimeter, Kirra suddenly stood straight up and violently spun around, her white-fuzzed owl ears pinning completely flat against her hair as if she had just heard an ungodly scream that my ears couldn't pick up at all. Her body strained to execute an immediate defensive evasion loop.
But her physical reflexes were completely useless against the absolute, zero-latency speed of the assault.
A sharp, silver flash of cold steel cut through the campfire glare, severing her neck in a single, silent microsecond.
"KIRRA!" I screamed, my voice fracturing into a horrific, distorted screech of raw terror as my emerald green eyes watched her head go spinning cleanly through the air.
The crackling campfire, the star-lit canopy, and her tumoring porcelain-flat expression blurred into a chaotic vortex before her vision cut out entirely, leaving me staring down in pure horror as her headless body began to fall heavily toward the dirt floor of the forest.
But right at that exact, catastrophic microsecond, the laws of standard magical compliance violently ruptured.
BOOM.
A giant, colossal mass of raw mana, unlike anything I had ever felt before in my forty years in this new world, was violently released from her falling corpse. The air pressure dropped to an agonizing absolute zero as the overflowing energy began condensing right above her frame, molding and solidifying into the terrifying shape of a colossal Owl Bear. The creature manifested as a ghostly green specter, its massive form radiating a suffocating emerald glare that instantly bleached the orange firelight right out of the clearing.
The phantom beast threw its massive, feathered head backward and let out a bone-rattling, hooting roar that shook the ancient timber roots of the entire forest.
ROOOOOOOOOOOOAAARRRRR!
The acoustic force of the primordial cry hit us like a solid physical wall. Instantly, every single one of us froze stiff. My muscles locked up completely, my fingers paralyzed against the steel neck of my instrument. Beside me, Retar’s twelve-year-old frame went entirely rigid, his single yellow optic wide with absolute instinctual terror as his massive battleaxe remained frozen mid-air. Even the dark silhouette of the assassin was pinned dead in his tracks, his blade locked in place by the crushing weight of the specter's presence.
And then, a cold, creeping dread rolled through the thick shadows of the Befredon Forest. It felt as if every single apex predator, hidden monster, and wild beast within a fifty-mile radius had just simultaneously locked their slitted eyes straight onto the killer, glaring at the assassin from the dark brush with an unyielding promise of absolute slaughter.
"Hehe," a dry, rasping chuckle leaked from beneath the assassin's dark cowl. The killer slowly lowered his blade, his posture shifting as he forced his locked joints to move against the primordial pressure. "Looks like my plans will have to wait... Another intruder is coming, and I am not stupid enough to try to take on Kristorf, this spirit, and every single beast in this forest all at once."
The shadowy figure offered a sharp, mocking nod through the dim green fog. "Until next time, Prince. This will not be the last time we meet."
POOF.
With a sudden, violent snap, the silhouette vanished entirely into a dense puff of thick black smoke, leaving behind nothing but the faint scent of sulfur and dead magic.
The moment the threat cleared, the colossal ghostly Owl Bear slowly lowered its massive green head, settling its glowing form back down into Kirra's fallen body. The emerald mist was forcefully reabsorbed straight through her skin, sinking deep back into her core until the last of the spectral light vanished. But the physical reality hadn't changed. The energy retreated, leaving her remaining completely lifeless and headless on the blood-slicked soil.
Before my brain could even run a tactical calculation on how to reattach a royal asset's skull, a sudden, blinding beam of pure white light descended straight out of the high canopy.
The sheer energy of the transport spell violently displaced the surrounding forest shadows, turning the damp clearing into a stark, blinding sanctuary as the blinding column of light rapidly dispersed. Standing right in front of me, his heavy silver plate armor gleaming under the starlight and his snapping turtle beast soul subtly humming with mountain-shaking authority, was Captain Kristorf Van Paladin—the legendary commander of the Befredon Royal Guard.
My mind instantly flashed back across my elven youth, pulling up a high-priority memory file from forty years ago. I had met this man once before. It was back across the border in Arcaneya, during a high-court sovereign summit, when I was nothing but a tiny, reincarnated infant wrapped in royal silk.
Kristorf didn't look at me. His deeply weathered, battle-hardened face was completely stripped of its usual combat composure, his ancient eyes locking straight down onto the headless princess lying in the dirt.
The massive, ironwood-plated bunker of a man slowly reached his armored hand down toward her fallen form without even looking up at me. His gaze remained anchored entirely on the child he was sworn to protect.
"Make sure she makes it back home," Kristorf said, his deep, mountain-shaking voice dropping into a quiet, unyielding rasp that carried the absolute weight of a terminal directive. "I'm counting on you, Prince."
"S-She's already dead," I stammered, my forty-year-old elven teenage tongue violently hitching in my throat, completely frozen by the sheer panic of the disaster lying at my boots. I didn't want to say the words. I didn't want to define a failure this absolutely.
Kristorf didn't flinch at my report. He just stared down at her frame and muttered a final, landscape-weary whisper into the dark forest air:
"I won't fail this time."
At that exact microsecond, the veteran Paladin aggressively concentrated his remaining mana pools, forcing his core to redline as a blinding, white-hot elemental glare exploded outward from his silver Mithril plate armor. The sheer physical pressure of his aura violently displaced the surrounding forest shadows, turning the damp clearing into a stark, blinding sanctuary as he closed his eyes and began to loudly chant the ancient, forbidden rites of high-court divine intervention:
“By the sovereign light, let my vital spark answer this final bequest, and shatter the limits of this cruel fate! I yield my marrow, my mantle, and my breath—grant my strength to the fallen, that they may rise in my stead!”
The moment the final syllable tore past his lips, a catastrophic wave of divine intervention pulverized the air parameters.
THUD.
The massive, unmoving bunker of Orichalcum steel violently dropped to his knees, his golden-etched breastplate slamming heavily onto the dirt as his life-force was completely siphoned right out of his physical chassis. Kristorf fell entirely lifeless to the forest floorboards, his snapping turtle beast soul going instantly silent as his vital spark transferred into the void.
And at that exact microsecond, a blinding flash of white light enveloped the fallen girl.
When the glare rapidly dispersed, I gasped, my emerald green eyes widening in absolute, breathless relief. The forbidden spell had worked with zero-latency physical accuracy. A flawless, perfectly formed new head was resting right on Kirra's shoulders, re-attaching seamlessly to her deep green leather ranger vest. Her long, vibrant purple hair shifted slightly across her chest profile, and her iconic white snow owl wing-ears branched cleanly out of her hairline, with absolutely zero standard elven ears in sight.
The divine intervention had successfully restored her life force, but she was still unconscious. She remained completely motionless and silent, her closed eyelids making it look as if she was simply locked in a deep, unthrottled sleep.
And right beside her newly restored, resting frame, dead center in a dark, widening puddle of fresh elven blood on the soil, her original severed head still lay on the ground, staring up at the starlight with wide, unblinking crystal-blue eyes.
I stood completely frozen, the neck of my armored electric string-axe slipping slightly in my numb leather gauntlets as my punk-rock corporate mind hit absolute psychological bankruptcy. Beside me, Retar’s twelve-year-old brown ears pinned flat in total, stunned silence, his single yellow optic fixed on the duplicate skulls while our twelve high-elf vanguard knights dropped their heads in silent, unbridled warrior grief.
We were completely stranded in the dark of the Befredon Forest, staring at a dead Captain, a completely unresponsive fiancée, and her own severed head lying in the mud.
What happened?
I remembered a sudden, sharp pain in my neck.
I opened my eyes, my breath catching in my throat as my internal awareness frantically scrambled to run a diagnostic check on my surroundings. The smoky air of the camp hit my lungs, heavy with the sharp scent of burning timber logs and sulfur sap. I slowly tilted my head down to look at the ground beneath my boots, and my entire world ground to a sudden, absolute halt.
I was looking directly at my own face, looking back at me with cold, dead, blue eyes.
"Ahhhhhh!"
I let out a piercing, utterly girlish scream, the sound tearing violently out of my newly generated throat and shattering the quiet hiss of the burning timber logs.
The cold, calculated armor of my inner world completely fractured, collapsing under a massive wave of raw, un-throttled panic. But as the echo of that desperate cry tore through the dark canopies of the Befredon Forest, something deep inside me violently shattered.
The invisible, protective matrix I had built around my psyche for forty years instantly fell away.
The artificial grid vanished, and the true weight of the world rushed into focus all at once, hitting my senses with a raw, undeniable clarity that left me breathless.
This was the absolute, unyielding moment where the hidden architects' grand plans completely failed.
They had engineered this baseline layout, keeping our human identities isolated within separate, detached strategic boxes. They had forced a thirty-five-year-old male corporate executive's brain to view everything through a cold, floating, game-like status window, manipulating me into thinking in technical jargon and stubbornly viewing my own female body as nothing but a temporary avatar inside a simulation spreadsheet.
But by forcing a physical decapitation pass on my frame, their entire system calculation violently glitched out. The trauma didn't cause an administrative reset—it shattered that glass game window into millions of unrecoverable pieces, burning away the old male lens entirely.
The final thread attaching my identity to my past life as a man back on Earth was severed the exact second my neck was cut. While I maintained my hard-won executive knowledge, my past memories, and the analytical sharpness of my old life, they were no longer a wall separating me from the dirt beneath my boots. The game-like elements faded entirely from my vision, evaporating into the smoky night air as the creators completely lost control of their asset.
I was no longer looking through a status interface at an unreconciled error or a broken inventory unit. I was looking through my own real eyes at my own dead face. I finally embraced my true identity and my new life for exactly what it was. This wasn't a game. It wasn't a digital rollout or a simulation. It was my real life, my real body, and my real blood staining the forest floorboards.
I was well and truly Kirra Fay Befredon.
My hands trembled violently as my leather-gloved fingers pressed hard against the solid, warm flesh of my new neck, my unblinking crystal-blue eyes wide with a terrifyingly clear understanding of the stakes.
I died.