WTSP - 9

“…My whole body feels like it’s melted into mush.”

Finally, the Founding Anniversary party had ended, and I returned to the empress’s quarters with half my energy drained.

After dismissing Lena, who had left early to rest, I sat on the bed and gazed at the silver moonlight streaming through a gap in the curtains.

What an eventful day it had been. To think I’d face Uriel’s icy hostility—I never imagined living such a life even a week ago. A faint, wry laugh escaped me.

Who could’ve predicted that I’d end up inhabiting an extra character in my own novel? It was the kind of thing that only happened in fiction.

Though I was a national fencing champion—a special profession—I never considered myself extraordinary. I simply thought I was someone who happened to have slightly better reflexes than others.

In fact, I often envied my friends who lived ordinary college lives—sitting in cafés writing reports, sharing meals at the campus cafeteria, and chatting about lectures. That kind of mundane routine seemed so appealing.

Of course, my life wasn’t all loneliness and hardship.

Despite endless training and competition prep wearing me down physically, I drew strength from those who believed in me. Countless people in the fencing world saw me as a rising star—”Seo Yeon-hee,” the one they placed their hopes on.

But I never revealed my true feelings to them.

“I actually wanted to write. I’ve been writing since I was little.” To an athlete like me, writing felt like nothing more than a time-wasting hobby.

At least, that’s how my father saw it.

“How is he doing, Father?”

The man who raised me solely for his ambitions—had he never accepted his daughter’s dreams?

Staring at the pitch-black night sky, which seemed to absorb all light, my eyes filled with complex emotions. Though our argument had occurred just days ago, it already felt like a distant memory.

On the day I inhabited this body, I’d signed a publishing contract and returned home brimming with excitement, eagerly awaiting my father’s arrival.

Though he opposed any hobbies outside of sports, I believed he’d change his mind upon hearing about the publication contract.

My father, an Olympic silver medalist, had never claimed first place in anything. His lifelong rival—a genius fencer—was someone he both envied and admired, much like Mozart overshadowed Salieri.

“The difference between genius and mediocrity can’t be bridged no matter how hard you struggle,” he’d say.

“If I could just take that top spot once, I’d sell my soul to the devil, Yeon-hee.”

“Don’t say that, Father. Winning isn’t everything.”

“You don’t understand. People only remember the winners.”

Driven by impatience, he overtrained and eventually suffered a permanent injury, ending his career on the stage. For an Olympic silver medalist, the only future left was nurturing successors.

And Father wanted—or rather, demanded—that his daughter inherit that role.

I never had a choice. My mother lacked authority in household decisions; everything rested in Father’s hands.

Growing up, I never considered any path other than becoming a fencer. While my peers dreamed of becoming presidents, judges, or scientists, I always gave the same answer:

“I must become an Olympic fencing gold medalist.”

How could he have known that the daughter he raised so perfectly according to his plans would suddenly fall in love with writing novels?

That afternoon, when Father returned home around five o’clock, he seemed unusually cheerful. I vaguely recall agreeing with whatever he said to keep him happy.

As he hummed a tune, I cautiously handed him the contract, speaking lightly.

“This is the contract I signed today. Could you take a look, Father?”

“Hmm? What’s this? Party A agrees to publish Party B’s manuscript…”

“I’ve actually been posting novels online. I received an offer for publication.”

Watching his serious expression as he read the contract felt like ten seconds stretched into ten years.

Worried he might get upset, I hastily added explanations about the potential of my novel.

Though readers were few now, there was room for growth. I promised not to neglect fencing practice and vowed to balance both pursuits, even if it meant sleeping only four hours a day.

But…

“Seo Yeon-hee. What nonsense are you spouting? Web novels?”

Father furrowed his brow intensely while reading halfway through the contract.

And then—the scene unfolded before me as if in slow motion.

“Lately, you haven’t been focusing on fencing! Is this what you’ve been wasting your time on instead of practicing? Have you lost your mind?!”

The contract in his hand tore into dozens of pieces, fluttering to the ground like dead leaves. Something inside me snapped.

Staring blankly at the falling fragments, I slowly raised my head to meet his gaze.

How could you do this to me? Do I have no rights? Was I merely your puppet?

Twenty-four years of life flashed before my eyes.

A daily existence where my desires were always pushed aside, sleepless nights spent training under Father’s relentless demands—and…

“That’s not what you wanted, right?”

“What? What did you say? With the Olympics so close, how dare you…”

“I’m not your puppet!”

Hot tears welled up in my eyes. I had worked tirelessly to fulfill his dreams, but all I felt now was betrayal.

He had never cared about what I truly wanted.

Couldn’t he understand me, just this once? Even if he couldn’t cheer me on, was understanding and accepting me really so difficult?

Through blurry tears, my gaze landed on the trophy shelf.

Without thinking, I grabbed one of the trophies.

<Asian Fencing Championship Winner>—a symbol of glory engraved with pride.

Once, I cherished it deeply, but now it felt like nothing more than shackles binding me.

A single hot tear rolled down my cheek.

I want to break free. From a life lived for others, from a life without freedom.

“I’m not a tool to fulfill your dreams!”

I hurled the trophy at my feet. This wasn’t the prize I had yearned for.

At that moment, a loud crash echoed, and my father’s face blurred before me.

The world shook violently, and dizziness overwhelmed me. As my upper body tilted backward, I whispered my final words—or so it seemed.

When I opened my heavy eyelids again, the figure filling my vision wasn’t my shocked father—it was Emperor Serdelius of the Carlot Empire.

Within less than a week, so much had happened…

Had I entered Ophelia’s body the moment I threw the trophy? Was that why I later threw away the necklace Serdelius had bestowed?

As I pieced together my fragmented memories, the scattered puzzle pieces began to fit together.

“So what? I still don’t know why I ended up in this girl’s body.”

My mind was a tangled mess. The events of the past week were overwhelming, too much to bear easily.

Though I had gradually come to naturally identify as Ophelia Meredith, a lingering sense of helplessness remained.

Serdelius, Brilline, Uriel, Rovair…

Murmuring the names of my novel’s characters—no, now companions—I massaged my stiff shoulders and rose from the bed.

To clear my cluttered thoughts, I needed exercise.

If I pushed myself until I was out of breath, surely all worries would vanish like smoke.

Changing into training clothes and shoes from the wardrobe, I muttered to myself.

“For now, living as Ophelia is key. I’ll figure out how to set everything right later.”

After tightly tying my shoelaces, I peeked out of the door. Lena was nowhere to be seen—likely resting.

I’ll just get some fresh air. No harm in that.

[Heading to the training grounds for a bit. I’ll be back soon, so don’t worry, Lena.]

Leaving a note just in case, I slipped out of the empress’s quarters and headed toward the training grounds. At this late hour, the place was deserted.

Scanning the empty training area, my eyes landed on a wooden sword meant for novice knights.

It was the same one I couldn’t lift on the first day.

Though I’d only trained three times since then, I somehow felt confident I could handle it now. Despite Ophelia’s frailty, my stamina had improved significantly over the past three days.

“It’s not that I can’t do it—I just didn’t try. Anyone can train if they put their mind to it.”

Reciting a clichéd line from a gym trainer, I gripped the wooden sword with both hands.

It was a bit heavy, but manageable. Summoning strength in my forearms, I lifted it, feeling its weight settle onto my wrists.

Though slightly burdensome, it wasn’t so weak that it would slip from my grasp. Smiling faintly, I thought that with another week of conditioning, I’d be able to wield it with one hand.

Even though it was a wooden sword, holding it rekindled the sensations of my fencing days.

Perhaps, deep down, I was excited to escape my father’s shadow.

Swinging the sword aimlessly in the air, I suddenly sensed movement behind me. Instinctively, I spun around and thrust my arm forward—not a calculated move, but a reflex honed by years of fencing.

The dull tip of the wooden sword sliced through the air. And where it pointed…

“…Huh?”