This Life, I Will Be the Protagonist

On the rooftop across from the manor, the elf was perched on the edge of the eaves, long legs swinging idly in the air.

"She reminds me of you when you were young," said an elderly voice from behind her. "Only, she's much cuter."

From the shadow behind her, a dwarf stepped out. She was barely as tall as the elf's shin, her silver hair coiled into a neat bun.

"Isn't she one of the apprentices you picked for me?" she demanded.

Lightchaser curled her lip in irritation. "What do you mean, your apprentice? That's my apprentice. I'm still looking for yours."

The dwarf kicked at her leg. Lightchaser dodged it easily.

"You messaged me, said you found three promising brats and I could take my pick. So where are the other two?"

Lightchaser went completely silent.

The dwarf sneered. "With one word, I could have Barthemon stop helping with that little 'training game' you've arranged."

Knowing full well what her mentor was like, Lightchaser dropped the act. "...What do you want?"

"I like this apprentice of yours. Give her to me."

"Sure," Lightchaser replied coolly. "If you can convince her to leave me and follow you, she's yours."

"Great. You won't mind if I turn up the difficulty on your little game then?"

"She's not officially my apprentice yet!" Lightchaser snapped, genuinely offended now. "You can't just barge into her training. Wait... were you involved during the arena too?"

The dwarf didn't answer. Instead, she suddenly looked every bit her age, eyes foggy as if lost in memory. She tilted her head and asked vaguely, "Hm? What did you say?"

Lightchaser stared, exasperated.

She grumbled a long, loud rant, muttering about how infuriating her old mentor could be...

The dwarf rubbed her ear, held her tongue for five minutes, then gave up and sighed.

"You made me lose my favorite apprentice. You owe me one."

All the sharp wit and emotion in Lightchaser's face drained away like a receding tide. She went blank, unable to decide what kind of expression to make.

It wasn't cold or defiant—it was simply... lost.

Seeing her like that, the dwarf couldn't help herself. She gave Lightchaser another kick before retreating into the shadows once more.

...

On the first morning of the trial, Rita barely dared to move.

She spent most of the day crammed inside a storage cabinet, peeking through the cracks to watch the staff passing by.

Her glowing wings, once a source of pride and power, had become a liability. In daylight, they shimmered like flowing fire, impossible to ignore. Even a glance could give her away.

She was supposed to gather detailed information on two employees each day—how they walked, spoke, acted. The thought of that made her anxious.

By the second day, Rita had mapped out the staff's general routines and assigned areas. Only then did she start moving between rooms, observing individuals more closely, eavesdropping on conversations.

It didn't take long for her to realize how naïve her original plan had been.

Trailing two people per day while staying hidden was far too difficult, and doing so meant missing out on everyone else.

The better strategy was to divide the building into zones and systematically observe every staff member in each section. From there, she could extract key info from their conversations and organize it later.

To that end, she salvaged discarded paper and pens from trash bins and began creating her own files—notes, charts, corrections.

Late at night, she would stand in front of a bathroom mirror and practice the mannerisms she'd seen. Over and over again.

How to sit, how to walk, how to talk—the rhythm, the pitch, the vocabulary.

It was brutally hard.

Back in the arena, just standing still meant she'd turn her body slightly and grip her dagger, always ready to kill or be killed.

Now, learning noble etiquette meant shattering that version of herself and rebuilding from the ground up.

She had to look relaxed. Graceful. At ease.

Each day, the girl in the mirror changed.

Unlike the classes she'd taken back on Earth—where she'd zone out for 40 of the 45 minutes—Rita now studied with strict discipline.

Every night, she taught herself until 1 or 2 a.m.

She hadn't even been in this world for three months, but she could barely remember who she'd been before.

After etiquette training, she'd take a cold shower to wash off the day's sweat, which clung to her from hours of hiding in tight spaces. She couldn't risk being sniffed out.

Her clothes were harder to deal with.

Zanga, located in the southern part of Kasilanar, was damp in the spring. Even her innermost layers would only half-dry overnight, leaving behind a sour smell.

The nobles had terrifyingly sensitive noses. On day three, they were already sniffing the air and asking if something had spoiled.

Rita clenched her jaw. These people were so damn picky. This сhаptеr wаs mаdе pоssiblе by thе МV_LЕМРYR соmmunity.

Thankfully, the spice recipe Mistblade had once taught her came in handy. The ingredients were simple; the key was in the preparation method.

She found substitutes, made the blend, and kept it on her to mask any scent. Crisis averted.

Food was an even bigger problem.

These people only ate the freshest ingredients. She had no chance of sneaking into their pantries at night—goblins cleared all leftovers and garbage at the end of each workday.

So Rita struck during the day.

Each day, she would steal small amounts of food from 8 to 9 different targets, just enough to survive and power her stealth skill.

Once she hit someone, she avoided them for at least five days before stealing from them again.

She clung to everything Lightchaser had taught her.

Lightchaser had a nasty temper. She'd said herself—she never repeated instructions.

Rita often didn't understand her teachings at the time, so she memorized them blindly and tried to work out their meaning later.

Recently, something else had caught her attention.

One of the noble girls in the building, Sheera, was being scammed by another noble named Margot.

It was about a skill book—an expensive, rare one.

From what Rita had gathered, Sheera's family had agreed to the costly purchase for her sake. If they found out it was fake, Sheera would be exiled... to a place like Gilane.

Listening to Margot sneer about it with that poisonous tone while Rita crouched inside a chimney, she clenched her cookie so hard it crumbled in her fist.

A place like Gilane? What the hell was that supposed to mean?