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Chapter 1
The Bandit Who Couldn’t Hide Her Temper
When I opened my eyes, I found myself on the floor.
“So that whole ‘expensive liquor doesn’t cause hangovers’ thing was a lie after all.”
Beneath my cheek was the plush touch of an exquisite carpet—something so luxurious that a poor, low-ranking official like me could never dream of owning it. I must have gotten drunk and collapsed somewhere after another night of self-pity.
As I scratched my chin, something dark and sticky clung to my fingertips—thick and red, like blood.
“What is this… blood?”
But that couldn’t be right. I must have just vomited everything I drank last night before passing out cold.
My stomach burned as if on fire. Staggering to my feet, I tried to make sense of my surroundings.
‘Maybe some official’s guest lodging or something like that?’
Yet what I saw was far from that. The bed was immaculate, strewn with white orange blossoms, red roses, dried herbs, and fragrant sprigs. At the head of the bed, pristine linen sheets were neatly folded.
They were the unmistakable symbols of a wedding night.
“Why… why are these here?”
Puzzled, I turned my gaze toward the vanity.
In the mirror stood a woman so beautiful that even a rose in full bloom would bow its head in shame. Her hair shimmered like moonlight; her eyes, clear and blue as a frozen lake.
Her features were doll-like in their perfection, her lips a vivid red.
“That’s… me?”
That wasn’t the face I remembered.
I leaned closer to the mirror—and the moment my reflection met my eyes, a searing pain tore through my skull.
Memories not my own crashed over me like a tidal wave.
“Do not give the prisoner a single drop of water until she speaks! Show pity and you’ll end up like that wench—without nails or fingers, do you understand?!”
Mold crept along damp stone walls; not a shred of sunlight pierced the darkness.
I had been thrown into a dungeon, time itself eroding as pain became the only measure of my existence.
“Ah, right…”
I used to be a simple bureaucrat—humble, low-born, and often scorned, but with dreams nonetheless.
After my parents’ early deaths, I had sworn to become an honorable official, and I worked myself to the bone for that dream.
Until the day I discovered that Lombard’s state secrets were being leaked. I’d begun to investigate the culprit in secret… only to be caught.
Dragged into an underground cell, I had been tortured until death claimed me.
“Shall I tell you a secret? Don’t hate me. Hate the one who sent you to me.”
The last thing I saw before I died was the face of my tormentor, smiling as she brandished a red-hot iron.
“I definitely died…”
I stared blankly into the mirror.
The reflection staring back at me belonged to Elicia, the only niece of the Emperor of the great Valdin Empire, Duchess of Lombard—wife to the Northern Grand Duke—and the very woman I had seen in my final moments.
A woman outwardly pure as a white lily… yet rotten within, a demon in human skin.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Was I being punished for not doing enough good deeds in my past life? I couldn’t recall doing anything that wicked.
Reeling, I turned to the calendar.
“Imperial Year 874…”
Four years before my death.
So the summary was this: I died in the dungeons—only to awaken as the infamous Duchess of Lombard, the morning after her wedding night.
Outside, voices erupted.
“The lady is still resting! Please, you must wait!”
“I come on the Duke’s orders! Step aside!”
My mind raced.
‘If they come in and find me like this… what will happen?’
The thought chilled me to the bone. A dead soul reborn in another’s body? Anyone would call that demonic possession. I’d be burned at the stake before sundown.
Frantically, I wiped the dried red stains from my lips, threw on a fur shawl to cover the disheveled nightdress, and dove beneath the blankets.
“What’s with the commotion this early?”
At the sound of my voice, silence fell outside the door. After a pause, a hesitant reply came.
“M-My Lady?”
The steward, Bertol, who had moments ago been forcing his way in, now sounded utterly flustered.
‘Was my voice that intimidating?’
He stammered, “A-Alive—no, I mean…”
Ah, not fear of me—he was simply freezing. The winters in Lombard were brutal enough to freeze the tongues of tigers.
“Forgive me for disturbing your rest, My Lady. I shall return later.”
Remembering the old man’s chronic knee pain, I softened slightly—then immediately caught myself.
“You mean to bother me again later? Speak your business now and begone!”
“Y-Yes, My Lady!”
He finally entered, clutching a stack of papers, only to turn pale when our eyes met—as if he’d seen a ghost.
The documents in his trembling hands told me everything.
The Duchy had been without a mistress for years since the previous Duchess’s death. Bertol had managed the household in her absence, but now, by duty, the authority had to pass to me—Elicia.
Poor man. He must have dreaded handing such power to the woman infamous for her temper and cruelty.
“So, you want me to work?”
“Though you may be unaccustomed, My Lady, as the Duchess you must oversee the affairs of the domain.”
In my past life, I had known Bertol—a man of few words, steady and inscrutable. It was strange to see him quivering earlier, but now he seemed his usual composed self.
“Read it yourself, My Lady.”
For a moment I stared at him. Surely he knew that the former Elicia couldn’t read. Was this some ploy to humiliate me from the start?
“This isn’t even relevant to the Duchess’s duties,” I murmured, running a finger across the title page.
“The Census Report of the Lombard Territory.”
The steward froze.
“How curious,” I drawled. “If you’re this easily confused, Bertol, perhaps it’s time for you to retire?”
He blanched.
I smiled faintly.
“Relax. I have no interest in meddling with Lombard’s internal affairs. Keep managing things as you always have.”
He seemed to understand the unspoken warning.
“You may go. I’m tired.”
“I… thank you for your grace, My Lady.”
He fled the room, leaving the papers behind.
Alone, I glanced down at the report—and nearly laughed.
“Who prepared this nonsense?”
It was a mess, a crude shadow of the census I myself had compiled years ago when I still served as Lombard’s official. Population estimates were vague; data for outer districts blatantly wrong.
“At this rate, the tax system will collapse.”
And yet, as I turned the shoddy pages, I couldn’t help but smirk.
“So this is what becomes of Lombard without me? How amusing.”
After all, the entirety of the duchy’s household affairs—its numbers, systems, and secrets—were already inside my head.
