***
[Greetings, Host.]
"Ack!- what the f-"
Cordelia spun around, eyes scanning the room for the source of the synthesized voice. She wondered if she'd finally snapped, or if this was just some cruel, post-death hallucination.
It was almost funny; they said your life was supposed to flash before your eyes, but she could barely remember her own childhood, let alone this room.
"Dear, you're going to be late for your first day as a professor!"
"Say..." Cordelia paused, slowly turning to face the woman claiming to be her mother. "What?"
How had she gone from taking the heads of her enemies to grading papers? What was next, teaching the brats how to aim for the carotid? At least then she'd actually have a lesson plan.
[Welcome to the World of Zideus.]
[Would you like to proceed?]
The text didn't just ring in her head this time, it manifested. Particles of light coalesced in the air, going together into a translucent, cerulean interface. The holographic screen was hovering just inches from her face.
It was impossibly sharp, yet when she reached out, her fingers passed through the light like cold mist.
Cordelia cut her gaze toward the woman.
The "mother" stood less than two feet away, her brow furrowed in genuine, motherly concern. She was looking right through the glowing blue text, her eyes fixed solely on Cordelia.
She can't see it, Cordelia realized. It was unnerving, not just the invisible tech, but the suffocating warmth in the woman's expression.
This stranger doted on the body's previous owner with a sweetness that made Cordelia's skin crawl in a bad way.
"I..." Cordelia forced a breath, her instincts screaming to reach for a blade she no longer had. Instead, she wiped the confusion from her face and plastered on a bright, disarming smile. "Sorry, Mom . I was... having an incredibly vivid dream about being a spy. I think I started roleplaying in my sleep. Would you mind giving me a minute to wake up properly?"
The woman's worry melted into a fond, indulgent chuckle. "Oh, you and your imagination. Of course, honey. I just didn't want you to be late on such a big day. She turned toward the door, pausing with her hand on the frame. "Breakfast is ready downstairs. Don't let it get cold."
The door clicked shut, her eyes immediately darting back to the glowing blue interface hovering in the center of the room.
If she was going to survive this surreal nightmare, her answers were likely hidden behind that light.
"P-Proceed," she whispered, her voice cracking slightly as she tested the command.
The cerulean text shattered into a thousand tiny shards of light before reassembling themselves.
[Command Accepted]
[. . .]
[. . .]
[System Initiation Sequence: Complete]
╔════════════════════╗
Name: Cordelia Thatcher
Age: 24
Occupation: Professor at West Trinity Academy
Magic: Suture Magic
Level: 8
═══ CORE ATTRIBUTES ═══
Intelligence : 5000
Sensitivity : 200
Efficiency : 150
Resilience : 100
Mental Discipline : 250
Mana Capacity : 150
╚════════════════════╝
"I..."
Her legs gave out. She hit the floor hard, her knees cracking against the wood with a jarring thud. The stinging pain was immediate, the sensation of skin scraping raw, but she barely felt it.
This was beyond unbelievable.
It wasn't the pathetic numbers on the screen that horrified her, nor the fact that she'd been resurrected into some twisted fairy tale. It was the name.
Cordelia.
She was the infamous "useless waifu" of Reborn As The Strongest Assassin, the webnovel her little brother used to obsess over.
He'd spent years ranting about the series, his excitement only growing once he'd discovered what her real-world occupation actually was.
In the story, Cordelia was the equivalent of a Sakura or a Hinata: brilliant and academically gifted, but physically made of glass.
A flick of a finger could probably send her into a coma. She was all brain and zero bite.
The only "bright side" was that she happened to be her brother's favorite character.
The glaring, dark side was Cordelia didn't know a damn thing about the plot. All she had were fragmented memories of overhearing her brother's late-night rants and the occasional spoiler he'd shouted at her over dinner.
Honestly, she'd forgotten the lot. She was flying blind, and frankly, she didn't care. When your primary resume skill is "professional executioner," you tend to delete folders labeled Teenage Melodrama to make room for more useful data.
"What was the term? Har—...Harem?" She propped her chin in her hand, squinting at the ceiling. Harem-something-blah-blah. This was a 'harem' story, he said.
Lovely, what the fuck is that?