One moment Aleria was still trapped in the Nightmare World, the baby angel's voice echoing softly as it announced—almost cheerfully—that her game time limit had ended.
The next moment she gasped.
She was floating.
For a single, unreal heartbeat she hovered above her own bed, suspended in the quiet air of her bedchamber—and then gravity remembered her.
It took her.
She fell—barely a meter—but it was enough. She hit the mattress hard, bounced, and tumbled off the side, slamming into the floor with a sharp, unmistakably girlish yelp as the breath was punched clean out of her lungs.
Aleria lay there, stunned, staring up at the luxurious ceiling.
Polished wooden beams. Embroidered drapes. Candlelight flickering gently, warm and steady, as if this room had never known war. As if it had never heard screaming steel or smelled blood.
Silence.
Someone—probably the maids—had left a glass bottle of wine on the bedside table. It caught the candlelight faintly, untouched.
She blinked once.
Then again.
The Nightmare World was gone.
"…That wasn't a dream," she murmured. "Was it?"
Slowly, she raised her hands into view.
They were still small. Still elegant.
But not the same.
Her fingers flexed. Her wrists rolled. There was strength there now—quiet, coiled, undeniable. Not bulky. Not crude. A promise beneath soft skin, like a blade hidden under silk.
Her barbarian body had followed her back.
Not her weapons. Not her armor.
Just her.
And gods—she felt good.
Not merely rested. Not merely healed.
Charged.
The way you felt after something brutal and perfect—after your muscles had been wrung dry and then rebuilt stronger, cleaner, hungrier. Her body hummed softly beneath her skin, alive and awake.
Aleria rolled onto her back, drew her knees in, planted her hands by her ears—and moved.
She rolled onto her shoulders, kicked explosively upward, used momentum and flexibility together, and landed in a low squat with effortless grace.
She froze.
Across the room, a tall mirror leaned against the far wall.
And in it—
She saw herself.
A short young woman, barely over a hundred and fifty centimeters tall. Smooth, luminous skin catching candlelight in soft highlights. A petite frame shaped into an exaggerated, dangerous hourglass that made her breath hitch.
Her face was heart-shaped and doll-like—large violet eyes framed by long lashes, sharp, delicate brows, a small button nose, and soft lips parted in disbelief. No paint. No artifice. Just raw, impossible femininity.
Her hair spilled down her back in a glossy curtain of pale gold, straight and heavy, reaching to her hips.
Her body was… unreal.
A narrow ribcage flowed into a softly defined abdomen. Strength lived there—subtle, controlled—rising into a dramatic chest that strained against the thin fabric of her nightgown. Her lower back curved deeply, tipping her hips just enough to feel dangerous. Her waist cinched sharply before flaring into wide, rounded hips and thick, powerful thighs that promised speed, balance, and impact.
Her nightgown barely held the line.
It rode high on her legs. Clung where it shouldn't. Shifted with every breath like it was on the verge of surrender.
She turned slowly before the mirror.
Everything moved.
"…What the hell," she whispered.
She took a step—and felt it immediately. The unfamiliar weight. The sway. The vivid response of her body to the simplest motion. Heat rushed to her cheeks as she watched herself move, watched the way her reflection answered gravity with shameless, unapologetic presence.
Power and femininity tangled together in a way that made her pulse jump.
If she'd been alone—truly alone—she might have lingered. Might have explored. Might have tested the limits of this new embodiment.
But then—
Distant sounds cut through the quiet.
Steel. Shouts. The low thunder of battle beyond the walls.
The siege was still raging.
Reality slammed back into place.
Aleria straightened. The flush faded, replaced by something sharper. Harder.
Resolve.
She wasn't just a soft princess anymore.
She was a barbarian now.
A warrior princess.
And somewhere out there, they needed her.
However, as she tried to make her way toward the wardrobe, her steps slowed.
Without meaning to, she drifted closer to the mirror instead.
Her eyes caught movement first—soft, undeniable motion. The gentle sway of her hips. The way her chest responded to even the smallest shift of her weight. She stopped, breath shallow, watching herself as if she were someone else entirely.
She did a small jump.
The reaction was instant—hypnotic. Her body answered gravity with a vivid, shameless rhythm that made her heart stutter. Heat rushed up her neck. She swallowed hard, staring at her reflection as if it might disappear if she blinked.
It didn't.
Her hands moved before her mind could stop them.
The moment her palms pressed against her chest, a sharp, unexpected sound escaped her lips. A moan—soft, startled, far too sensitive for her liking. The sensation rippled through her, overwhelming and electric, and in that same breath she tugged her nightgown downward.
The fabric slid easily.
Freed, her chest settled with a heavy, beautiful bounce that left her staring in open disbelief. Despite their size—far larger than anything she remembered—they were smooth, full, and impossibly firm, crowned with small pink nipples that stood out vividly against her pale skin.
She dragged the gown lower still.
Her reflection stole the breath from her lungs.
The curve of her waist, the smooth lines shaping her stomach, flowing naturally down into the soft, feminine fullness of her hips. Everything about her felt sculpted—delicate and powerful at once. Even the most intimate parts of her looked untouched, perfect, and frighteningly sensitive.
She barely brushed her hand lower.
The response was instant.
Pleasure hit her like lightning—sharp, overwhelming, and far too intense. She gasped, a high, girlish sound that echoed in the quiet room and sent panic rushing through her chest.
"No—"
She tore her hand away as if burned.
Heart pounding, face flushed, she spun away from the mirror and hurried to the wardrobe, fingers trembling as she began searching desperately for clothes.
No. No touching herself again.
That had been… too much.
Too sudden. Too intense.
She was too soft now. Too sensitive. And that terrified her far more than the siege raging beyond the walls.
Nonetheless she quickly crossed the room fully naked now, the cold air brushing against her skin as she stormed toward the grand wardrobe. Flinging it open, she nearly groaned—inside were only rows of medieval dresses and delicate undergarments, all fine silk, lace, and embroidery—utterly useless for battle.
She dug deeper.
Behind one panel: jewelry.
Behind another: hidden compartments.
And finally—hope.
Her fingers closed around something practical at last: a plain white bra and panties. She slipped the panties on with relief, but the bra… no chance. It was laughably small.
Thinking quickly, she grabbed a thick white dress, tore a strip from it, and tied it tightly across her chest to bind her large breasts in place—not elegant, but effective.
She found white thigh-high stockings, the type that clipped neatly to her panties with subtle straps. A winter nightgown followed, thick but far too short—acting more like a tight shirt than anything protective. Still, it gave her a layer. At the bottom of the drawer, she found two soft blue ribbons and tied her long golden hair into twin tails, tugging them into shape with battle-ready focus.
Lastly, she slipped on thin white gloves to protect her hands. That was it. She had no armor yet, and her body was still almost completely exposed—her chest barely wrapped, her hips half-bare, and her thighs gleaming between the high stockings and the shirt-dress.
She didn't care.
The battle was calling.
Aleria flung open the tall double doors of her bedchamber, then paused—peering carefully into the hallway. No one. Just shadows... and the cold gaze of display armors lining the walls, like ghostly sentinels. Rows of full suits propped upright, each gripping massive weapons: greatswords, halberds, warhammers, axes.
And then she saw it—a smaller suit, likely meant for a young noble boy.
Perfect.
She hurried to it, pulling piece after piece, testing, fitting, rushing back and forth between the stand and her wardrobe. Most didn't fit. Some she couldn't fasten, others slipped off. But after long minutes of chaotic trial and error, she had something—not perfect, not complete, but hers.
---
Now she stood—dressed for war.
Her "armor" was a hybrid: battle gear forged by desperation, shaped by instinct, and styled like a divine heroine. Not a frontline knight's heavy suit, but something designed for a royal champion, a tournament goddess, or a saint of the battlefield—more display than defense, yet somehow more powerful for it.
Her torso was wrapped in a deep sapphire-blue battle dress, traced with golden trim. It clung tightly to her chest and narrow waist, unintentionally exaggerating every curve like a sculpted masterpiece. It was hardly protection—more like a spellbinding uniform.
At her hips, a short flared skirt danced with every step, just long enough to tempt modesty and just short enough to flash the soft white beneath. Her stockings rose high, her skin gleaming above polished thigh guards and silver greaves. Her arms bore vambraces and elbow cops, and each exposed gap—at shoulder, underarm, or inner thigh—seemed more designed for mobility and distraction than anything else.
Aleria wasn't just a warrior.
She was a living banner. A walking prophecy. A temptation made steel.
Her silver-heeled boots echoed as she walked, the sharp lifts making her taller, stronger, and forcing her plump, round butt to tilt just right beneath the skirt's fluttering edge. Only her red fur-lined cape, enchanted and flowing, gave her any real modesty—shielding her from behind like a trailing royal curtain.
And in her hands: the axe.
A twin-bladed giant, heavy and radiant, shaped like a golden pair of wings, humming with sky-born magic. It was forged for warriors of legend, and yet it moved with her like an extension of her will.
She took one last look at herself in the mirrored glass.
Princess twin tails. Flawless curves. Battle-ready eyes.
Every inch of her whispered the same truth:
Beautiful. Deadly. Untouchable.
Standing alone in her chamber, Aleria let herself feel the absurdity of it.
The axe in her hands was nearly as tall as she was—and she wasn't exactly a towering figure. Yet when she tested its weight, swinging it once, then again—pivoting, letting it roll across her back and into her grip with fluid ease—it was unmistakable.
The strength from the Nightmare World was still with her.
Her body remembered.
She wasn't certain what this world truly was anymore, or where reality ended and something worse began.
But the siege?
The screams echoing through stone and air?
Those were real enough.
She couldn't ignore them now. Not when she might actually make a difference.
And not when she knew—knew—what would happen if the walls fell.
If those black-armored beasts, those bannerless things stitched together from flesh and hunger, poured through the gates of Camelot…
They wouldn't simply kill.
They would break the city apart piece by piece—dragging people from their homes, tearing the streets open with cruelty that had nothing to do with strategy and everything to do with indulgence. She remembered the way that one massive brute had looked at her earlier—eyes roaming, calculating, claiming.
The memory made her skin crawl.
She could imagine it too easily: being overpowered, crushed beneath sheer mass, stripped of choice and dignity alike. Resistance turned into entertainment. Fear turned into fuel. The city's fall written across her body as a warning to anyone left alive.
Aleria swallowed hard.
She wanted to believe she'd fight.
Wanted to believe she could plant her feet and swing that axe and hold.
But deep down—in the place she tried not to look—she wasn't sure how long she'd last.
And if the black banners broke through…
They would break her too.
The thought was terrifying.
But there it was, waiting at the end of it all like a cruel joke or a promise: the reward. A reason. Something solid enough to grab onto when fear threatened to drown her.
Aleria smirked, hair bouncing against her shoulders as she lifted the axe and rested it there, heavy and certain.
"Right," she murmured to herself. "The siege."
"Let's go save this 'Camelot' and be done with it."
She stepped into the palace corridor.
And stopped cold as she realised that there still wasn't anybody here.
No guards.
No servants.
No voices.
Not peaceful.
Abandoned.
The kind of silence that belonged to hospitals after visiting hours—or tombs long forgotten.
Her heels rang against the stone as she moved forward, the sound echoing far too loudly. Her heart beat faster with every step, her body's movement impossible to ignore even beneath wrappings and armor. The palace felt hollowed out.
The Grand Hall was worse.
No defenses raised.
No gates sealed.
No knights standing ready for their Princess.
Just emptiness.
She picked up her pace.
Near the outer gate of the keep, she finally found them.
Two soldiers.
Slumped against the wall like broken statues. Bloodied. Half-conscious. One cradled a shattered arm. The other had passed out with his chin on his chest, still gripping his spear as if his body refused to let it go.
No banners.
No horns.
Just two ruined men holding the Princess's gate shut with their bodies.
Aleria stopped.
Her grip tightened on the axe. Her jaw set.
"This is bad."
From beyond the walls came the sound of the battle—distant thunder, screams carried on the wind, steel crashing against steel, and beneath it all the heavy, rhythmic impact of something wrong. Something large enough to shake stone.
This was Camelot.
A fortress.
A capital.
And even the palace stood undefended.
Which meant every remaining soldier had been thrown onto the walls.
And if the walls broke—
The city would fall.
And no one would be left to stop what came next.
Aleria's heart hammered.
She didn't hesitate.
She didn't calculate.
She moved.
Her voice was low as she broke into a run, heels striking stone in quick, decisive beats.
"I'm not a coward," she muttered, almost laughing at herself.
"I'm not a thinker."
Her pace quickened.
"I'm a doer."
And she ran toward the sound of war.