Ever since I discovered I could train inside the system, I'd been sneaking in every moment I got alone. And let me tell you—it's been wild. The skills I've unlocked feel like something straight out of a fantasy novel. My body feels stronger, my reflexes sharper, and the most thrilling part? The system hints at magical tendencies. Magic. Me, with magic? I'm completely here for it.
I've tried to get more information about it, of course, but every time I asked the system to explain the specifics of this "magical potential," it refused to answer—as if the knowledge is locked behind some invisible wall. Still, I'm not giving up. For now, I'm just following the flow and focusing on what I can do—like training—and keeping the search for my mother alive.
That part, unfortunately, hasn't gone anywhere. Despite hours of digging and subtle questions, I haven't found anything more than what Father told me—that she vanished one day, leaving no trace behind. It's like she was wiped from existence. No letters. No belongings. Not even a whisper from the staff. The silence surrounding her disappearance is louder than any storm.
But today, my thoughts are caught somewhere else. Right now, I'm standing in front of a line of dresses, trying to pick one for tomorrow.
Why? Well, because tomorrow is my birthday. I'm finally turning eighteen.
Back in my world, I had been counting down the days to this moment. Turning eighteen meant freedom. It meant leaving the orphanage behind and stepping into adulthood—getting into my favorite collage, working a job coz I would need one, building a life from the ground up. It was going to be hard, I knew that. But I was ready. Always had been.
Then fate threw me through time and space, landing me in the life of Isla—daughter of a Duke. Let's just say, surviving here doesn't require a paycheck or budgeting for instant noodles.
It's funny, though. Even if the significance of my birthday has changed in this world, the excitement hasn't faded. If anything, it feels more important now. This isn't just about celebration—it's a way to honor the girl I was, the one who never gave up. I love myself, and if it's the birthday of someone I love, then it has to be special.
"My lady, this dress will look absolutely divine on you!" Sasha said, her eyes sparkling with excitement. She pointed eagerly at a flowing gown the seamstress was holding up. "Look at the embroidery! It's so intricate—it practically dances in the light."
No We weren't in some stuffy boutique or grand showroom. My father had called the boutique home, i guess being a Duke come with some benefits. He's been planning my birthday like it's a royal wedding. Despite my insistence on something small, he remained firm on having at least a modest gathering—with just family, let's call them that for now.
And I get it. I really do. But my reasons for avoiding a grand ball are simple—peace. After the run-in with Elena, I realized something: drama follows beauty and power, and both attract the worst kinds of attention. Elena might have backed off for now, but there are others like her—sharp-tongued noble ladies waiting for the perfect chance to pounce.
I'd rather not give them one. I just want a quiet, peaceful evening to enjoy the day I've waited eighteen years for.
I glanced at the dress Sasha liked—it was a soft sky-blue number, embroidered with silver vines and tiny pearl-like beads sewn into the bodice. It shimmered with every movement, like moonlight dancing on water.
"It's beautiful," I murmured, running a hand over the cool, silky fabric. "But... maybe something that's a little more me."
Eventually, I chose one that felt like it struck a balance—regal enough for the occasion but with a touch of quiet strength. It wasn't black or bold or anything traditionally "badass," but it had a presence. A dark sapphire color with a structured silhouette, sheer sleeves, and embroidery in a fierce, thorn-like pattern. It didn't scream rebellion—but it whispered it beautifully.
"Now this," I said with a grin, holding it up to my frame in the mirror, "says 'don't mess with me'—but with elegance."
Sasha clapped her hands together, her eyes shining. "It's perfect, my lady!"
We shared a laugh, the kind of light, carefree joy I hadn't felt in a while. It made me realize just how far I'd come—from cold orphanage floors to satin gowns and secret training systems. Life really does know how to surprise you.
"You know what, Sasha?" I said, a sudden idea forming in my mind. "Let's make my cake ourselves."
Her eyes widened with surprise, then lit up like the morning sun. "Really?! That would be so fun, my lady! I'll inform the kitchen right away. We'll have everything ready so you can decorate it however you like."
After sometime Sasha brought me to the kitchen and I looked around checking all the ingredients and they were all neatly prepared, perfect!
Being a lady here has its own perks.
As I tied the lace-trimmed apron Sasha handed me, a wave of anticipation rolled through me. This would be my first time baking in this world—and my first time making a real Black Forest cake. I'd only ever seen pictures and imagined the taste, but now I was going to create it with my own hands.
The kitchen had been thoroughly prepared. The marble counters gleamed, and the scent of melted chocolate and fresh cream hung thick in the air. Everything was set out neatly—bowls of ingredients, measuring cups, polished utensils, even the cherries glistening in a glass dish like little rubies.
"All right, my lady," Sasha said, rolling up her sleeves. "We start by making the chocolate sponge."
She guided me through sifting the flour, cocoa powder, and baking powder together into a large bowl. The cocoa dust puffed into the air, leaving a faint earthy scent and a fine film of chocolate on my fingers.
Next came the eggs. We cracked them into another bowl—five of them—then added sugar and whipped it all together. Sasha held the bowl steady while I whisked furiously, my arm starting to ache as the mixture turned thick and pale.
"Keep going," she said, laughing at my struggle. "This part is important!"
When the mixture was airy and almost doubled in volume, we gently folded in the sifted cocoa flour, careful not to deflate the batter. Then came the melted butter, rich and golden, trickled in slowly to keep the mixture light.
We poured the batter into round tins lined with parchment paper, and Sasha slid them into the oven while I cleaned off the chocolate smears from my fingers—resisting the temptation to lick them.
As the cakes baked, the entire kitchen filled with the scent of warm chocolate. I couldn't stop smiling. The aroma wrapped around me like a cozy blanket, tugging at memories I didn't even know I had.
When the cakes had risen and cooled, we carefully sliced each one into thin, even layers. Sasha showed me how to brush them with a cherry syrup made from preserved cherries and a splash of kirsch that made my nose wrinkle from the sharp scent.
Then came the whipped cream. Fluffy, white, and slightly sweet, we spooned generous dollops between each layer, followed by tart cherries. The contrast of bitter chocolate, sweet cream, and tangy fruit felt like magic on the tongue—and I hadn't even tasted the finished thing yet.
As we stacked the layers, the cake grew into a towering thing of beauty. The final touch was a smooth coating of whipped cream all around the outside. Sasha handed me a bowl of shaved chocolate, and I pressed the delicate curls into the sides of the cake. They stuck beautifully, like dark velvet against snow.
For the top, we piped rosettes of cream around the edge and placed a single cherry on each swirl. In the center, we piled a small mound of chocolate curls and nestled a few cherries there too—because why not?
When it was finally done, we both stepped back to admire our creation. It looked like something from a royal banquet: elegant, rich, and absolutely irresistible.
"Happy early birthday, my lady," Sasha said with a proud smile.
I looked at the cake, then at her, and felt warmth blossom in my chest. "Thank you, Sasha. This is... perfect."