When her eyes opened, the first thing she felt was wrongness. The ceiling was different. An unfamiliar ceiling of coarsely woven straw thatch. Through the gaps, morning light seeped in, casting the entire room in a pale yellow glow. Saran drew in a breath. A familiar scent mingled with something entirely unknown. The smell of earth, of straw, of burnt ash. When she tried to sit up, she saw her hands for the first time. They were small. Long, slender fingers. The nails were short, dirt packed beneath them in places. These were not Saran's hands. No—that wasn't right. These were Saran's hands now. She wanted a mirror. When she spotted a large wooden bucket in the corner of the room, she crawled toward it. The face reflected in the water's surface was that of a stranger—a girl she did not know. Black hair fell to her shoulders. Clear brown eyes stared back at her, filled with uncertainty. Her skin was pale, her cheeks hollow, her neck thin. Her age—perhaps twenty-four or twenty-five. (Is this my face?) She touched it. Her hand pressed against her own cheek. The sensation was real, undeniable, without a trace of doubt. "Saran, are you alright?" A voice came. The sound of a sliding door opening. Two figures appeared—a middle-aged couple she had never seen before. The man was nearly fifty, his sun-darkened face etched with deep lines. The woman was about the same age, her brow furrowed with concern. "Saran, answer us. You were delirious with fever all through yesterday." Something shifted within her at those words. Not memory. Intuition. The memories of her past life—they were there, undeniably present, yet separate from the memories of this body. Two contradictory lives coexisted within Saran. Her name in her past life—she remembered it. Tanaka Saran. Twenty-eight years old. A management consultant. She had commuted daily to Tokyo's business district, proposing financial improvement plans for corporations. The last thing she remembered was the train platform on her way home. That moment of weightlessness as she fell down the stairs. Why was she here? "Ah... yes." Her voice emerged. It belonged to someone else. High-pitched, clear, with the slow cadence of the countryside. Not her voice—no, this was her voice now. "Thank goodness. The doctor said 'if you rest one more day, you'll be fine.'" The woman who called herself mother exhaled in relief. Tears glistened faintly in her eyes. Pure relief. She had been worried about this world's Saran, this family's Saran. "I've prepared food. Eat when you're up. It's only bean porridge, but..." The two left the room. The sliding door closed. Silence returned. Saran stood motionless before the bucket. (Reincarnation? Or a dream?) No. If it were a dream, she would wake. This was not a dream. The cold of the water, the sensation against her skin—everything was real. She surveyed the room slowly. A small space, perhaps six tatami mats in size. Not tatami flooring, but packed earth. Walls of clay, crumbling in places. The single window was small, fitted with a lattice. The bedding was coarse hemp, stuffed with straw, no doubt. All of it marked this as a world other than Japan. (Stay calm. Think.) She told herself this. Panic would blind her to everything. She had to mobilize all the knowledge from her past life. Understanding what was happening had to be the priority. She ate the porridge. Strangely, her body accepted it. In her past life, Saran had eaten with nutritional balance in mind, but now her instincts demanded: eat. Past midday, her mother returned. "You seem well enough to go outside. The village headman said he wants 'a young girl,' so would you show your face at the well?" "At the well?" This was a chance to learn the customs of her new body. Saran nodded without hesitation. The village was small. About thirty wooden houses scattered haphazardly. Fields stretched around the village's perimeter. A crimson river gleamed in the distance. Mountains ringed the horizon. At the well, five women had gathered. Their ages ranged from their twenties to their forties. All of them were dressed as though they'd been working in the paddies, drawing water from the well. "Oh, there's Saran. Your fever's gone?" The woman who spoke to her appeared to be in her fifties. Her face was lined, but her eyes were kind. "Yes. Thank you very much." The women laughed. There was something weary in that laughter. "We're short on rice again this year." "The Soki lord's tax is so harsh." "Six parts public, four parts private. If the harvest is worse than last year, our families will starve." Saran's ears perked up. Six public, four private—the lord took six-tenths of the peasants' harvest, leaving them with only four-tenths. It was the brutal tax system of Japan's Sengoku period. (This world operates on the same system as Japan's Sengoku era.) "The Soki lord is frightening. They call him the 'Blood Demon General.' Have you ever seen the castle?" "No." "It's that castle standing on the northern mountain. The stone walls are so high, the keep seems to touch the sky. That's where Lord Soki rules. The rumors say he keeps several concubines." Concubines. In other words, the lord's mistresses. "Concubines?" "Yes. The lord's women—whether he has a proper wife, I don't know—but they're his favorite women, in any case." "They must be happy. Plenty of food." "But they say he's frightening. Cold eyes, they say." Saran listened quietly. The structure of this world was becoming clear. The Soki lord—Mikage Soma. A cold-hearted warlord. The tax system was six public, four private, grinding the peasants beneath its heel. (Inefficient.) The management consultant Saran of her past life could see the flaws in this system. If peasants received only four-tenths of their harvest, their motivation to produce would plummet. In the long term, the lord's total income would decrease. Yes, six public, four private brought in more in the short term, but with a long-term perspective, giving peasants incentives would increase total revenue—or so it should. But she was in no position to argue such things in the Sengoku era. She was merely a peasant's daughter. "Speaking of which..." The woman who appeared to be the headman's wife paused in her water-drawing. "I heard an envoy is coming from the Soki lord's castle. They're taking young girls as concubine candidates." The air changed. The women's expressions stiffened for a moment. "Again?" "They took one just three months ago." "If she becomes the Soki lord's favorite, would she be happy?" "Of course not. Whether she's kept or discarded depends entirely on the lord's mood." Saran gazed into the well water. Her own face reflected like a mirror, distorted by the ripples. (An opportunity.) The words echoed in her mind. (If I enter the castle, I can get close to the center of power. I can meet the Soki lord. And—I might be able to propose reforms.) As a peasant, she could do nothing. But as a concubine, she would have direct access to the lord. If he were intelligent, he might listen to her reform proposals. (To survive, I must fight.) In her past life, Saran had spent most of her life within organizations. She had endured harassment, raged against injustice, yet continued working. Now, a new life had been given to her. If that was the case, she would live it as she saw fit. On the walk back to the village, Saran had decided. (Tomorrow, I go to the castle. As a concubine candidate.) Her parents wept. In the night, they wept quietly. "Our Saran, taken away..." "There's nothing to be done. We cannot defy the Soki lord's command." Saran said nothing from within her bedding. She did not cry. She hardened her heart and prepared for tomorrow. She straightened her rough kimono, combed her hair, and looked at her face in the water once more. (I'll be fine. I just need to survive. And then I'll change this world.) The next morning, armed soldiers arrived in the village. About ten of them. Mounted on horses, swords at their waists, their faces stern. Leading them came a single man. He appeared ten years older than Saran. His clothing was black, a purple sash wound around his waist. His face was sharp-featured, his gaze piercing. He was the "envoy" dispatched from the castle. "Now then. Have the village headman line up the girls." The village girls were gathered. Eight in total, including Saran. All wore expressions of fear. The envoy's eyes assessed each one. His gaze was cold, appraising them not as human beings but as merchandise to be examined. "This one?" "The daughter of Shinzaemon, sir." "Her face suggests intelligence. But her body seems frail." His eyes moved to the next girl. "This one?" "The daughter of Saburobe, and—" "Useless." Saran's heart raced. Not from fear, but from excitement. She sensed instinctively that this moment was the branching point of her new life. The envoy's gaze finally fell upon Saran. In that instant, his expression changed. For just a moment, surprise flickered across his face. Then it returned to cold, evaluative assessment. "You." His finger pointed at Saran. "Come to the castle." Her parents wept. The villagers fell silent. They sensed something unusual. The way Saran had nodded, the way she had responded—it was not that of an ordinary girl, but of someone possessed of strong will. Saran returned home. She gathered her meager belongings. Three kimono. A comb for her hair. Rice balls her mother had made, wrapped in cloth. At the moment of departure, her father gently pushed her back. Her mother said nothing, only wept. "Live." That was all. Led by the soldiers, Saran left the village behind. When she looked back, the small farming village receded into the distance. Houses surrounded by earthen walls, fields, an unfamiliar landscape—no, a familiar one. Not a landscape she had seen in her past life, but one now etched into the Saran who had just been reborn. Swaying on horseback, Saran thought: (This is reality. From now on, I must live as a person of this world.) In the distance to the north, the castle came into view. They crossed the Suzaku River, climbed the mountain path, and its outline became clear. The stone walls were indeed high. The keep rose toward the sky. "Soki Castle." The man gazed at it from horseback. His expression was that of someone evaluating something, lost in deep thought. Saran looked at the castle too. (A cold castle. Like a person with a closed heart.) The door to a new fate was opening with a sound. Tension and anticipation coexisted in Saran's chest. This exhilaration—a sensation she had never experienced in her past life—the feeling of life's fire burning bright—Saran felt it for the first time. The horse continued forward. Soon the stone steps of Soki Castle drew near. The soldiers dismounted before the gate. The envoy looked at Saran and spoke a single line. "Do not expect comfort. The castle lord is not kind." "Yes." In the eyes of the girl who answered, there was no fear—only resolve. Seeing that light, the envoy narrowed his eyes for just a moment. (This woman is different.) Instinctively, he sensed it. But what that difference was, he could not yet say. Beyond the stone gate, the castle's full form came into view. High stone walls, buildings arranged in intricate patterns, and at the summit, the keep standing tall. She would become part of this castle—no, she would be placed at the lord's side. Saran took a deep breath. (I will survive. I will change this world. That is the promise of my new life.) The gate opened. Through the labyrinthine passages of the castle, Saran was led. She did not look back. Only forward. Step by step into the new world.