[Trial #1: Re-Arm The 1st Infantry Battalion]
Congratulations, you have been granted the Curse of Tactical Villainess. The dukedom will be changed forever with chaos, brought by yours truly. We will throw everything at you. Be prepared for anything.
[Immediate Reward: 3,500,000 EP]
When Annaliese opened her eyes, the world was… wrong.
The ceiling above her was too ornate—gilded trim, crown molding, and a chandelier that looked like it belonged in a museum. The air smelled of perfume and dust. There were no IV beeps, no hum of ventilation systems, no scent of antiseptic wipes or gun oil.
Just silence.
Heavy, suffocating silence.
She sat up, her movements clumsy, unfamiliar. The sheets were silk. The bed was absurdly soft. Across the room stood a gilded mirror, tall and old-fashioned. She staggered toward it—and stopped cold.
That wasn't her.
Or it was.
Just… not now.
Young. Pristine. Pale skin, untouched by the sun. Bright crimson hair falling in waves. Her jaw was softer, unscarred. Her eyes—still steel-blue—looked too wide, too untroubled. A doll dressed in lace.
Her stomach turned.
Annaliese Lorentz.
The only daughter of Duke William Gunther of Oberstein.
The name alone was enough to make anyone flinch. Including her.
The memories came like a flood—disjointed, burning. Her last life. Not the battlefield trauma from Earth as a medic, nor her experience as a military officer for a megacorporation.
No. This was further back. More brutal in its own, theatrical way.
She remembered screaming into the trenches.
Remembered conscripts bleeding out in trenches dug with their bare hands.
Remembered how the Oberstein army collapsed—not from enemy fire, but from sheer incompetence.
Her father had started a war he had no hope of winning. He was a relic—drunk, deluded, and clinging to the shattered myth of his youth. He thought glory was still something a man could grab with a sabre and a speech. In reality, he sent boys with rusted rifles to die against the most modern force in the western hemisphere.
And herself?
She was handed a single understrength battalion. Just one. Against the Rhinian Empire. She had begged for artillery, for supplies, even for maps. No one listened. Her father had made her a commander to save face, to prove that Oberstein still had "spirit."
Instead, she watched that spirit bleed out in the mud.
She remembered herself, too. Arrogant. Unprepared. Just another product of the broken system she'd been born into.
Now she was eighteen again. And somehow, she'd been thrown back into the past, into the body of the infamous daughter of a disgraced duke. The duchy itself was on the brink—broke, hated, politically isolated, and crumbling from within.
And yet… she was the heir.
"OH. FUCK. ME."
She stormed out of her chambers, still in her bedgown, barefoot on cold stone. No time. No time for appearances.
Her mind snapped into triage.
How many rifles were still serviceable?
How many men were truly loyal?
How long had payroll been delayed—three weeks? Four?
Which of her father's commanders would answer her call without hesitation?
Which ones needed... persuasion?
She came to a sudden stop as the maids in the hallway caught sight of her—messy hair, panic written all over her face. They knew the look. To them, she was just the crazy daughter of the drunk Duke, throwing another fit. Maybe a mosquito had bitten her. Maybe the pillow wasn't soft enough.
But no—this time, it was something more urgent. Not that she cared what they thought.
She rushed through the quiet morning halls of the mansion, moving like she was late for an important meeting. She pushed open the doors to her office without hesitation.
The place was a mess. Papers were everywhere, books stacked out of order. She couldn't remember where she'd put anything—not the files, not the reports, not even the sealed documents that mattered most. It was chaos.
And it hit her hard: how was she supposed to know who she could trust?
The dukedom's biggest strength had always been its military, but now even that was crumbling. Underpaid, under-equipped, and morale at an all-time low. Back then, she'd been too young to see it. But now?
Now she understood.
Everyone had been working to undermine her father's authority for years. They wanted him out. And they needed someone to replace him.
That someone had to be her.
Because if it wasn't—she knew—she wouldn't survive.
She took a deep breath and started organizing every piece of paper that looked even slightly important. Outdated reports and irrelevant notes were tossed onto the side table in the center of the room. The more urgent documents—things she needed to read and act on soon—were stacked neatly on her main desk.
She knew she was supposed to be in command of an army by now. But how many soldiers did she actually have? She couldn't remember clearly. All she knew was that she had once led men into battle—and they had followed her willingly. Or maybe blindly. Either way, they died because she told them to.
[The Curse of Tactical Villainess]
[Annaliese Lorentz] [Level: 1] [EP: 3,500,000]
[Diagnostic Menu]
[Items & Logistic Department Interface]
[Military Management]
[Mission + Objectives]
[Infrastructure Menu]
"What in the actual fuck?" Anna muttered as the interface popped up out of nowhere. She hadn't touched anything. She tried closing it, but another screen appeared, like some annoying pop-up ad. Only this one had important-looking information.
[Embrace the Curse of the Tactical Villainess]
Diagnostic Menu – Check your health, experience, and your list of skills and perks.
Items & Logistics Department Interface – A shop menu where you can purchase everything from food to fighter jets. The higher your level, the more advanced the options—from rifles to aircraft carriers.
Military Management – Oversee your armed forces, including training costs, logistics, morale, and overall quality. You can also assign military officers and choose your current doctrine. Some features are locked behind level progression.
Missions + Objectives – Accept missions to earn rewards like gear, buildings, or EP.
Infrastructure Menu – Build and upgrade your territory. From basic utilities like water pumps to full-scale military hangars, this is where you construct everything. Critical for building cities or strongholds—and eventually gaining autonomy from the system.
Questions. So many fucking questions.
What was she supposed to do with all this?
What did she need?
And most of all…
What was the point of any of it?
[As the newest bearer of this "curse," be advised:
The surrounding region will be subjected to extreme anomalies. Expect sudden incursions by 21st‑century Grom PMC units, outbreaks of undead, migrations of forest monsters, and aerial threats—wyverns and even full‑grown dragons. Eliminating or neutralizing these targets will yield Exchange Points (XP) and additional Exchange Points (EP).]
"WHAT?" Anna squinted at the screen.
Her eyes scanned the text again, slower this time. Grom PMC? Undead outbreaks? Dragons? This wasn't a battlefield briefing or a debriefing file—not the kind she'd memorized half-asleep with an IV drip still in her arm. No, this was something else. Something insane.
Like the fever-dream of a schizophrenic author high on trauma and energy drinks, who thought mixing zombies, mercs, and dragons into an 18th-century world was brilliance. She should've laughed. Or panicked. But all she felt was that cold, familiar weight in her chest—the same one she carried through Kandahar, through the Sahara.
Now this? This absurd, genre-bending bullshit? It was hers.
What in the actual hell?
[Time until #1 Trial: 96:00:00]
"OH, FOR FUCK'S SAKE!"