The Villainess Rewrites Her Story

"Princess, I have received word from the Duke. But allow me to warn you beforehand—if you're doing this on a whim, you will regret it." Commander Zeis's voice was sharp, his tone edged with disbelief.

I couldn't blame him. To the world, I was still the spoiled daughter of House Mortane, a girl who threw tantrums over silk and gemstones—never someone who would dare step onto the training grounds. And now, standing before the deputy commander of the Mortane Knights, one of the three elite warriors under my father, I could see the doubt written all over his face.

"I know what I'm getting into," I replied firmly, meeting his cold gaze head-on.

He sighed deeply, the kind of sigh one makes before witnessing something foolish. "If that's the case, I will treat you no differently from any other trainee. I will not accept excuses or hesitation. I will push you until you curse the day you ever touched a sword."

His words were a challenge—and I accepted it with a steady, "Yes, sir."

The first day of training was brutal. Commander Zeis didn't even let me touch a sword. "A weapon is an extension of the body," he had said. "And your body is as soft as the silk you love so much."

He made me run laps under the scorching sun, lift weights until my arms trembled, and practice balance and stance until my legs refused to move.

"Your Grace!" Belle rushed to my side, her voice trembling with worry as she handed me a towel and a cup of water. I was drenched in sweat, my breathing ragged. Every muscle in my body screamed in protest. I never knew exhaustion could make you feel this close to death.

Still, I gulped the water and pushed myself up again.

"Are you ready to give up, Princess?" Zeis's mocking tone sliced through the air.

I clenched my fists. "Not yet," I muttered, forcing my legs to move as I continued to run another lap.

After a week of relentless training, when my legs finally stopped trembling after every run, Commander Zeis stood before me with something new in his hands.

A wooden sword.

"From this day forward," he said, tossing it toward me, "you'll learn to wield this. Don't get too excited—it's still far from a real blade."

I caught it awkwardly, the weight heavier than I expected. My palms stung from the blisters of earlier exercises, yet I gripped it tightly.

Zeis walked around me, his voice steady and commanding. "The sword isn't just a tool—it's an extension of your body. Feel it, hold it as if it's part of you. Control it, or it will control you."

He adjusted my stance and posture countless times, correcting the angle of my wrists, the way my feet were planted. Then came the repetition—swing after swing, over and over until sweat dripped from my chin and my arms felt like they were on fire.

"Again."
"Raise your elbows."
"Too stiff. Breathe with the motion."

Each order was sharp, but I obeyed. For the first time, I wasn't irritated by being told what to do. I wanted to learn.

Days passed like that—wooden sword, calloused hands, aching muscles. Then, one morning, Zeis stood opposite me, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

"Try to strike me," he said. "Don't hold back. I need to see what you've learned."

I nodded, tightening my grip. The moment my fingers wrapped around the sword's hilt, a strange warmth pulsed through me—like something deep within my veins was responding. My vision sharpened, my heart raced, and for a fleeting second, I felt as though the sword recognized me.