The sky had begun to turn orange, its glow slowly spreading between the tightly woven crowns of towering trees. Slanted rays of dusk filtered through the leaves, breaking the forest into long corridors of shifting shadow that swayed gently with the thin breeze. The air felt colder than it had that afternoon, yet still carried the dampness of wet soil and the sharp scent of tree sap.

  The birds that had once filled the canopy with noise were now falling silent, replaced by the gradual emergence of night insects—soft, almost imperceptible rhythms that made the quiet feel alive rather than empty.

  Amid that fading light, Lilya hid behind a massive tree whose trunk was wide enough to conceal her entire body. The rough bark pressed into her back, tiny splinters biting faintly through her clothes. Her breathing was slow and controlled, though her heart still pounded hard, as if trying to break free from her chest.

  She inhaled carefully, held it for a moment, then released it as thinly as possible so as not to disturb the leaves around her. Even the smallest movement could draw attention in a forest this alert.

  Cautiously, she shifted her body and peered around the trunk.

  The camp wasn’t large—just a cluster of worn tents, their fabric torn in places, as though abandoned by people who had never returned. A dim campfire burned at the center, encircled by moss-covered river stones blackened by old soot. The firelight was faint, a dull orange glow insufficient to drive away the shadows clinging to the muddy ground. The earth was churned with overlapping tracks—drag marks cutting through the mud alongside smaller prints tipped with sharp toes.

  Lilya’s gaze traced one of the drag lines slowly, following it away from the fire toward a darker edge of the forest. There, where bushes had been forced aside, a narrow path had formed—not natural, but carved by repeated passage. Broken twigs. Displaced leaves. Soil compacted by constant steps.

  Her breath caught.

  Cecilia must be there.

  The thought didn’t come as a guess. It settled heavily in her chest as certainty.

  Her hand rose to press against her heart, feeling its irregular rhythm—fast, yet strangely steady. She noticed something unsettling: the fear that should have paralyzed her felt distant, muffled like a sound heard through thick walls. Ever since that passive skill had activated—the moment she was shaken by the horrifying realization of what had happened to Cecilia—her emotions felt twisted flat.

  Panic still existed, but dulled. Her mind felt clearer than it should have in a situation like this.

  Lilya leaned back against the tree and tilted her head upward, though the sky was barely visible through the thick weave of leaves. The orange glow was fading. Time was moving forward without waiting. Soon, the forest would belong to the night.

  She closed her eyes briefly and drew in a long breath of cold air.

  "Cecilia… I hope nothing has happened to you", she thought quietly before opening her eyes again—sharper, steadier than before.

  "I decided to save Cecilia… but what can I actually do?"

  She looked down at her empty hands. Her fingers slowly opened, as if expecting a sword to suddenly materialize.

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  Nothing.

  Only slightly dirt-stained skin from harvesting herbs earlier.

  The knife she had used to cut herbs was gone—lost somewhere when everything happened. She held nothing that could serve as a weapon if the goblins noticed her presence.

  Her thoughts drifted to her absurdly high level—far too high for a village girl. She also remembered how a pillow had torn apart simply because she had hugged it too tightly while imagining the armor design she had created in her past life. Heat rushed to her face at the memory.

  And it was true—this body felt different.

  Her vision was sharper. Details in the distance remained clear even as the dusk dimmed. She could count the stones around the campfire without narrowing her eyes. Her body felt lighter than before she had blacked out, and every muscle seemed to understand how to move efficiently.

  This was not the body of a fragile village girl.

  This was the body of someone who understood sword combat.

  And that was the problem.

  Her body might have changed. Her level might be absurd. But her mind still hesitated. She didn’t know how to use it. She didn’t know how to begin an attack, how to swing a sword that wasn’t even in her hands. All that potential felt like a blade without a hilt—sharp, dangerous, but impossible to grip. If she didn’t know how to fight, then her level and new body were nothing but empty numbers.

  And Cecilia didn’t have time for doubt.

  Lilya closed her eyes again—and Cecilia’s face appeared vividly, as if standing right before her. That gentle smile. The way she always adjusted her hair before going out to gather herbs. Her soft but firm voice when scolding.

  The image pierced her more sharply than any fear.

  Without thinking, Lilya raised both hands and slapped her own cheeks.

  Smack.

  Then again, harder.

  Pain flared across her face, heat spreading until both cheeks were flushed red. Her eyes watered—not from sadness, but from the sharp sting she forced upon herself to drive away the remnants of hesitation.

  “Focus,” she whispered, her breath heavy yet steady.

  She peeked around the trunk again, this time with directed intent. Her [Auto Appraisal] skill—always active—worked without her calling it. Brief information surfaced in her mind as if etched into invisible air.

  Six normal goblins. Low level, but dangerous in numbers.

  One sat sharpening a spear coated in suspicious purple liquid that still dripped thinly from the metal tip. Two others wrestled while fighting over raw meat, their growls short and coarse. The rest conversed in a language of clicks and hisses incomprehensible to any human.

  Her foot shifted slightly, and the tip of her shoe nudged something hard.

  She looked down.

  Several small stones lay scattered across the ground, their edges sharp enough to wound if thrown with sufficient force. She knelt carefully, making sure not to snap any twigs, and picked up a few of them. Their surfaces were cold and rough against her palm.

  "I can use these… at least as a distraction."

  Not lethal weapons.

  But enough to create an opening.

  She closed her eyes again—this time not to calm herself, but to pull something from memories that weren’t entirely her own.

  A vast arena under bright lights. The roar of a crowd.

  A VR baseball game—an entertainment sport that didn’t exist in this world but had been immensely popular in Hikaru’s. Though she had never played it herself, she inherited every detail Hikaru had ever seen: the balanced stance, the shoulder rotation before a throw, the straight precision line carved through the air when a ball was released.

  She could feel it now—the clean trajectory, the correct angle, the measured force.

  The small stone in her hand suddenly felt like a fastball ready to fly.

  With her eyes still closed, Lilya adjusted her footing slowly, imitating the stance etched clearly in that foreign memory. One foot slightly forward, knees loose, shoulders relaxed yet ready to rotate. Her arm followed the remembered motion—draw back, twist at the waist, push from the heel through her back and into her arm.

  She repeated it silently, over and over, letting her new body memorize the rhythm. Each repetition felt more natural, as if her muscles had long been waiting for the command.

  Her breathing aligned with the movement.

  Inhale.

  Rotate.

  Release—though she didn’t yet let the stone go.

  A few times she stopped midway, correcting her elbow angle, adjusting her wrist position. Hikaru’s memory wasn’t just visual—it was sensory: the pressure in the shoulder before the throw, the snap in the hip, even the echo of a crowd that no longer existed.

  After the final repetition, she slowly opened her eyes.

  There was no hesitation left in her gaze. Her focus narrowed into a straight line with only one destination.

  She stepped back slightly to allow a full swing.

  In the distance, not far from the two goblins still shoving each other over raw meat, stood a dead tree with peeling bark and a cracked trunk—a hard enough surface to create a sharp sound upon impact.

  Lilya raised her arm and assumed a throwing stance with near-mechanical precision. She clenched the stone tightly, feeling its rough edge press into her skin.

  Her shoulder rotated.

  Her waist followed.

  In one short breath—

  She released it.

  The stone sliced through the air with a sharp, nearly inaudible hiss. But just as its straight trajectory neared the dead tree, one of the goblins stepped forward, laughing as it shoved its companion.

  In a fraction of a second, the stone pierced the side of its head without resistance. A wet cracking sound rang briefly before the small body froze mid-motion. The stone barely lost momentum; it continued forward, then struck and embedded itself deep into the dead tree’s trunk behind.

  The goblin collapsed without a sound.

  Lilya blinked, her breath caught in her throat.

  “Eh?” she murmured softly—more surprised by her own strength than by the result.