Three hundred days. That’s how long it had been since Aluxia—once the towering, fearsome Demon Lord—had found herself trapped in an unfamiliar body. A girl’s body, to be precise. And despite all the time that had passed, everything still felt unbearably inconvenient. Her skirt would shift at the worst moments, her long hair constantly got in the way, and the new additions to her physique refused to be ignored. No matter how hard she tried to adapt, they were a constant reminder of the unwanted transformation.

Slumped on her throne, she let out a quiet sigh. It used to feel so grand, so fitting when she had stood at a mighty four meters tall. Now? It swallowed her whole, making her feel absurdly small. Maybe a cushion would help. She absentmindedly considered it, then dismissed the thought. There were more pressing matters to dwell on—such as which red gemstone would best suit her crown. After all, appearances had to be maintained, especially if that so-called hero ever decided to show up.

And as if summoned by her thoughts, the doors to her chambers burst open. Ah. There he was. The hero, striding in as if he had conquered the labyrinthine halls of her castle with ease. Aluxia had half-expected him to get lost among the ever-shifting corridors. A shame, really.

She straightened, forcing herself to remember who she was—who she had been. A Demon Lord did not slouch. A Demon Lord did not waver. Even if that Demon Lord now looked... well, significantly less imposing. She tried to summon her old, fearsome glare, the one that had once made even the bravest warriors falter. But instead of exuding menace, she probably just looked adorable. And her voice—damn it—why did it keep slipping into those soft, lilting tones? The intimidation she once commanded now felt laughably out of reach. Curse that sorceress.

No, she needed to prove her power. Somehow. Her gaze landed on the massive spear hanging on the far wall, a relic of her former glory. If she could just wield it like before, show her strength, maybe—just maybe—she could remind this hero of who he was dealing with.

She reached for it. Naturally, she couldn’t even come close.

A long pause. Then, begrudgingly, she turned to the hero. "You. Fetch that for me."

The words should have carried authority, but instead, they came out far too soft. Too sweet.

To her dismay, the hero didn’t even crack a grin. No smugness, no teasing—he simply found a ladder, climbed up, and handed her the weapon without so much as a remark.

Well. That was unexpectedly anticlimactic.

Gripping the spear with both hands, she did her best to appear unfazed. This was easy. Simple. Just like before. She had wielded this weapon effortlessly in battle—why should now be any different?

Then reality struck.

The spear was heavy.

Far heavier than she had anticipated. And before she could adjust her grip, it slipped.

The world tilted.

Then—impact.

Darkness.

...Had she just knocked herself out?