Her blood-red rose-like hair whipped in the wind as the Immortal Blood Princess tore up yet another scrap of parchment predicting her death, a mocking smile curling her lips. In this magical world, where the plot itself seemed maliciously set against her, she had survived for a hundred years, longer than any prophecy.
Having transmigrated into a book, she arrived with a max-level Copy Mage account: with a mere touch, she could copy any skill, artifact, or even class. But this wasn't a blessing. It was a curse. The world would instinctively repair any altered plotline, and death predictions at the end of every chapter followed her like a shadow.
Now, she had come to the imperial capital as a witch hunter and been hired as a thug by a noblewoman wielding the holy sword Gluttonous Blade. On the surface, she was a hired hand guarding an inherited mansion. Behind the scenes, she was solving ancient mechanisms in labyrinth ruins, prying guild secrets out of all sorts of people, and combining copied forbidden spells to create astonishing effects.
When a death prophecy said, "She will be burned to ashes by dragon breath," she copied dragon breath and turned it into a fireworks show. When the parchment predicted, "She will drown in the torrent of time," she combined church bells with dragon breath to freeze time. Every crisis was another middle finger raised at fate.
Told through a Game of Thrones-style ensemble of perspectives, the cunning of the Thieves' Guild, the arrogance of noblewomen, and the gossip of passersby come together to paint a vivid picture of this magical metropolis. Yet every clue points to a truth deliberately concealed: why does this world insist on killing her?
