[Diary of an Imperial Princess Whose Plan to Slack Off Keeps Failing]
My name is Violetta von Otto, the Empire’s seventh princess. As a clear-eyed transmigrator, I know my fate all too well:
At nineteen, a political marriage. At twenty-five, I die with the Empire.
Hah. Whoever wants to play out this garbage script can do it themselves.
My escape plan was flawless:
Join the army to avoid marriage → slack off at the front → make a mistake and get transferred to logistics → save up and forge an identity → skip town just before the Empire goes belly-up.
But does this world have some kind of misunderstanding about slacking off?
I faked an illness to get out of training, and they interpreted it as “tirelessly analyzing the battle situation.”
I gave orders at random, hoping to lose quickly, and they cried, “A divine trap to lure the enemy deep into our territory!”
I deliberately built a shoddy defensive line, and it became “an impregnable, absolute fortress”!
The most ridiculous part is
Why are those female subordinates, who were only supposed to be stepping stones, looking at me more and more strangely?
“Wait... why are you locking the door?”
“Your hands! Where are you putting them?! That’s my waist!”
“I’m a princess! I’m your superior! This is insubordina, Mm!”
