Supersum: Living in another world [LitRPG Transmigration Fantasy]

Guilt is a specter more insidious than any miasma—it slithers through the cracks of reason, whispers behind every silence, and consumes from the inside out. Marisia understood this intimately now, remaining in the armory where her descent—and awakening—had begun. The treasure chest before her sat like a grave marker and altar in one, silent and complicit in her unraveling. Each second had dragged like a blade over exposed nerves, every breath thick with memory and misery. The pain, the screams, the torment—she endured them all, not just for Elisabeth, but to convince herself that her suffering had meaning.

Yet, as morning light spilled through the narrow window, Marisia's eyes wandered the room, raw with exhaustion, her thoughts still staggering through the aftermath. The armory exhaled the breath of ancient wars—stale, metallic, and faintly sour. Rusted weapons clung to corroded hooks like memories refusing to be forgotten. Broken armor lay discarded across the stone floor, the curled shells of long-dead warriors—relics of pain encased in steel. But today, those icy walls bore witness to a new kind of carnage—one that didn't pierce flesh but shredded resolve, that didn't bleed, but hollowed.

Marisia's fingernails were splintered, blood—dried and fresh—flaking as she loosened her clutch on the treasure that held her like an anchor in a sea of madness. The last of the miasma—that insidious echo of unfiltered desire—seeped into her body, a poison she no longer resisted. She welcomed it, not with ignorance, but with clarity. No longer did altruism or honor guide her—only defiance. If she had to become a monster, to protect her sister, then so be it.

'I made it,' her eyes fluttered shut as she drew in the stale, iron-tinted air. Her lungs still burned from the night's ordeal, but there was a quiet relief in the pain—it meant she had survived. 'All that remains is—'

«Impressive~»

The specter materialized, slicing into her thoughts like a blade through bone—a ripple of unreality, more metaphor than matter. Scarlet mist curled outward, tendrils coiling with a serpent's poise, weaving through the air as though dancing to a rhythm older than time. Her horns came first, carved from translucent obsidian and faceted like broken mirrors, catching stray light in angles that defied geometry and reason alike.

"No," Marisia inhaled rapidly, her voice raw and frayed as fear trembled in her eyes. The spectral figure had fully coalesced atop a weathered crate, which groaned under her impossible weight, the wood splintering with age that seemed to bloom with a garden of madness beneath her presence. She was a paradox given shape—both ethereal and solid, both dream and nightmare. Her hair, rich as spilled wine, spilled across her shoulders in animate waves, each strand slithering like curious serpents mapping the rot of the armory. Her tail swayed with amused ease, tipped in a playful, heart-shaped peak that belied the overwhelming dread she brought with her.

Marisia collapsed, her strength drained to the marrow, lying motionless on the cold stone floor. "I thought I could save Eli," she whispered, voice cracked and nearly lost beneath the silence. Her mind reached for the stories of old—of lords and ladies who triumphed through honor and sacrifice. "I failed." The specter, ever present in moments when despair threatened to consume its chosen. A herald of endings, she arrived when resolve teetered on the edge—vanishing only when the final thread of sanity held, or staying when snapped.

«Haha! Saving her?» The specter's laugh was a scalpel of truth, slicing effortlessly through every layer of illusion. «You're saving yourself~» She flowed downward like milk from a falling jar, her form reshaping with surreal grace. When her fingers touched Marisia's cheeks, it was like being cradled by contradiction—madness wrapped in mercy, intimacy threaded with decay. «Oh, don't pout, little girl,» she whispered, and the very walls of the armory seemed to lean in, breathless. «You're just like the rest—a greedy little monster dressing up selfishness in sacrificial silk. But don't worry~ You'll learn to be honest.»

"What do you—"

And then, silence.

The specter vanished.

Suddenly, her mind cleared—quiet, still, as though a storm had passed and left behind only stillness. Her body slackened, every muscle unclenching as the last echoes of agony faded into the distance. The voices, the illusions, the chaos—they were gone. Only the memory of pain lingered, dulled and distant, like a bruise beneath the skin of her thoughts.

Lying in her own blood, Marisia smiled—a crooked, exhausted thing. "Hehe," a brittle chuckle escaped her lips, followed by a coughing fit and a burst of laughter that felt more like defiance than joy. "Hahaha…"

Yet, as her body lay still, her mind spiraled toward a vision—one where she stood like the sun itself, luminous and unyielding, the center of all gazes. Servants, nobles, and retainers looked on not with fear, but reverence. Whispers of admiration rippled through the crowd as she defied brutality, as she led Wolfsteeth from the depths of economic ruin with calculated grace. They bowed—not out of obligation, but gratitude—tears flowing freely, as if absolved by her mere presence.

She rose slowly, steadying herself against the treasure chest as if it were both crutch and altar. "I will show them all—"

However, as the words left her lips, the specter's voice echoed back—taunting, insidious. It spiraled through her thoughts like a curse she couldn't dispel, twisting her resolve until she screamed. "It's not selfish! I'm not greedy! Damn it!" She struck her legs in frustration, trying to force the voice into silence. "I'm not… I do this… for Eli…"

In an of resistance, Marisia folded into a lotus position, her spine straight despite the blood crusted along her skin. She shut her eyes and reached for the discipline honed over a year of midnight battles with voices and visions. "Block it all out," she murmured, not a plea but a command—one last bastion of self against the chaos gnawing at her mind.

Marisia clung to the belief that she was better than the venom whispered into her by the specter. Even the faintest trace of malice sickened her, turning her stomach with its foul weight. She breathed deeply, willing the echo of that voice out of her mind, anchoring herself in the certainty that whatever darkness lingered in her heart—it would not define her.

After an hour, Marisia's eyes slowly opened, her breath even, her gaze distant. Her mind was no longer clouded—peace had taken root, not born of joy or resolution, but of cold neutrality. Stoic. Detached. Control was all that remained; every other emotion was filtered out. The miasma inside her churned steadily—not an invader, but a reflection, the mirror of her own buried desires. Now, it was under her command.

She stood upright, though her legs trembled and her joints ached with protest. The pain didn't matter. Only one obstacle remained—her mother. The embodiment of ruthless control. The final trial. The core of everything Marisia sought to surpass.

…

Marisia navigated the once-familiar corridors, now warped with unease, their every shadow stretching too long, too close. The portraits of her ancestors watched with unsettling glints in their painted eyes, as if they recognized what she had become—what she was about to do. But what did they know? What could they possibly understand? She didn't know. She couldn't. All she felt was the rising heat of being small in a world too vast—and that fury quickened her pace with each step, her footfalls snapping louder against the floor as her resolve hardened.

'What is going on?' Her mind reeled—not from pain, but from a voice, a presence, still echoing within her like a bell struck too hard. It called to her, again and again, until her walk turned into a near run. 'Stop it!' she screamed inwardly, swiping at the phantom thoughts clinging to her mind as sweat trailed down her brow. Then, without fully realizing how, she stood before her mother's door—an ornate monolith carved with the family crest, polished so finely it reflected her face back at her. But what looked back wasn't her. Not fully. She didn't bother to knock.

Marisia pushed open the heavy oak door, its hinges moving in perfect, practiced silence. Inside, the room exhaled the scent of expensive ink, aged parchment, and the floral trace of her mother's favored wine—elegant and cloying. Lady Scarlet J. Leonandra reclined behind a dark-wood desk carved with illustrious motifs, sipping from a crystal goblet with the air of a woman who already knew the outcome of every conversation. The crimson wine caught firelight from the torches lining the room, glinting like blood in cut glass.

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"Good evening, Mother," Marisia said, steadying her voice as the door closed behind her with a soft click that echoed like a gavel. "We need to speak—privately."

Scarlet didn't look up from the ledger she was reviewing, her quill continuing to scratch across the page. "Not now—"

Marisia cut her off, her [Aura] igniting like a wildfire laced with shadows, exploding outward in controlled surges, tinged at the edges with something new and volatile. It wasn't the blind fury of a beast, but something colder, more deliberate. Her will pressed forward like a wall. "Yes. I would say now, Mother."

Scarlet looked up then, her expression shifting from calculated disinterest to something eerily close to delight. Her golden eyes—the same predatory hue as Marisia's—widened, not in surprise, but recognition, as the edge of Marisia's [Aura] kissed her skin. "Oh? Now this… is interesting."

Marisia nodded, hands clasped behind her back, chest lifted with rigid poise as she stepped forward. Her body cracked with the sound of straining bone and tendon—new power surged within her, barely contained. For the first time, she faced the subtle agony of projecting one's [Aura] as a weapon—forcing her will outward without being swallowed by it, instead of wholly blocking it. Her pheromone gland flared in protest, searing with the ache of mastery not yet earned.

Yet, as Marisia's first step landed, the floorboards groaned beneath her weight—and then it hit. A wave of bloodlust, so potent and vile it bordered on sadistic ecstasy, slammed into her like a crimson tide. It wasn't just pressure—it was appetite. A hunger for suffering. "Fascinating," cooed a voice, maternal in tone but predatory in weight—like velvet stretched over a dagger, like a beast pressing her paw onto a cub not to comfort, but to claim.

"Urgh." Marisia stood, her legs trembling under the weight of the pressure, her body groaning in protest. But the [Aura] pressing against her only stoked her fury. It was the same vile, suffocating bloodlust that had haunted Elisabeth for years—the same cruelty that nearly shattered her brother. "I am here—" she hissed, each word sharpened with defiance.

It surged—Marisia's mind detonated with searing pain, her glands convulsing as her mother's bloodlust slammed into her like a thousand needlepoints. It wasn't just pressure—it was invasion, slicing through her skin, boiling in her nerves. Her white dress, already stained, deepened in hue, crimson blooming where her control buckled for just an instant.

Marisia pushed back, but as her [Aura] unfurled—scarlet, violent, mirroring her mother's—revulsion clenched her gut. 'I'm the same monster,' she thought, nausea rising. Her steps faltered, not from weakness, but protest—from something deeper that whispered to resist. To be more. That same haunting echo surged again—not to destroy, but to define. To strive purposefully, not violently.

'I don't need to be like her,' she thought, as the [Aura] radiating from her began to fade—its scarlet brilliance dissolving into a pale, disciplined void.

'I am better,' she thought, as her [Aura] shed its final traces of bloodlust and cruelty—replaced by something colder, steadier, and sharper than before.

'I am—' Her presence shifted, condensing into a single, bladed certainty. Not rage, not pride—just truth, undeniable and cold. 'The new heir.'

Colorless, neutral, stoic—Marisia stood like a knight carved from law itself, each breath laced with control, each movement deliberate. "This is enough, Mother," she said, stepping forward. Her [Aura] unfurled behind her like a blade unsheathed—not for battle, not for show, but because it simply was. No fury. No pity. Just precision. A sword to execute, a sickle to harvest, an axe to cleave wood—form without bias, purpose without emotion.

"I will take Elisabeth's place," Marisia declared, every fiber of her presence honed to be the antithesis of her mother—disciplined where Scarlet reveled in volatility, composed where she flared with passion, principled where she wielded cruelty. "No discussion," she added, not as a plea nor threat, but a statement of law—quiet, firm, immovable.

Scarlet rose with feline grace, the movement fluid and ominous. A twisted pride flickered in her golden eyes as her smile widened, revealing blood-tinted canines in a grin, both maternal and monstrous. The dangerous miasma coiling around her slowly receded, like a beast yielding to its cub. "Who would've guessed you'd unearth such strength?"

Marisia slowly retracted her new [Aura], letting it dissolve like steam into still air. Her body eased, but her mind caught on a word. "Strength?" she echoed, the question quiet but sharp. Her mother's tone hadn't been mocking—but something about it still intrigued her, stirring a cautious interest beneath the calm.

Scarlet circled the table, her lacquered nails tracing its surface with a sound like steel drawn across bone. "There are many kinds of talent—some fight like monsters, others dazzle with genius. But then, there are those like you." With a flick of her fingers, a blast of killing intent surged from the table like a blade unsheathed, roaring past Marisia. It crashed behind her with enough force to splinter wood, fragments brushing the back of her head like death just missed. "Those unfazed, even at the abyss's edge."

Marisia stood frozen, a fear unlike any before coursing through her—her mother loomed not like a woman, but a monstrous force cloaked in shadow, golden eyes blazing with dominance. It pressed down on her like gravity, suffocating and immense. But with a single, focused thought, her trembling ceased. Her knees held. Her mind steadied. She resisted—not out of bravery, but choice.

Scarlet continued, her presence thickening, her killing intent shifting—less lethal, more calculated, circling like a predator toying with a worthy rival. "Your sister treats combat like art—a delicate, beautiful painting," she said, her high heels clicking with metronomic finality as she took a step. "But she failed and must gamble everything just to be useful. You, though…" Scarlet's smile curled. "I'll train you both. Crafting a wholly original [Aura]—that, I respect."

Marisia's composure faltered, a crack appearing through her calm as her voice hardened. "I will be the only heir," she said, forcing her fears deep beneath the surface. "Elisabeth is done. Her training ends now."

Scarlet frowned, her oppressive presence retracting slightly as she eased herself onto the edge of the desk, crossing one leg over the other with practiced poise. "I see," she murmured, a slow smile unfurling—more amused than approving. "How amusing, watching the runt try to bare its teeth. But tell me, what makes you think I'd entertain this little rebellion? I could toss you aside, bear a fresher pup, and start the whole process anew—hehe." Her laugh scraped the air like nails across glass. "You may be a genius, but I have no use for a spoiled brat playing heir, so—"

"A deal," Marisia said, cutting through her mother's condescension with a voice like drawn steel. "No father. No distractions. Just you and me."

Scarlet tapped her cheek, eyes gleaming with a predatory glint. "Go on, then," she purred. "Let's hear what you think you're offering."

"I'll do everything you ask," Marisia said, swallowing hard. "Torture me if you must—break my body, twist my will—I won't yield." Her gaze locked with her mother's, unwavering. "Be the blacksmith. Shape me into whatever you need. But Elisabeth walks free. That's the deal."

Even with the [Legacy] of a berserker, Elisabeth was still expected to fight, to uphold Noblesse Oblige, to endure the brutal training rituals—as long as she consented. And Marisia knew that was the key. As long as Elisabeth wanted it, no one, not even their father, would intervene. He would step aside, watching with that same soft gaze while their mother dragged her through outer circle. And Marisia hated it—every permissive moment, every silent nod, every ounce—with a fury that hollowed her chest.

"Fine." To Marisia's surprise, her mother agreed almost instantly, her voice curling like smoke. "But only if you endure, my little ingot of iron~"

Marisia blinked, her confusion slipping past her practiced calm. "What are you implying?"

"It's simple," she said with a lazy shrug. "The Leonandra household needs an heir, and you've so nobly volunteered to be the only piece of metal I can shape. Admirable, really. But what if Elisabeth doesn't want to quit? What if you're the one who breaks?"

"I won't," she said, her voice like tempered steel, her gaze unflinching. "Just give me the crucible—and I'll come out forged."

Scarlet sighed, her smile sharp with cruelty and amusement. "Fine," she said, flicking her hand in dismissal. "I keep my word. But enough with the blacksmith metaphors—they're starting to rust."

Marisia nodded, sensing her mother's doubt, but determined to prove herself—to endure worse than anything her sister had faced, and emerge unbroken. "Good," she said, turning toward the door. But before she could take another step, Scarlet's voice cut through the air, thick with condescending righteousness.

"That [Aura] you conjured on the spot—it's something," she chuckled, low and knowing. "So noble, so precise. Justice, righteousness, all wrapped in that cold, calculated shine. But I see you~"

Marisia turned her head, her brow furrowed, eyes narrowing with wary distrust. "What are you getting at?"

"My dear," she said, rising and circling the desk with deliberate grace. "You could've pleaded with your father—his soft little heart wouldn't have refused. You could've struck a deal with me to train you while I found a new candidate. Or spirited your sister away and begged your sentimental father to keep her hidden. You might've even bided your time, waited for me to produce more heirs, and then defined my training methods to your father, forcing my hand into a more 'reasonable' regime." Her smile thinned, a blade in disguise. "But you did none of that."

"But—" Marisia began, her voice tense with protest, but her mother sliced through it with practiced ease, silencing her before the thought could form.

"We can change the deal," her smile stretched wider, serpentine and amused. "But you'll never be heir—not in that version. Your sister would get a quiet, peaceful life. I'll birth another two, maybe three pups. One of them's bound to be decent, and I'll settle for a softer training regime. You?" Her arms opened as if presenting a prize. "No torture. No expectations. Just a life free of pain and pressure. Isn't that perfect? For me, certainly. I'll find another promising disciple somewhere. Blood is preferred, yes—but never essential."

Marisia stood still, her mouth opening, but no words emerged—she didn't want to accept this. She wanted to argue, to deny it all, yet that same echo pulsed in her chest: the hunger, the ambition, the raw craving to be seen. Not for kindness. Not for sacrifice. But for triumph—she wanted to be the sun, the unreachable peak.

Scarlet broke the silence with a low, knowing chuckle. "We are not so different, you and I," she said, voice dipped in amusement and something darker—like pride laced with poison.