Chapter 1. My Possession Became a Ghost Story.

『HOW TO SUMMON □□□□』

『Stand upon the □ drawn □

Defile the earth with □□□ blood of □□

Draw a circle with your □ □ hands

Bow down and look up to □

Make grapes ripen on thornbushes

And make figs bear fruit on thistles

□□ and □□

Turn the earth and welcome the □□ of □□ who will descend to the earth』

Meow.

* * *

The only daughter of Count Rohanson, Evangeline Rohanson, had died.

Officially, the cause was recorded as illness, yet those employed within the Rohanson estate could not forget the pale feet that had dangled from a luxuriantly blooming cherry tree branch, swaying in the wind. The cherry blossoms had bloomed so red and beautiful that day—one might almost imagine their lush fragrance still lingering at the tip of one's nose.

Or perhaps it was because of the cherry blossoms that filled the coffin in place of white lilies.

The funeral was held at the mansion, given the cause of death—hardly something beneficial to circulate beyond these walls. After the ceremony concluded in the annex, rather than enshrinement at the temple, a monument would be erected in one corner of the rear garden. The temple would not accept those who had taken their own lives, leaving no other recourse, though those unaware of such circumstances merely praised the Count's paternal devotion and offered their condolences.

The funeral was modest.

Nobility's final journeys were typically magnificent and grand affairs, yet Evangeline's ceremony seemed somehow shabby for a young lady of aristocratic birth. Under the pretext that the illness might be contagious, condolence visits from nobility were declined, and the only attendees filling the space were estate employees and a handful of knights.

Whether due to the sparse attendance, or because even at this funeral no one wept for the deceased—an eerily unsettling atmosphere pervaded the hall.

At least the prayer recited by the priest ventilated some of the gloom.

The funeral was presided over by a priest of no particular renown. Though his recitation of prayers and pristine white vestments appeared pious enough, one who truly knew honor would never have attended this gathering for gold coins as inducement.

Once the priest's prayer concluded, the ceremony would be nearly finished. All that remained was to close the coffin and place the corpse in the hole dug beforehand.

It was around the time when several servants, having received prior instruction to move the coffin, were making preparations.

Within the hall where only silence had circulated, a rustling sound suddenly rang out with peculiar loudness.

The priest, who guarded his authority terribly, cleared his throat to issue a warning and attempted to continue his prayer, but the disturbance only intensified.

The sound of grass rustling, of something un-oiled moving while bones knocked together, of wood creaking. Small, minute noises coalesced in one place, and just as people began to murmur, the priest, unable to endure any longer, stopped his prayer and opened his eyes.

And the priest came face to face with the source of such profound disturbance.

Snow-white hair cascaded down like a waterfall. The soft-looking strands seemed somehow less like spun thread and more like spider silk gathered and pulled into long strands.

Her eyelashes trembled, and behind her opening eyelids, blood-red eyes were revealed. The color evoked not jewels like rubies but the heart of a living creature.

Except for those red eyes like condensed blood, she was impossibly white. Wearing a white dress alone among the black mourning clothes, she seemed like some otherworldly being, cut off from this world. Quiet and cold and pale.

The priest realized why that first small noise had sounded so peculiarly loud. Because he'd been closest to the coffin, of course. The priest cried out to his god inwardly and recited prayers.

Regrettably, they had no effect.

The resurrected corpse now began to move its body. Starting with bending its hand, it tried making a fist, blinking its eyes, and turning its head. It was exactly as if something not human was handling an unfamiliar body.

It looked up at the chandelier swaying from the ceiling, then swept its gaze over the people in the hall. Those who met that gaze flinched, covered their mouths, and held their breath.

When that gaze finally reached the priest, he understood completely why people had reacted so. It was as if he had witnessed a masterpiece painting with human eyes inserted. Worse—the painting's eyes were moving, looking at him.

Caught in the eyes of something ominous that should neither exist nor arise—it would have been better to bite one's tongue or strangle oneself to escape.

It would be more natural to say a masterpiece had walked out from its canvas, or that a sculpture carved with souls ground into refinement was pretending to be human. Compared to that thing, even a puppet dangling from a puppeteer's strings would be closer to something alive.

"...What's my name?"

Finally, that thing even expelled human speech from its mouth.

The thing that had seized Evangeline Rohanson's body finished adapting to its new form and smiled with profound satisfaction.

I appear to have transmigrated.

When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was a splendidly brilliant chandelier. Incidentally, it looked extremely expensive. While gauging the chandelier's price, I carefully recalled how I had died.

Since my body had been originally healthy, illness was ruled out. I hadn't secured employment yet, so death by overwork was also eliminated, nor had I been struck by a car while saving an animal or child. I'd never met a god or encountered any suspicious fortune teller. No matter how much I thought about it, I seemed to have simply transmigrated while sleeping.

Even if transmigration is all the rage these days, is it acceptable to select someone to transmigrate this carelessly? Well. Since it's already done, it's not important.

I've already transmigrated, so there's no point dwelling on my previous life. What matters is this body I've transmigrated into.

Is it because the transmigration lacked sincerity? Memories of the original body's owner didn't surface. Looking at my hands, the age didn't seem particularly young.... Would it have killed them to put me in a younger body? Since I know nothing about the body's owner, I'll apparently have to go with the amnesia angle.

White hair and delicate hands—definitely nobility, though no particular character comes to mind. Isn't the standard for these things to enter a book you were reading or your favorite work?

I had no favorite work, and what I'd been enjoying reading lately happened to be a martial arts novel about a Heavenly Demon's regression. Though most vivid in memory as the most recently read, just looking at the chandelier confirmed this wasn't martial arts. If I'd transmigrated into martial arts, I would have died a violent death, so this is rather fortunate...

This won't do.

I wouldn't find an answer alone. At times like this, I needed to ask for help from my surroundings. I should ask something to the man sitting blankly next to me. His clothes and the thick scripture he was holding made him look exactly like a priest. If this was a setting where I'd transmigrated into a sickly character, it wouldn't be strange to have a priest nearby. That would make the amnesia route even easier.

Come to think of it, where is this? I swept a quick glance around.

I was momentarily horrified. Why are there so many people? I'd felt human presence somewhere, but everyone in the room was looking at me. Every one of them wore black clothes and quietly held their breath. Only now noticing this—I must not be in my right mind either.

Distracted by the unfamiliar ceiling, I hadn't realized this wasn't even a bedroom. I'd thought it was a bed because the floor felt soft. Looking now, it's covered with flowers. Cherry blossoms? Or plum blossoms? No wonder I smelled something fragrant.

...Wait. This place I'm lying in has a familiar shape....

Is this possibly a coffin? Was I lying in a coffin? Then right now—is this the middle of a funeral? Is that why everyone's wearing black clothes?

My head spun.

Look, it's not uncommon to transmigrate into a dead person's body. When you transmigrate into a body that was living just fine, readers feel sorry for the original owner, so you often see plot developments where they cleanly transmigrate into someone destined to die or already dead. But still—what am I supposed to do if I transmigrate during the funeral?

No wonder people looked at me like they'd seen a ghost!

At minimum, they should have made me transmigrate right after death! With this level of carelessness, at least there was consistency.

The priest beside me looks like he's about to expire.

Thinking from the priest's perspective, wouldn't this be a corpse coming back to life?

I need to somehow manage this situation. What should I say? Ta-da, thought I was dead? It was a prank camera? I don't know. I'll just say whatever comes to mind. Oh right, before I say anything else, I absolutely have to say this first.

"What's my name?"

For the record, since I'd definitely transmigrated into nobility, I skipped the honorifics.

The name of the body I transmigrated into is Evangeline Rohanson.

Right. Still don't know who that is.

Two days have already passed since transmigration. The first day I was caught and harassed by the priest and doctor, and the second day I focused on gathering information about Evangeline and this world.

Based on deduction, this is a villainess transmigration story.

Employees bow their heads whenever they see me, tremble when I speak to them, and I even saw someone faint upon seeing me during a walk. A rather young maid begged me to spare her life before her mouth was covered and she was taken away. How vicious must the original body's owner have been for the maid to react like that? She should have lived more kindly.

Moreover, Evangeline had red eyes.

In romance fantasy worldviews, only people with rather dirty dispositions could have red eyes. Generally considered an ominous color, they'd be abused and shunned until the male protagonist in the original novel carelessly tossed out some comfort like 'I think they're pretty,' at which point they'd fall head over heels, hard—at the level of love at first sight.

And Evangeline was the only daughter of Count Rohanson. Mother died young, and the family composition ended with father and daughter. Their relationship as father and daughter must not be very good—it'd been over two days since I transmigrated and I'd never seen his face. Even in a situation where his daughter died and came back to life, he didn't come to see her. Villainess fathers are divided into extremes—either trash or doting beyond reason—and this was unfortunately the former.

Beyond that, I don't know.

No fiancé either, and since romance fantasies usually have the Crown Prince as the male lead, I checked that direction first, but this world's Crown Prince is already middle-aged with two children. No Northern Grand Duke, no saint or holy knight either.

Actually, even this much was just gleaned from questioning a maid.

I searched the room thinking there might be a diary, but found nothing. Even if I'd found it, I couldn't have read it anyway. I've become illiterate.

Unable to read—what kind of careless transmigration is this? Speaking presents no obstacles, yet I don't know the letters? Does that make sense? Not knowing letters made information gathering at the library impossible too.

So in the end, I'm stuck studying a second foreign language I've never attempted even before transmigration.

When I told the maid I couldn't read letters, she was so flustered. I didn't expect to see seismic pupil activity here. But maybe because I had the good excuse of amnesia, she said she'd buy me an alphabet book.

The book will arrive tomorrow, so today will be estate exploration!