Reincarnated as the Villainess’s Unlucky Bodyguard

The morning sun barely peeked over the horizon as I dragged myself to the Academy gardens for day two of my punishment. My body ached as if I'd been hit by a wagon oh wait, that was the Reaper in the dungeon last night. At least no one here knew about my humiliating death.

As I rounded the corner, Enara was already there, perched delicately on a stone bench like a smug cat. Her smirk was infuriatingly radiant, and I could practically hear the mocking words forming in her head.

"Well, well," she said, twirling a strand of hair. "The great Liria Silverthorn, reduced to pulling weeds. Should I fetch you a watering can or maybe a hoe?"

"I can think of a hoe," I muttered darkly, shoving past her.

Her laugh echoed behind me, pure and grating. "Careful, Silverthorn. At this rate, you'll be better at gardening than protecting me."

"Don't you have classes to attend?" I shot back.

She shrugged. "Watching you dig in the dirt is far more educational. But fine, I'll leave you to it. Try not to uproot yourself."

As she sauntered away, Ananara, who'd been silent on the way here, finally piped up.

"She's right, you know. You'd make an excellent compost pile."

"Why don't you dig for a while, oh mighty pineapple?" I snapped.

"I don't stoop to manual labor," Ananara replied haughtily. "I'm a being of great wisdom, not a common field hand."

[Strength -1 from emotional stress. Kidding! But seriously, stop bickering.]

"Stay out of this!" I barked at the system.

"Who are you yelling at?" a familiar gruff voice interrupted.

Grunthor Earthcleave, the Academy gardener, stood nearby, arms crossed. His moss-green skin glistened with dew, and his permanent scowl deepened as he eyed me like I was an overgrown weed.

"Yer late," he grunted.

I glanced at my pocket watch. "I'm two minutes early."

"Yer mouth's two minutes too loud," he retorted, tossing me a rake that looked older than Daena. "Get to work. That patch over there's not gonna weed itself."

Ananara snickered. "Serves you right."

"Want to trade places?" I hissed, dragging the rake toward the brambles.

"I would, but then the world would miss my unparalleled brilliance," Ananara said.

[Reminder: He's a pineapple. Stop arguing with fruit.]

Grumbling under my breath, I started hacking away at the overgrowth. Grunthor hovered nearby, barking critiques.

"Ya swing that rake like it's a fan. Put some effort into it!"

"I'm trying!" I snapped, yanking at a particularly stubborn root.

"Try harder," he growled. "Yer softer than a mushroom in a rainstorm."

Hours dragged by, filled with dirt, sweat, and Grunthor's constant commentary. By midday, I was ready to collapse.

Grunthor finally stopped me with a grunt. "Yer hopeless," he said, but his tone softened slightly. "Still, I've seen worse. Barely."

"Gee, thanks," I muttered, leaning on the rake.

"Tell ya what," he continued, crossing his arms. "Since yer so pitiful, I'll throw ya a bone. How 'bout I teach ya a bit of earth magic?"

Ananara gasped dramatically. "Oh no! The weeds will rise up and overthrow us all!"

"Not helping," I snapped at him.

Grunthor ignored the exchange. "It's basic stuff, but it might save yer sorry hide someday. Pay attention."

He knelt and pressed his hand to the soil. With a low rumble, the ground shifted, and a small mound of dirt rose up, perfectly smooth and rounded.

"Wow," I said dryly. "A dirt bubble. Truly groundbreaking."

Grunthor glared. "Care to try, smart mouth?"

I knelt down, pressing my palm to the ground. The soil felt cool and gritty, and I tried to focus. My first attempt resulted in a small puff of dust that landed squarely on my boots.

"Congratulations," Ananara said. "You made a mess. Revolutionary."

"Shut up!"

"Stop yellin' at the pineapple," Grunthor grumbled. "And try again. Feel the earth. Don't fight it."

Taking a deep breath, I tried again, this time focusing on the soil beneath my fingers. A tiny mound formed, wobbly but intact.

"Not bad," Grunthor admitted grudgingly. "Yer still useless, but maybe slightly less so."

"Oh, the flattery," I said, rolling my eyes.

[Note: You didn't learn the spell yet. Keep practicing or accept eternal mediocrity.]

I glared at the sky. "I hate you."

"I think you mean, 'Thank you for this wonderful opportunity,'" Ananara said.

I groaned, dragging my hands down my face. "I think I mean, 'Please, someone, bury me in this garden.'"

[Progress: 12%. Pathetic effort detected.]

"Excuse me?" I snapped aloud, earning a raised brow from Grunthor.

"Talking to yerself now, are ya?" he grunted. "Focus, girl. Yer not lifting stones, yer working with the soil. Feel it under yer fingers. Command it, don't beg it."

"Command it, don't beg it," I muttered under my breath. "Sure, because commanding dirt is my life's ambition."

Ananara let out a high-pitched chuckle. "Perhaps you should try groveling. Dirt respects its own kind, after all."

Ignoring him, I pressed my palms back into the earth. This time, I focused harder, trying to visualize the soil shifting at my will. A low rumble echoed beneath my hands, and for a split second, I thought I had it.

[Progress: 22%. Slightly less pathetic. Still embarrassing.]

The mound of dirt trembled, wobbling like a gelatin dessert, before collapsing back into a flat patch of nothingness.

"Fantastic," I said, throwing my hands up. "I've invented dirt pancakes."

Grunthor snorted. "Ya got spirit, I'll give ya that. Unfortunately, it's useless spirit."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," I said through gritted teeth.

[Progress: 25%. Congratulations, you're now officially slower than moss growth.]

"Okay, you listen here, you sadistic calculator," I hissed in my mind. "Why don't you try bending dirt with zero experience?"

[Error: I am an advanced system. I don't sully myself with manual labor.]

I smacked the ground in frustration, sending a puff of dust into the air. Ananara sighed dramatically. "I'm embarrassed just being near you."n/ô/vel/b//in dot c//om

"Keep practicing," Grunthor said gruffly, pointing to another patch of soil. "Yer not leaving till ya master this spell ."

I glared at him. "This is a dictatorship."

"It's a garden," he replied, unbothered.

Back to work.