Emily had always been fascinated by the realm of fantasy novels in her previous life. In those tales, storage bags were a staple, yet their utilization often remained a mystery. Standing in the dim light, Emily focused on channeling some magical essence into the small sack before her, hoping to unlock its secrets.

Nothing happened.

Considering the bag as a personal artifact, Emily speculated it might require a more intimate method to access. She concentrated deeply, attempting to unlock it with the invisible force residing in her mind. A surge of excruciating pain erupted from the depths of her brain, overwhelming her senses like a tempest, rendering her incapable of coherent thought.

Grinding her teeth, Emily resisted the urge to retreat. Her mental prowess reluctantly reached out, brushing against the tiny bag.

It yielded almost at once.

Nausea roiled through her—a sensation reminiscent of a concussion's aftermath—golden flecks danced before her eyes as she fought the discomfort, managing to retrieve an item from its depths.

Before she could discern its nature, she succumbed to unconsciousness, her body slumping against a not-so-soft, but warm human cushion.

The sudden weight jostled Blake awake. As he attempted to sit upright, he found Emily leaning against his chest.

Moonlight reflecting off the snow illuminated the room, casting a soft glow over Emily's raven hair, which lay freely across her shoulders. Her lashes touched her cheeks, so peaceful that it seemed she was merely asleep.

Blake was mildly surprised, recalling she hadn't rested for days, stirring a tender protectiveness within him. He reached out to adjust her position for greater comfort but hesitated, wary of disturbing her rest.

After some consideration, he reclined back, maintaining his position to ensure her slumber remained undisturbed.

Yet, with the added weight on his chest, sleep eluded him.

The nighttime wind howled outside, rousing past memories: throughout his life, many women had crossed his path, but none had inspired love or passion. At thirteen, he met Martha, collaborating with the Queen, and knew she'd become his wife—not through love or desire, but a matter of strategic alliance.

Like the former Commander, Blake had lowered himself, persistent in pleasing to secure power. To demonstrate sincerity, he'd banished all female servants from his side. However, all he earned was Martha's spoiled complaint, "Father, how could Blake, a common workman's son, be worthy of me? I refuse to marry him!"

Hearing those words from outside the window plunged him into an icy despair, clarifying for the first time the disdain Martha's family held for him.

But with the Presidency vacant, he'd been elevated to Vice President, and regardless of Martha's reluctance, the title demanded her compliance. Post-marriage, she'd dismissed him from her quarters, surrounding herself with maids to deter him. Feeling humiliated, Blake never returned to her rooms.

Concerned by the scandal, the President arranged two other aides, both daughters of influential figures. Understanding their roles' importance, Blake treated them well, resulting in a harmonious coexistence.

Yet, these marriages and alliances centered around politics and influence, devoid of personal affection. Martha was wed as a pawn in her parents' ambitions; the others, tools to bolster power.

Now, in this quiet interlude, he found himself drawn to Emily without the burdens of ambition or strategy—a pure, inexplicable affection blooming from within.

Wonders unfolding slowly, he gazed at the woman nestled against him, gradually lifting his arm to tenderly encircle her shoulders.

Sleepless, he savored the solace of an unexpectedly contented heart.

***

Emily awoke from a restful slumber, free from dreams and discomfort. As she opened her eyes, the pain that had plagued her was mysteriously gone. She blinked, attempting to rise, only to realize her surroundings were peculiar. Amused, she turned to see Blake still sleeping beside her, his arm casually draped over her.

No wonder her pillow felt surprisingly comfortable—it was his very chest.

As dawn's light seeped through, Emily studied the man who'd unknowingly shared his warmth all night. Although young by modern standards, Blake was already a leader of a nation here, with responsibilities and intricate politics adding maturity and allure beyond his years.

Sometimes, attraction was less about appearance or physique and more about something intangible. Perhaps that's why she'd disregarded age, captivated by an unprecedented interest in him?

Her curiosity piqued, she watched him until he stirred, awakening to meet her gaze.

Unflinching, Emily continued to meet his eyes directly, while Blake, reminded of the night's intimacy, flushed with a touch of panic. She propped herself up, her dark hair cascading over his chest, remaining silent, only observing.

Blake fumbled for composure, his throat working yet words evading him. An unspoken, thrilling tension enveloped them, his mind whirling with expectation and unsteadiness.

"Blake," she finally spoke, her voice steady, calling his name.

Desperately mustering calmness, he replied, "Yes?"

"I believe..."

"Hm?" His heart raced, anticipation mixing with hesitation as he braced himself.

"It's morning; time to move on." And with that, Emily rose, leaving the bed as if all that had transpired was merely a figment of Blake's yearning imagination, while she remained evidently unburdened and serenely detached.

Blake: "..."

After breakfast with the farmer, and gathering provisions they'd requested earlier, they left the small town behind.

As Blake hitched the horses, he glanced back, noting the curling plumes of smoke that marked a new day's beginning.

Emily clambered aboard the vehicle, disappearing inside. "You're driving today, once again," she declared.

As if you'd learned how, Blake thought wryly, cracking the whip with a silent retort, "Yah!"

Rested and refreshed, the horses trotted eagerly ahead.

Sunlight sparkled over the melting snow.

Emily pulled back a section of the curtain, finally taking time to examine the object she'd extracted from the small sack the night before—a slender booklet, its cover resembling some kind of hide, giving it an appearance like a parchment.

She flipped it open, finding it devoid of words.

An unreadable booklet.

She was unsurprised; oddities like these were commonplace in the realm of the fantastic.

Attempting to infuse it with magic brought no reaction; mental energy was equally unfruitful. Contemplatively, she tried a final option—biting her finger to let a drop of blood fall onto the mysterious pages.

The scarlet droplet seeped into the parchment, revealing two words: "Notebook."

It was an expected twist. Emily had felt the booklet suited the role of a journal at first glance, and so it turned out to be.

What could be inside? With curiosity, she delved deeper, surprised to find that what seemed to be merely a few pages actually stretched far beyond as she flipped through. She finally returned to the beginning to examine its contents.

Written within were entries in simplified script, each brushstroke unmistakably her own. She hadn't been mistaken—this was indeed her journal. From the early days, when she struggled to catch up academically, she'd developed a habit of summarizing her learnings daily, a practice she maintained throughout, resulting in substantial advantages later.

Unwittingly, this propensity to organize knowledge proved a fortuitous windfall for her amnesiac self in this foreign land. Feeling moved by the sheer irony, Emily focused on carefully reading the entries.

The first recorded terms were listed as follows: "Mystic Cultivation," "Magical Energy," "Opening Gateways."

1. Mystic Cultivation: The process of evolving from human to a higher form of existence through spiritual training.

(Emily noted: This seems to be a personal deduction, laden with the familiar flair of science fiction~)

2. Magical Energy: The primal forces at play since the dawn of creation, saturating nature. It is divided among five elemental alignments: Metal commends clarity and contraction, Wood heralds vitality and initiation, Water embodies coolness and descent, Fire symbolizes warmth and ascension, Earth upholds and accepts. The interdependence and interplay of these elements encapsulate the world.

(Emily speculated: Abstract attributes as opposed to tangible substances, suggesting the absence of mutated material phenomenon? Wait, does it exclude the energy matter discussion?)

3. Opening Gateways: Every part of the body could become a potential channel; once a gateway opens, it facilitates a communion between the cosmos and oneself, drawing power within. Closed, the body remains trapped in its mortal coil, denied the immortal pursuit.

Emily rested her chin in contemplation. The concept of "Opening Gateways" seemed alien, raising the question of her own latent conduits.

Pondering, she turned to the next entry.

4. Micro Circulation: Channeling power to the sea of conscious thought, initiating micro-circulation.

5. Macro Circulation: Magic flows from the sea of consciousness throughout the body, initiating macro-circulation.

6. Mental Forces: Brainpower? Spiritual might? Soul force?? Vaguely constructed!!! This can be cultivated by repeated depletion and recovery (sleep), a formidable tool for exploitation, hence prioritized for training (crossed out).

Addendum: Excessive strength of mental forces might lead to physical dissonance and potential explosion (…). Those fantasy scribes surely overstate matters!

Additional Note: The mentor assures such extreme conditions rarely occur, hence steady training remains the essence. Swordmasters indeed are unreliable, dispensing their wisdom in fragmented doses, thanks but no thanks…

"Ha—" Emily found humor in her notes, part confessionals, part practical records. Yet, one surprising fact emerged—she had a mentor skilled in swordplay? This was an invaluable clue… perhaps.

Acknowledging this, she reflected on the butterfly's assertion of "magic dispersing, spirit impaired," likening it to how restful sleep had mended her mind. A rough understanding crystallized within her thoughts.

Nevertheless, recovery wasn't presently prudent. With purpose, Emily continued reviewing, predicting various incantations she'd jotted down among the pages. Alongside mundane spells like Cleansing Dust and Featherlight Step, she'd specialized in elemental firecraft.

Thus, a mage—no, a magic practitioner.

Emily mused, casting a Cleansing Dust spell upon herself. Dust vanishing from her hair left it pristine, warm comfort tingling across her scalp.

Delighted, she eagerly emerged from the vehicle, catching Blake's surprised gaze, quickly invoking more spells to gift him the same treatment, then a protective ward that diverted the biting chill from reaching them both.

Blake, filled with awe, muttered, "Is this truly magical power? Could mortals ever face such wonders?"

Noticing the awe in his voice, Emily considered her response. "Aren’t there many whose martial skills surpass yours?"

Confused by her sudden segue, Blake nodded, "Yes." If elite guards had accompanied him that day, he'd never face such adversity.

"Magic’s akin to martial prowess," Emily explained, sitting beside him to peer at the clear sky, shoulder to shoulder. "It grants advantage but doesn’t render us less than human."

Blake regarded her in surprise.

"Truth be told," Emily offered a soft chuckle, "I’m not merely injured; I’ve lost every scrap of memory. I cannot recall my origin, nor my reasons for being here. However formidable a practitioner becomes, there's vulnerability—flesh wounds, mortality, fears… Even Smith would admit to such."

Blake's tense demeanor softened under her compassionate perspective, soothing his guarded spirit. "Emily, you…”

"Regardless," Emily interrupted, "those with martial prowess may serve you; those with formidable intellect may become aids. Practitioners possess particular gifts but remain people nonetheless."

"Emily," Blake countered gravely, "individuals are easily manipulated for they desire—be it prosperity, rank, or mere survival. Smith harbors ambition, making Martha’s house his ally. But what of those who desire nothing? Those with mightier aspirations, how could common people withstand?"

Fortune favored him—currently only two practitioners occupied his sphere. With Smith’s vested interest in gaining followers, violence was unlikely, and Emily’s benevolence promised no harm, yet her words hinted at many more beyond.

What if malice existed amongst them? Could simple mortals ever hold their ground?

[Author's Note: Additions made on February 26]

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Following conventions, the protagonist meets a guiding NPC while venturing into fantasy realms~

I've resolved she assumes this role, as the toil and labor of a former self burgeons into today's fruition. In various ways, this embodies karma... heh, heh.