Late August, 1939.
Fifteen-year-old Princess Elizabeth had already grown into a slender young woman.
She wore a strange military uniform, and a special kind of paint covered her face, concealing her beautiful features.
With the help of her tutor, she had secretly slipped past everyone in her household and come to a small country in Europe to undergo a certain kind of training.
Three years of study had given the young Princess considerable skill—not only in riding and swordsmanship, but even in marksmanship. At the same time, her academic performance had reached a level that won constant praise from her father.
Without a doubt, the young Princess already possessed the makings of an outstanding woman.
She was aboard a train.
In the rear half of the carriage, the sweat-drenched Princess held a standard-issue longsword in one hand and a Soviet-made pistol in the other.
Seven men lay collapsed here. They wore the uniforms of the SS—the same kind of military uniform as the Princess.
Blood slowly seeped from their bodies, eventually gathering into a stream that spread beneath the Princess's leather boots.
The Princess wearily leaned against the carriage door. Her trembling hand suddenly went slack, and the sword fell to the floor—not because of fear, but because her numb fingers could barely keep hold of the weapon.
Moreover, there was a bleeding wound on her arm.
The Princess gritted her teeth, tore open her undergarment, and used both her teeth and hands to hastily bandage the wound. Only then did she let out a breath, push open the door, and leave the carriage.
She stripped off her clothes and casually threw them into the river beneath the bridge the train was crossing. At the connection between the carriages, the Princess reached beneath the carriage floor and pulled out a