The System Sent Me to Breed an All-Female Amazon Tribe

In one of many human kingdoms in the world of Elyndor, I had managed to score a job in a royal palace itself.

The position was one that many envied, a coveted role that came with status, security, and a steady income that far exceeded what most people could hope to earn in a lifetime of labor.

I had worked hard to earn it, had spent countless hours honing my skills and proving my worth, and the reward was a life of relative comfort and stability in a world that offered no guarantees to anyone.

I am a royal clerk of the kingdom.

The work was demanding, often tedious, and frequently thankless, but it paid well and came with benefits that few other positions could match.

I had my own desk in the palace archives, a small but comfortable space tucked away in a quiet corner where I normally work without interruption or distraction.

I also had access to the royal library, a treasure trove of knowledge spanning centuries that I could draw upon for my work.

And I was able to feed and care for my old father, the remaining member of my family besides me.

He had raised me alone after my mother passed, had sacrificed so much to give me a chance at a better life, working double shifts at the docks and coming home with calloused hands and exhausted eyes.

The thought of him, waiting for me at home with his warm smile and gentle eyes, made all the long hours and difficult days worthwhile.

His health was failing now, his body worn down by years of hard labor, and I knew that every day I had with him was a gift.

Due to my skill, I was sought out by the king of this kingdom 5 years ago, and everything has been going great ever since.

The king had recognized my talent, had seen something in me, and he had offered me a position that I could not refuse.

It was a sign of his favor, a mark of his trust, and I had worked hard to justify his confidence in me. I had risen through the ranks quickly, my reputation for accuracy and efficiency preceding me, and I had become indispensable to the smooth operation of the palace bureaucracy.

The only problem? My only problem?

"P... Please, spare some change..." A full grown youth with lively eyes and complete limbs asked me while I was returning from the palace.

His voice was whining, grating, and there was a desperation in it that I had heard a thousand times before.

He held out his hand, palm up, and his eyes were fixed on me with an intensity that made my skin crawl.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, and his arms were thick with muscle from years of manual labor that he had apparently abandoned.

"I have nothing to give you, go away," I swung my head to the side and slightly changed trajectory away from the beggar’s area.

My voice was cold and dismissive, and I did not bother to hide my disgust.

I had seen this man before, had seen him day after day, week after week, always in the same spot, always asking for the same thing. He was young, healthy, capable of work, and yet he chose to beg instead of contributing to society.

The problem was that the path to my home was fraught with beggars, and they certainly take energy from me equivalent to the palace.

Every single day, without fail, I had to run the gauntlet of their pleas and whines. They lined the streets, clustered in the alleys, gathered in the shadows, always watching, always waiting, always asking for something I did not want to give.

My name is Alice.

As I had previously said, I work in the kingdom of Nerceul as a royal clerk: compiling every paperwork, writing their letters, and keeping detailed records of dates and events.

It was a role that required precision, attention to detail, and a patience that I had developed over years of practice. I was good at it, better than most, and I took pride in my work.

The letters I wrote were elegant and persuasive, the records I kept were meticulous and accurate, and the paperwork I compiled was organized and most efficient.

It was not a funny job, but since I knew how to do it more than a lot of people, it made me valuable.

The king knew this, and he valued me. He trusted me with sensitive information, entrusted me with important tasks, and rewarded me handsomely for my loyalty and competence.

After a long day at work, I return home with provisions and supplies from the market, and I get blocked and disturbed by these lazy folks called the beggars.

They watched me with hungry eyes, called out to me with desperate voices, and made my daily commute a trial of endurance that left me exhausted and irritable long before I reached my front door.

Am I cold and heartless? Maybe.

The thought had occurred to me before, had been voiced by others who had seen my dismissive treatment of the less fortunate.

But I... refuse to give money or anything to a capable young man begging on the street.

They could do something, anything; when I was younger than they were, I worked a lot and I got paid, even if little.

I had scrubbed floors, carried water, delivered messages, done whatever I could to earn a living, supporting my father.

It was not easy, but it was honest, and it had taught me the value of hard work and self-reliance.

Since they lack that drive and motivation to better their lives, I deem it too convenient and pampering to bless them with something material.

They were not children, not elderly, not infirm. They were men and women who had chosen to give up, to surrender to their circumstances rather than fight against them.

And I had no sympathy for such people. Sympathy was for those who deserved it, for those who try and try again, not for those who had never tried at all.

"Spare a penny?"

"A penny for the poor...?"

"A little alms for a poor man, ma’am?"

"Good madam, can you spare a coin?"

"Got a ha’penny for a starving man?"

The chorus and harmony of them eroded my thinking every single day I passed. I always grind my teeth and scowl my face.

The sound of their voices, the desperation in their pleas, the way they seemed to multiply with each passing day—it was enough to drive anyone mad.

I could feel my jaw clenching, my teeth grinding together, as I walked past them with my eyes fixed straight ahead.

Why don’t they just... work hard?

The question haunted me, repeated itself in my mind like a prayer.

Why couldn’t they see that they were wasting their lives, that they had the power to change their circumstances if only they had the will?

I had seen others rise from poverty through sheer determination and hard work, myself included. Why couldn’t they do the same?

***

Ugh, another grueling day at work, it is never easy.

I do try to enjoy it, however. Sometimes I really do.

Not to mention, a troublesome noble from the evil kingdom of Chimustar came to visit.

Due to favors he had with the king, even the king was grinning and bearing the unsightly man’s presence.

The noble was everything I hated about the aristocracy: arrogant, entitled, and utterly without manners. He strutted through the palace as if he owned it, made demands of the staff as if they were his servants, and treated everyone with a contempt that made my blood boil.

His very presence was an insult to the dignity of the kingdom.

I’ve been feeling the brunt of the chaos, with his hand almost grabbing a fistful of my behind just hours ago.

The memory of it made my skin crawl, the feel of his fingers brushing against my dress, the leer in his eyes as he watched me.

I had managed to pull away before he could complete his assault, but the violation lingered, a stain on my spirit that I could not wash away.

I had reported it to my superior, but nothing had been done. The noble was too powerful, too connected, and I was just a clerk.

SIGH.

I need to visit the bathhouse this week...

The thought was a small comfort, a reminder that there were still pleasures to be found in life. A hot bath, steam rising from the water, the scent of herbs and oils, the feeling of tension melting away from my muscles.

It was a small indulgence, but it was mine, and I looked forward to it with an anticipation that bordered on desperation.

"M... Madam... Some change...?"

Someone grabbed my sleeve as I moved through an alley.

The touch was light, hesitant, as if the owner was afraid of my reaction.

The voice was young, a tad high-pitched, and there was a tremble in it that spoke of fear and desperation.

I could feel the grime on the fingers that touched my sleeve, could smell the poverty that clung to them.

I already knew what type of person it might be, and I felt anger bubbling in my spirit.

The frustration of the day, the violation of the noble’s touch, the constant harassment of the beggars—it all came together in a surge of rage that made my hands clench into fists. I was tired, I was angry, and I had no more patience to give.

I turned, to face the owner of the voice, to find a young boy of maybe 14 or so.

He was thin, gaunt, his cheeks hollow and his eyes sunken. His clothes were rags, barely covering his skeletal frame, and his hands were shaking as he held them out to me.