It was an ordinary day, like any other.
The classroom buzzed faintly, filled with the droning cadence of a teacher's voice—an uninspired monologue about equations and formulas scrawled in white chalk on a smudged blackboard. The walls were dull beige, the ceiling lights flickering occasionally with a tired hum, and the air smelled faintly of pencil shavings and disinfectant. Outside, birds chirped halfheartedly beneath a sky too pale to care.
Siraoshi sat in the middle row. Not too close to the front, where the teacher might call on her. Not too far back, where the troublemakers flicked erasers and whispered curses under their breath. Just… in the middle. Just enough to blend in. A quiet girl, soft-featured, with black hair tied in a low ponytail and a gaze that never quite settled in one place for too long. Her notebook was open but nearly blank, the pen in her hand hovering above the page, unmoving.
Her eyes drifted toward the window, past the dusty glass pane and the cherry tree branches beyond. A breeze stirred the blossoms, and for a moment, Siraoshi imagined what it might be like to stand beneath them—hand in hand with someone who looked at her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered. Someone kind. Someone warm. A boy with a gentle smile and soft eyes, maybe a little awkward, maybe a little clumsy, but real. Not perfect—just sincere. Someone who would reach for her in a crowd and never let go.
She'd read about love in stories. She'd seen it in dramas, in the trembling prose of romance web novels and manga with beautifully drawn eyes and impossible coincidences. It all seemed so distant… so magical. And yet—so attainable, somehow, in a way dreams often are before they're broken. She didn't even need the love to last forever. She just wanted to know what it felt like. She just wanted to fall.
Even once.
The teacher's voice carried on, a lifeless drone: "Now, if we take the square root of—"
And then, the world cracked.
A soundless scream split the air—a pressure that crushed her lungs and stabbed at the edges of her thoughts. Without warning, a searing, blinding light erupted from nowhere. Not the gentle golden hue of sunlight or the sterile white of the classroom bulbs. This was unnatural. This was wrong. A light that should not exist, as if something outside reality had torn a hole in the sky and let itself bleed through.
Siraoshi didn't even have time to scream.
Her body locked up. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Her classmates were silhouettes now, their faces dissolving in the brilliance, their outlines warping like melting wax figures. Desks overturned. Windows shattered inward, but the glass didn't fall—it floated, suspended in the pulsing stillness like jagged diamonds.
And then came the pain.
It wasn't sharp or clean—it was everywhere, like a million needles were being driven into her skin all at once, some slow, some fast, some twisting. Her limbs spasmed, but she couldn't move. Her blood felt like it was boiling and freezing all at once. Her vision trembled, jittered, blurred like a broken camera trying to capture something it was never meant to see.
Her thoughts were slipping. Her name felt far away. Her heartbeat was thunder in her ears.
I'm dying.
That was the only thought that came through clearly.
And for a moment—just a moment—that terrible, sharp terror was swallowed by a quiet regret. She would never fall in love. She would never know what it was like to be held, to be wanted. Her dream, simple and soft and foolish, would remain just that. A dream.
And then—
Darkness.
Not sleep. Not unconsciousness. Not peace.
But a void.
Silent. Heavy. Cold.
Waiting.
the falling.
She didn't fall through space. She fell through existence—into a place where nothing made sense. An endless void stretched in every direction, empty and infinite, and in it, she was utterly alone. Her body was weightless, but her mind was heavy, bloated with panic. She tried to grab hold of something, anything, but her fingers found nothing, not even herself. There was no sky, no floor, just… absence.
And then—Darkness.
Not the comforting kind that comes before sleep. This was the kind of darkness that hungered. It pressed against her from all sides, whispering things without words, promises of erasure, of forgetting, of becoming nothing. She couldn't even remember if she was breathing. Her thoughts were unraveling, her name slipping away, syllable by syllable.
Who… am I?
Siraoshi.
Was that still her?
She didn't know. She only knew fear.
Then—light again. Not blinding, but soft. Dim and golden. Flickering. Warm like firelight filtered through stained glass. She blinked—or thought she did—and awareness trickled back in like water through cracked stone.
Her limbs were heavy. Her fingers… too small. Her eyes refused to focus, everything smeared into vague shapes and muted hues. The air felt thick and alien, rich with the smell of damp hay, wood, and something musky. She could hear—barely—the distant shuffle of hooves, a quiet snort, the slow chewing of some beast nearby.
And then, the lullaby.
It was a soft, trembling hum. Wordless, and yet it vibrated with meaning too old for her infant mind to understand.
She tried to speak, but her lips were foreign, her tongue clumsy, her lungs too weak. Only a faint, broken whimper escaped her.
She wasn't in a classroom anymore. She wasn't in Japan. She wasn't even Siraoshi, not exactly.
She was reborn. A boy. An infant boy, wrapped in scratchy linens, nestled in a crude bed of straw tucked in the corner of a small wooden stable. Around her—no, him—animals shifted and breathed, their presence as real and alive as her terror.
Then she saw her.
A woman, kneeling beside the straw bed, gazing down at her—him—with eyes like deep amethyst. Her face was delicate, almost elfin, with skin pale as ivory and hair like woven moonlight. But her ears… they were long and pointed, twitching subtly as she hummed.
She wasn't human.
She was something else. Something beautiful, but wrong in the subtlest of ways.
When she smiled, it was warm. Kind, even. But something in that smile trembled with sorrow, with secrecy. Like a candle flickering in the mouth of a cave.
"My little star," she whispered in a language Siraoshi didn't know, but somehow felt. "My precious one. You made it."
She leaned in and touched his forehead with her own. Her fingers were soft, but cold—unnaturally cold—and for a moment, he felt something else behind those eyes. A flicker. A presence. Not just a mother's love, but something older… watching. Measuring.
He wanted to cry. Not from pain, not even from fear, but from grief—grief for the self that was already slipping away. The girl who once stared out a classroom window, dreaming of love, of boys with soft voices and gentle eyes. She was fading. Drowning in this new body, this new life.
And yet… a fragment clung on. A tiny shard buried deep in the infant boy's chest, whispering:This is not a dream.This is not a second chance.This is something else.
Outside, something groaned. A low, creaking sound. Like a tree bending under pressure… or a door too heavy for mortal hands.
The animals stirred.
And far beyond the stable, past the treeline, past the shadows—Something ancient opened its eyes.
Days passed. Or at least, Siraoshi assumed they did. Time was slippery when you were the size of a pumpkin and spent half your day crying over wet diapers and the other half struggling to lift your own head.
She had been reincarnated.There was no denying it anymore. No fever dream, no elaborate VR simulation, no drug-induced hallucination in a hospital bed somewhere in Tokyo. This was real.
She was an elf.Or more precisely, she was now a he—a baby boy—with soft silver-blond hair, smooth pale skin, and a pair of ears so long and pointy they could probably pick up radio signals if he turned just right.
If she'd been able to speak, she would've screamed:"Seriously?! Not only did I get isekai'd, I got gender-swapped too?!"
But no, all she could do was gurgle helplessly, flail her noodly arms, and occasionally spit milk onto her own chest while her new mother laughed and patted her back like he was some kind of adorable little miracle.
Well. Okay. Maybe he was adorable. Just a little.He could feel how chubby his cheeks were when he moved them. His legs had no strength. His hands were like little pastries—useless, puffy, and somehow always covered in drool.
Still… he was alive.In a world that wasn't his own. A fantasy world.
And it was so obviously not Japan.
For one thing, his new mother had ears longer than his old math teacher's sense of disappointment, and more than that—there was a literal gemstone embedded in her forehead. A tiny, radiant blue crystal that pulsed with a faint glow whenever she sang or cast spells. The first time he saw it light up, he almost choked on his milk.
Magic.Real, sparkly, world-bending magic.
He'd watched with wide, unblinking baby eyes as she walked out into the field one morning, knelt beside a cracked watering trough, and summoned water from the air like it was nothing. Like she was flipping on a faucet. The water swirled into a perfect arc, glittering in the sunlight, then poured itself gracefully into the trough with a satisfying splash.
He nearly burst out laughing right there in his straw cradle.
And that wasn't even the craziest part.
Later that same day, a goat that had been limping—clearly injured—was gently coaxed over by his mother. She placed a glowing hand over its leg, murmured something that sounded like elvish poetry, and within seconds, the wound sealed itself like it had never been there.
Siraoshi watched, stunned.
This wasn't a world of cell phones and vending machines. There was no train to catch. No school to suffer through. No crowded sidewalks, no blinking neon signs, no endless pressure to study and become a "productive member of society." There was just hay, animals, and a mysterious, beautiful elf-mother who seemed to think her baby boy was the single greatest thing that had ever happened to her.
And honestly?He was okay with it.
Sure, being a baby was a drag.Sure, he had no control over his bladder.Sure, being burped after every meal was deeply humiliating in a cosmic, soul-level sort of way.
But he was warm. Safe. Fed. Loved.
Every time his mother picked him up, she'd cradle him against her chest and hum a lullaby so sweet it made his new little heart ache. He didn't understand the words—but he felt them. Like they were being sung straight into his bones.
And sometimes—just sometimes—when she kissed his forehead and whispered his new name in that musical language of hers, he felt like maybe… just maybe…
Falling in love with a boy wasn't the only way to find happiness.
Maybe being loved—even like this—was enough.Maybe it was okay that he'd been reborn in a strange world, in a body not his own, as a child of magic and hay.
He could handle it.
Well, as long as he never had to breastfeed again.
Because that, quite frankly, was a horror story for another day.
He couldn't understand it.The memories—it was like watching two rivers bleed into each other, one dyed with concrete and fluorescent lights, the other flowing with birdsong and the scent of damp earth. In flashes, he remembered a classroom, a textbook, the dull hum of a teacher's voice. Siraoshi. That had been his name. That was still who he was, wasn't it?
But then there were the other memories—the more recent ones. Warm straw beneath his tiny hands. The sweet scent of milk and herbs. His mother's lullabies echoing in a language he didn't know but felt he should. And when he tried to separate them—to pull old from new—it felt like tearing at seams that had already begun to heal.
He was someone else now.But not entirely.
As the days crept by, and the sun painted the sky in gold and lilac, the boy—Siraoshi, though no one called him that anymore—began to grow. His arms and legs gained strength, his eyes adjusted to the light, and his mind drank in every detail it could hold. And oh, what a world there was to see.
The village was small and remote, tucked into the folds of a lush valley like a secret whispered by the forest. No roads of stone or roaring engines here—only narrow dirt paths, worn smooth by time, winding like lazy snakes between ancient trees and overgrown hedgerows. The air always smelled of life. Not just living things, but life itself—rich, green, bursting at the seams.
Vines curled like dancers around wooden posts.Trees arched high above the cottages, their leaves glimmering with dew each morning like silver tears.Flowers bloomed with colors too bold to be real—crimson, sapphire, even shimmering gold.
The village homes were grown, not built. Living wood shaped itself into soft-curved walls and arching doorways, windows framed by flowering ivy. His own home sat nestled near a hill, half-covered in moss and wild grass, its chimney curling gentle smoke into the sky like a sigh.
And the people… oh, the people were strange and beautiful.They had pointed ears and eyes like polished jewels. They wore robes of mossy green and sky-blue, and they walked as though the earth whispered to them with every step. Siraoshi watched them from his perch on the straw bed or his mother's hip, eyes wide with curiosity and disbelief.
But nothing enchanted him like magic.
His mother, graceful as a willow tree, could summon light from the air with nothing but a word. He watched her heal a bird with a shattered wing—she simply cupped it in her hands, whispered a soft incantation, and bathed it in a gentle glow that smelled like lavender and something ancient. The bird flapped its wings once, twice, then soared into the sky, free.
Each time she did it, his heart pounded like a drum.Magic was real.Magic was real.
It wasn't the flashy, dramatic kind from his old world's anime or games. It was gentler here, like nature itself had agreed to lend a hand. Spells weren't shouted—they were sung, like lullabies. Magic didn't explode—it breathed. It glowed, like soft moonlight or warm fireflies. It felt… alive.
Siraoshi—this new him, this elven child with a borrowed soul—wanted to know more. He wanted to learn how it worked. He wanted to touch it.
But for now, he could only watch. And wait. And grow.
He still didn't understand why this had happened. Why he had been chosen. Why he'd died, and been given this second life—this new story in a world that felt like it had leapt off the pages of one of his novels.
But as he lay in his straw bed at night, listening to the lowing of livestock and the hum of cicadas outside, he felt something he'd never known before in his old life.
Peace.
He didn't know where the road ahead would lead.He didn't know if he'd ever find love again.He didn't even know what his name truly was anymore.
But under the soft emerald canopy of this elven village, where trees whispered secrets and magic flowed like water—Siraoshi, the girl who had longed for love, and the boy he now was—felt something new blossom quietly in his chest.
Hope.
Though his memories still sloshed around like soup in a cracked bowl, Siraoshi—now a very tiny, very confused elven boy—couldn't help but admit that life had gotten… oddly pleasant.
Sure, he'd woken up in a barn. Sure, he had pointy ears now. And yes, there was the minor existential crisis of being reincarnated in an unfamiliar fantasy world, with no internet, no ramen, and no idea what the heck was going on. But still… it wasn't bad.
In fact, it was kind of nice.
His mother was a soft-spoken elf with the kind of serene expression that suggested she had never once stubbed her toe or yelled at a shoe. Her voice was always gentle, like the whisper of wind through leaves. She'd hum strange lullabies in that lilting elven tongue of hers—half magic, half melody—and they never failed to put him to sleep, even when he was trying to stay awake to spy on her spells.
Every morning, the birds outside the stable sang the same happy, overachieving chorus like it was their life's mission to outdo the sun. Siraoshi would lie there, arms flopped out like a defeated caterpillar, glaring at the ceiling and thinking, You're all way too chipper for six in the morning.
But then his mother would bring in warm bread. Freshly baked. The smell alone was enough to make him forgive the birds, the sun, and the entire concept of mornings.
It wasn't a grand life. There were no epic quests or dungeon bosses waiting in the backyard (well, not yet, anyway). But there were small pleasures—beautiful, silly, delicious moments that made him smile despite himself.
There was the time he tried crawling for the first time, only to end up nose-deep in a chicken's backside. (The chicken was alarmed. He was traumatized. His mother had laughed for the first time in days.)
There was the day he discovered the concept of elven diapers, which, despite being made of magical moss and smelling faintly of lavender, were still diapers. No dignity there. None. "I was once a fully grown woman with a bank account," he thought bitterly, kicking his tiny feet as his mother wiped him clean with a glowing cloth.
And then there was the accidental magic incident.
He didn't mean to. He just felt something buzzing in his chest one day, like static on a radio, and then—bam!—the goat started levitating. Just two feet off the ground, calmly chewing hay while floating like a fluffy balloon. His mother had nearly dropped a pot. The goat didn't even blink.
"Mana sensitivity," she had muttered, then kissed his forehead like it was perfectly normal to have a baby turn livestock into sky decorations.
Despite all this weirdness—and perhaps because of it—Siraoshi started to feel… peaceful.
There was no war here. No screaming city streets, no pressure to study until his back ached or chase a future that always felt like it was running away from him. There was no hunger for approval. No fear of failure. Just him, his mother, and a slowly turning world painted in green fields and blue sky with fluffy clouds.
Sometimes he would sit in his tiny straw nest and try to remember who he had been. The classroom. The face in the mirror. The silly dreams he used to carry, like finding a kind man to love, living a quiet life, growing old with laughter. He missed that girl—missed her more than he wanted to admit.
But as his mother cradled him against her chest, humming softly as she worked her way through another loaf of warm, herb-laced bread, he allowed himself to believe—just for a moment—that maybe this life, strange and unpredictable as it was, could offer something just as precious.
Something quieter.Something simpler.Something worth growing into.
And then he pissed. on himself.The goat baaed in surprise.His mother blinked at him. "Oh, you are your father's child."
Siraoshi blinked back.Wait. Father? There's a father?
It began, as all grand mysteries do, with a spark of curiosity and a suspicious lack of information.
Siraoshi had begun to suspect that something was off. Not in a dramatic way—there were no hidden passageways in the barn, no secret codes scrawled on the walls (he'd checked). But there was something. A quiet absence. A silence too loud to ignore.
His mother never mentioned anyone else. No second pair of boots by the door. No deep voice singing lullabies from the other room. No burly elf-man tossing him into the air and catching him with a laugh. No dad.
And that… bugged him.
Not that he was expecting a sitcom father figure to pop in with a "Honey, I'm home!" and scoop him up like a sack of joy. But still. Even in this magic-sparkling village with glowing moss and levitating goats, he had to have a father somewhere, right? That's just how biology worked. Even fantasy biology.
But every time he tried to look for clues, he found none. Zip. Zilch. Nada.
He tried spying on his mother during her chores, but she never muttered anything about "that man" or "your father" or "gods, I miss him." She just went about her day with that serene calm, humming and healing and occasionally flicking her wrist to make a bucket fly across the room like a well-trained dog. When he squirmed or stared at her extra long—his signature "Tell me your secrets" baby stare—she just cooed and kissed his forehead. Adorable. But utterly useless.
Still, the questions itched at him. Who was his father? Where was he? Why wasn't he here? And the big one—what kind of man fathers a baby with a magical, otherworldly elf woman in a village so remote that even dragons probably didn't bother with it?
That had to be some story.
The excitement began to bloom in his little chest like wildfire. He wasn't just a baby, he realized. He was a mystery baby. The protagonist of a secret tale! Maybe his father was a legendary hero, off fighting evil across distant lands. Or a rogue sorcerer cursed to wander between dimensions. Or maybe—a shiver ran down his spine—he was a villain. A dark elf lord with glowing red eyes and a tragic past.
Okay. He'd been reading too many stories in his past life. But the possibilities were endless, and every one of them filled him with giddy energy.
The only issue?He was still a baby.No speech. No literacy. No Google.
He couldn't just ask his mom, and frankly, even if he could, he didn't know the words in this world's tongue yet. Everything sounded like a string of elegant gibberish mixed with wind chimes. Beautiful, but completely incomprehensible.
Still, he was determined.
If he couldn't speak, he'd observe. He'd gather clues. He'd learn the language. One sleepy nod at a time. He watched his mother's face whenever certain topics came up—like when the traveling merchant came by with old relics and asked about her "husband." She'd smile, gently, and change the subject. Hmm. Suspicious.
One night, she sat by the window, humming a lullaby different from the usual one. A melody laced with sorrow. Her gaze lost in the stars. She touched the gem on her forehead, her smile distant. She whispered a name—so soft, he almost missed it.
It made his tiny heart skip a beat.
That was it. A clue. A single word. A name. A puzzle piece.
The mystery of his father had just cracked open.
And in that moment—wrapped in a wool blanket, half drooling, still vaguely annoyed by his own lack of teeth—Siraoshi made a vow.
He would uncover the truth.He would find out who his father was.And, stars help him, he'd learn how to talk just so he could ask the question himself.
But first… he really needed to master crawling in a straight line.
The morning began like any other—sunlight filtering through the thatched roof in golden spears, the clucking of chickens, the faint gurgle of magic-infused water weaving through the troughs outside. Siraoshi lay nestled in his blanket, doing his daily recon. He had a system: observe, blink adorably, store intel. It was working pretty well. He'd almost figured out how to say "milk" in Elvish. Progress.
But then he arrived.
A great shape appeared at the front gate, broad and shadow-drenched. Heavy hoofbeats thudded against the earth, shaking dust from the ceiling beams. Siraoshi's elven mother moved toward the door with a practiced grace, a small smile tugging at her lips. She opened it, and in stepped a creature the likes of which Siraoshi had never seen before—not in real life, not in textbooks, not even in manga panels.
A bull. A man. A bull-man.
Tall as the doorway and just as wide, his body was carved from muscle and fur. His head was unmistakably bovine—two great horns curled from his temples, and his broad nose twitched at the scent of hay and hearth. His voice rumbled like thunder in a distant canyon as he greeted Siraoshi's mother, a low, friendly baritone full of warmth and the slow, sure cadence of a man who worked with earth and weathered time.
"I brought the wheat you asked for, Elira," the bull-man said, setting down a massive sack with one hand like it weighed nothing at all.
Siraoshi's ears perked up—metaphorically, of course. He was still a baby. But his brain whirred to life.
A beastman. No—beastrin. That's what they were called here. He hadn't seen one until now. But now he knew. This world wasn't just elves and magic. It had races he could barely imagine. Beings out of fantasy novels. His heart thumped with excitement. Who knew what else existed? Lizardfolk? Harpies? Talking cats!?
He wriggled to a better position, trying to peek through the slightly ajar door to the next room, but all he could see was a flicker of the bull-man's tail and the sway of his mother's braid as they stood talking over a wooden table.
Their voices dropped.
The tone shifted—subtle, but sharp. Siraoshi's mother, Elira, let out a soft sigh. The bull-man said something—a name. He said a name. A name Siraoshi couldn't quite catch, muffled by the wood and distance. But it hit his mother like a wave.
The smile she wore faltered, like a candle snuffed by a sudden gust. Her shoulders stiffened. Her hands fidgeted with the corner of her apron. For a moment, there was silence. Not the warm, comforting kind, but the heavy kind. The kind that pressed down on everything, thick and slow and hard to breathe in.
Then, softly, she changed the subject.
The bull-man seemed to notice, but didn't push. He nodded, picked up an empty basket, and headed back toward the door with a parting smile and a deep, respectful bow. "If you ever need more grain, just send word," he said gently.
She nodded. "Thank you, Auron."
The door creaked shut behind him.
Siraoshi stared at the ceiling, his tiny fists clenched in thought. That had to mean something. The way she reacted—it wasn't just about some stranger. No, no, no. That name, that moment... it mattered. That name might've been his father. Or someone tied to his father. Or maybe—his brain whirled—his real family line was tangled in something deeper than he could guess.
Auron. That was the bull-man's name. But he had mentioned someone else.
Siraoshi didn't know who. He didn't know what. But he would. Somehow.
And until he had answers, he would store this moment in the vault of his infant mind like treasure in a dragon's hoard.
The mystery deepened. And baby or not, Siraoshi was ready.
…Just as soon as he figured out how to roll over without getting stuck on his face.
The quiet rhythm of village life was shattered one morning by the unmistakable clatter of wheels over cobblestone. Siraoshi, barely three apples tall and still only crawling with moderate dignity, sat in the hay-strewn doorway of the stable, chewing thoughtfully on his fingers. Something big was coming.
It started with a jingle—bells, maybe, or coins, or both—followed by the steady clip-clop of horses, and the excited chatter of voices that didn't belong to any elf in this sleepy village. His mother paused mid-healing-spell, one glowing hand hovering over a bleating sheep's twisted leg, and tilted her head toward the road.
"They're early," she murmured.
They? Who were they?
Siraoshi was hoisted up and gently tucked into the sling she wore on her back. He didn't protest—this was prime intelligence-gathering time. She stepped out, and the full splendor of the day slammed into his wide, curious eyes.
The merchants had arrived.
Four wagons, brightly painted with curling, foreign script and absurd little flags fluttering from their corners, rolled into the village center like a miniature parade. The first was loaded with barrels and crates, the second stacked with shimmering cloth and glass baubles. The third contained cages—yes, cages—each holding something wriggling, chirping, or blinking too many eyes. And the fourth? Food. Glorious, radiant, weird food.
People gathered, laughter and greetings spilling from the open windows of nearby cottages. Children darted between legs like squirrels. And the merchants—humans, by the looks of it—were all smiles and shouting, selling everything from fire-proof cooking pots to self-cleaning boots (guaranteed to "kick mud in the face of dirt itself!").
One merchant with a scar across his nose waved around a fruit that looked like a glowing onion and proudly declared, "Starroot! Keeps you awake for two days! Side effects may include hiccupping sparks!"
Another lifted the lid on a small cage, revealing a fluff-beast—a round ball of fur with bat wings and eyes the size of teacups. It purred when touched and sneezed glitter.
Siraoshi's brain nearly short-circuited from excitement.
This world was insane. This world was amazing.
He saw birds with transparent wings that shimmered like stained glass, and tiny salamanders curled in bowls of fire that didn't burn. There was a flower—blue as the evening sky and twice as moody—that sang when sunlight hit it. Elira bought a handful of them and told him their name: Sylverglow. They helped with sleep. Or dreams. Or nightmares. She wasn't sure. The petals were unpredictable, "like grumpy cats," she said.
One cage held something that looked like a ferret had a baby with a mushroom. It blinked at him and wagged a spore-covered tail.
There were spice jars with labels like Blisterpepper, Moonflame, and Whisperdust, the latter apparently capable of seasoning soup and sending coded messages to nearby telepaths. Siraoshi didn't know what that meant, but he wanted it. He wanted all of it. He wanted to grow up just so he could be rich and buy an entire wagon of it.
His mother spoke to one of the merchants—a tall man with weathered skin and hair like silver wire. He greeted her warmly, even bowed, and handed her a small parcel of medicinal herbs, saying something about "the plains to the south" and "bandits stirring." She frowned. He shrugged.
Siraoshi caught every word he could, storing names and places like puzzle pieces in a box. Southern plains. Bandits. A city called Myrelune. There was a world out there. Vast and beautiful and dangerous.
He wasn't just in a new life.
He was in a whole new reality, bursting with magic, madness, and mystery. He didn't know where it would lead—but he could already feel it in his bones.
Adventure was waiting.