A Poor Village and Her Adoptive Mother

Cold morning wind brushed against her cheek. The air in this village felt far purer than Tokyo’s smog, yet it pierced her to the bone. Lyselle slowly opened her eyes, body still heavy, as if still adjusting to this unfamiliar form.

She lay upon a bed of straw beneath a leaking roof, morning sunlight filtering through gaps in the rotting wooden planks.

“So… this isn’t a dream.”

Her voice sounded strange even to her own ears. Ayaka Ishikawa—once a corporate worker in Tokyo—truly lived again in another world, inhabiting the body of a young girl named Lyselle Althariel.

She stared at her hands. Pale, faintly luminous skin; the pointed ears jutting through disheveled silvery-blonde hair. A High Elf—her new race. Yet such prestige meant little when her body felt frail, gaunt, and famished.

“Oh dear… was my reincarnation set to Easy Mode—or Hard Mode?” she muttered bitterly, forcing a wry smile.

The door creaked open. An elderly woman with ash-gray hair entered, carrying a wicker basket filled with hard bread and a bowl of steaming, thick vegetable soup.

“Lyselle, you’re awake?” she greeted with warmth. “How are you feeling this morning?”

Lyselle studied the woman. Beneath the wrinkles and fatigue lay a comforting sincerity. This was the only person who had cared for her since she awoke in this world. Her name—Lethia.

“I feel so much better… thank you, Mother.”

Ayaka—or now Lyselle—hesitated before calling her “Mother,” but Lethia’s gentle smile made the word feel perfectly right.

“I’m glad. You had a fever for three days straight. You’re very thin… I was so worried.”

Lyselle remained quiet. So many questions swirled inside her—about Lyselle, the village, this world—yet words failed her. She kept silent, and Lethia sat at the edge of the straw bed, spoon-feeding her the warm soup.

The broth was bland and salty—but in her weakened state, it felt like palace fare.

“Thank you… for saving me,” Lyselle whispered, bowing her head.

Lethia paused for a moment, stroking Lyselle’s hair tenderly.

“There’s no need to thank me, child. When I found you collapsed among the river ruins at the border, I felt... God had sent you to me. I’ve lived alone so long. Maybe now it’s time to repay the kindness once extended to me.”

Lyselle closed her eyes, feeling a warmth bloom in her chest. In her past life, Ayaka had never known a full family. Her mother died when she was in high school; her father drowned himself in work and alcohol. Now, this old woman offered a love so foreign, yet so desperately yearned for.

—

After a modest breakfast, Lethia helped Lyselle to her feet and escorted her outside.

The village of Grenhal spread before her—remote, nestled in eastern Virelion Kingdom, far from the capital. Muddy roads wound between dilapidated wooden houses lining a murky stream. Barefoot children darted about. A few women carried small baskets of meager produce.

No magic. No technology. Only harsh, silent survival.

“What… is this place?” Lyselle asked softly, still gathering her bearings.

“It’s a small village, nearly forgotten by the nobles of Virelion,” Lethia explained. “We receive no food subsidies. No guards. No protection. Even the church refuses to come.”

“How… could it be like this?”

Lethia exhaled deeply.

“Because we are poor. Because we are not a priority. For those in the palace, villagers like us are nothing more than a number in their tax records.”

Lyselle clenched her ragged skirt. The injustice mirrored her old world’s—but here, as before, being reborn didn’t erase human indifference.

—

That day, Lyselle began helping with simple chores—drawing water, washing dishes, sweeping floors. Though her body remained delicate, she yearned to contribute.

At night, they sat by a small hearth, sipping bitter herbal tea.

Lethia gazed at her with gentle eyes. “You don’t remember anything, do you? About your past.”

Lyselle looked down, choosing her words.

“…I only remember standing by the riverside…and then everything went dark. When I woke… I was here.”

Half a lie. But not a complete falsity.

Lethia nodded softly. “Then perhaps this is destiny. Maybe God has granted you a new life... and granted me the chance to be a parent again.”

“Did you have a child?” Lyselle asked tentatively.

For the first time, Lethia’s expression tightened.

“Yes... a son. His name was Reian.”

Lyselle’s heart froze.

Reian?

That name had echoed in her thoughts when she first awoke. Strange, yet deeply significant.

“Is… he gone?” Lyselle asked quietly.

Lethia’s eyes filled with tears. “He was killed. By the nobles themselves—for refusing to join their corrupt magic system that enslaves our people.”

“Magic system?” Lyselle frowned. “Mother, what do you mean?”

Lethia exhaled, rising from her seat, retrieving a small wooden chest from the room’s corner.

Inside glowed a pale, bluish-green crystal—thruming slowly like a living heartbeat.

“This is called Nethra. A magic stone—once used only by chosen mages. But now, the nobles have redesigned magic as a political weapon. Villagers are forced to hand over any Nethra they find. Those who refuse... are branded as traitors.”

Lyselle stared at the crystal, sensing something resonate within it. As if it recognized her—or the soul she now housed.

“Why show this to me?” she asked softly.

Lethia met her gaze.

“Because you are different. Because I saw the same light in you that I saw in Reian. I know it may seem unfair... but I want you to stay cautious, Lyselle. The world is inching toward a great war.”

“A war?”

Lethia nodded solemnly. “Four kingdoms fracture under a power struggle. And... someone from beyond this world is pulling strings behind the scenes.”

Lyselle’s heart pounded.

Someone... from beyond this world?

Did that mean—from Earth? From her own origin?

“Who is… this person?” Lyselle asked, trying to steady her voice.

“I don’t know,” Lethia admitted. “But Reian once called them the Watcher. They’re not from Eirenthal. They know of other worlds—and the reason Reian died.”

Lyselle’s muscles tensed. This world... wasn’t just bound by magic—it was entwined with invisible puppeteers. And somehow, she felt she would play a pivotal part in unraveling it all.

—

Late into the night, Lethia slept on her wooden cot. Lyselle sat alone before the small hearth, watching the flames dance.

Her fingers wrapped around the Nethra stone Lethia had shown her.

“Reian… who were you, truly?” she whispered.

Why... did the name clutch at her heart so painfully?

Outside, the night wind rustled dry leaves. Above Eirenthal, muted stars glimmered.

And inside Lyselle, something burned—an ember of determination, stirring memory through the fog.

Her journey... had only just begun.