Chapter 3:
Reincarnated as a High Elf Sage, I’ll Burn Down This Rotten Kingdom from Within
A dry morning wind blew the ashes of last night’s hearth across the simple yard. Lyselle stood before their battered house, watching the dirt road come alive with the stirring of village life.
“This morning, we’re heading to the market,” Lethia said, closing her wicker basket. “Would you like to come?”
Lyselle nodded. Her body had grown slightly stronger, and her mind was no longer clouded by confusion. Though memories of Reian and the enigmatic figure from her former world still haunted her, she knew she couldn’t remain idle.
On their way to Grenhal’s modest marketplace, they passed huts that seemed more like hovels. Children with hollow cheeks crouched by the roadside, rummaging through the soil—perhaps searching for scraps of food or anything to barter.
“Aren’t they eating…?” Lyselle asked in a quiet voice, her words unspoken beneath the weight of despair.
Lethia replied softly, “They can’t even make porridge. The harvest has failed twice in succession. Yet the taxes... they demand full payment.”
Rage coiled in Lyselle’s chest.
The Grenhal market was sparse. Only about ten stalls stood, offering pitiful wares: rotting potatoes, stale bread, wilted vegetables. In one corner, a middle-aged woman sold slivers of grayish meat that gave off a fierce odor. Lyselle nearly retched.
“Is this... normal?” she whispered.
Lethia shook her head. “It’s the decree of Baroness Lethia. All the good harvests are taken to the castle. What little remains... we fight over.”
Lyselle froze. “Baroness… Lethia?”
The old woman nodded as if it pained her. “Yes—same name, but she is no kin. She was appointed just six months ago. Since then, our suffering has worsened.”
Amid the dreary bustle, a sudden shout cut through the air.
“Don’t take that! It’s for my brother!”
A scrawny boy shoved a stout trader who had tried to seize a piece of bread from him. But the burly vendor slapped the boy down mercilessly.
“How dare this grubby brat steal from my stall!”
The child sobbed, but no one intervened. Everyone averted their eyes, pretending not to notice. Lyselle moved forward, but Lethia grabbed her arm.
“Don’t—”
“But—”
“If you interfere, it won’t just be him punished. You will be too. And me.”
Lyselle ground her teeth. A blaze of anger flared in her heart.
When the commotion died down, they left the market with only two pieces of stale bread and a small bunch of carrots. Lyselle walked home in silence, though her mind seethed.
—
That night, after a hushed dinner, Lyselle sat in front of the hearth. Lethia spun thread silently in a corner.
“Are you angry?” Lethia asked softly.
“Of course,” Lyselle replied, gazing into the flames. “This world… it’s crueller than my old one.”
“Or perhaps just the same,” Lethia sighed. “But you were watching from afar then. Now you see it through hungry children’s eyes.”
Lyselle fell quiet. There was truth in her words. In the past, she observed injustice from news reports and statistics. Here, she felt it deeply, in the hollow stare of a starving child.
“Which castle does Baroness Lethia reside in?” she asked.
The old woman hesitated. “Ardellon—two days west from here. The castle stands on a cliff. She rarely visits, but her envoys come frequently to levy taxes.”
Lyselle filed away the name: Ardellon. Cliffside castle.
“Why does nobody resist?” she asked.
Lethia looked at her, offering a bitter laugh. “Resist? With what? Empty hands? Folks here don’t even have the strength to stand. If anyone protests, they are executed. Just ask Reian.”
The name stabbed Lyselle’s heart again. She stared at the faintly glowing Nethra crystal on the table—a pulsing promise of power.
“Then... I will resist.”
Lethia turned swiftly. “What did you say?”
“I will find a way. I will punish those who oppress. I don’t know how yet. But I cannot—and will not—look the other way.”
Concern and a flicker of hope filled Lethia’s eyes.
—
The next day, Lyselle wandered throughout the village. She observed more closely: children fallen ill, men slumped in despair, and mothers crying softly in the corners of their homes. She spoke gently with them, learning their stories.
“They took my child… said he’d serve in the castle…”
“My husband died trying to hide wheat…”
“Their mages come monthly. They dig up Nethra from our land. And we don’t even know why.”
Lyselle absorbed each account, stitching together a map of systemic exploitation—not just of resources, but of hope.
She also began to practice magic in secret behind their home. Her hand trembled each time she touched the Nethra crystal. But on the third night, as she murmured the incantation from the old book once owned by Reian, suddenly—
ZRAAAAK—
A burst of lightning arced from Lyselle’s fingertip, striking a pile of stones.
She collapsed, startled—but her eyes shone with awe.
“This… magic.”
The power within the crystal stirred, responding to her presence.
She understood something then: the time was not yet right. But the spark of her potential had ignited.
And when the time came, the hungry people... would no longer bow to the complacency of well-fed nobles.
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