Ah, the pain! It hurts so much, my head is killing me.
The Dreams… SHUT IT DOWN!!!
The memories are so overwhelming, I just can't take it anymore—stop it! As I was on the verge of tears, my dreams, a world of murmurs and flashes of the past, instantly scattered and disconnected from my mind. As I jolted awake from my nightmarish slumber, the abnormal throbbing pain still lingering in my head.
The sudden, jarring feeling of consciousness slamming back into my body was the worst of it. I looked around in confusion, thinking, Am I still sleeping? Is this a dream too? Tentatively, I reached up to touch my face, to see if I could feel my skin. Then I tried to pinch it. It hurt. Nice, I thought, at least I'm awake. The realization hit me: I had just moved my body of my own will, and it had obeyed. This wasn't a dream.
My gaze then fell upon the faint, dusty light filtering through the small window slits, telling me it was morning again. Another morning. And with it, a fresh wave of Aira's memories flooded my mind. My god, I couldn't believe it had already been seven days since I got reincarnated. A full week in this new body. And I still had no idea when I'd get to have normal dreams instead of reliving this girl's past.
I felt like a puppet every time I lived through her past in my dreams. Surely it had to end at some point, right? I mean, these are just the memories of a 13-year-old. At some point in the future, I would have seen—no, lived through—all her past. Then, I guessed, it would finally end. When that would happen, I had no idea.
But still, why do I have to suffer like this every single day? I thought to myself, utterly unsure of anything in my life. I mean, there's nothing I can do but live the life of a peasant girl in the middle of nowhere, this was my reality now.
These fleeting, often chaotic, memories of her past were becoming more frequent with each passing day. Every time I went to sleep, I was reliving this girl's past life. All those memories flooding into my brain at once makes me want to kill myself.
"Ugh, I hate this new life," I thought to myself, the words leaving a bitter, metallic taste in my mouth. A familiar grimace, a permanent fixture of my mornings, already settled on my face. Every time I opened my eyes, I was met with the stale breath of dirt and despair, a suffocating blanket that snuffed out any hope before it could even flicker.
Normally, a good night's sleep should leave you feeling refreshed, relaxed, and ready to face another day. But for me? That's a fucking nightmare. When I wake up, it feels like someone has hammered a giant nail directly into my skull, splitting it wide open. that doesn't sound very nice, does it? It's a brutal, relentless cycle of a boring peasant's farm girl's life that starts the moment consciousness trickles back in.
In a surge of pure, unadulterated frustration, I planted my face onto my pillow and screamed into its rough, unyielding surface. The coarse fabric scratched my cheek, leaving faint red lines that mirrored the raw fury inside me. Along with the headache came the same cold rush of dread in my chest, a sinking certainty that I was about to relive another day of endless drudgery, relentless pain, and back-breaking labor. Seriously, it was bad enough to endure such hardships, but the cruellest twist was that I, an adult mind, was still trapped in the fragile body of a mere kid and still had to do all these chores. Don't get me wrong, having a younger body is far better than I could've imagined. This new form doesn't make any cracking sounds when I move; no more back pain, or lower body aches. Plus, the soft skin! And the best part, especially as a woman, is not having to bleed out of you-know-where every single month—that's kind of a dream come true.
But still, I kind of miss my old body. Even with all its flaws, it just felt right. The helplessness I feel every single time I'm weak and frustrated in this new one is truly something else. It's interesting how even with all these new physical benefits, a connection to my former self persists. I think the part that contributes most to that feeling of helplessness is the sheer exhaustion after the back-breaking labor. I feel like I'm going to faint at any moment. After all, this body is that of a child, and I feel much weaker in it compared to my older, adult form which was far stronger. I'm sure with time, this feeling of unease and discomfort will go away. At least, I hope so.
Oh, that reminds me! I have to hurry and complete my chores, otherwise I won't get any breakfast, just like last time. I took too long to do my work then and had to go hungry for the entire morning.
Technically, I have the brain of an adult, but they don't know that. For them, I'm just a child, doing free labor. All this farm work, against my will—isn't this slavery? For God's sake, someone should report these people. Are there any child protective services I can contact for my protection here? God, I hate doing farm chores.
There were no breaks. No moments of peace. No hidden pockets of comfort to which I could escape. Just a relentless cycle of survival, a monotonous grind that chipped away at my spirit and mind, eroding the last vestiges of who I used to be. I, Akira Tsukihara, former author, former someone, had become Aira, a peasant girl in a godforsaken village in the middle of nowhere. It felt like I was an old toy thrown aside, in a forgotten corner of this new world I'd been reincarnated into.
The idea of my old life, filled with soft blankets, hot showers, and the satisfying click of the keyboard, felt like a fairytale told to a desperate child. I know all that is in the past, and I don't think I can go back to my old world, but still, no matter how much I try, the nostalgia of my old life always kicks in every time I experience any kind of discomfort in this new one. Sigh. I'm pretty sure it's not healthy, but I am still human, I guess.
And yet… through all of it—through the crushing exhaustion, the burning shame, the sheer, mind-numbing absurdity of my situation, and the profound disappointment this world offered—there remained one reason. One fragile, stubborn reason I still dragged myself out of bed every morning. One reason I hadn't completely broken, hadn't just given up and let myself waste away into nothing. It wasn't the hope of escaping this world, not anymore at least. It wasn't even some grand purpose. It was something much smaller, more mundane, yet utterly vital and deeply personal.
That reason? It's much simpler than you might think, far more primal than personal: I don't want to die.
Yeah, I know. It's much simpler and more radical than anyone might expect. I, who have already died once in my old life and been given the opportunity of this new one as Aira, am actually pretty grateful. I know I don't say this much, but no matter how you look at it, suffering in life is way better than remaining dead. Trust me on that. And now, as Aira, I swear I can still recall the chilling sensation of my soul wrenching itself from my previous body. It was like emerging from a deep pool of water, a peculiar lightness at first, my spirit floating in mid-air. The initial five seconds weren't bad. But then, with each passing moment, all five of my senses began to wane, one by one.
My sight blurred first, colors bleeding into an indistinguishable haze. Then, the world fell silent; I couldn't hear a thing. Frantically, I tried to touch my ears, to confirm they were still there, but felt nothing. A cold dread seeped in as I realized I couldn't smell, couldn't taste. Finally, my last functioning sense vanished, and I was utterly blind.
I was floating through a vast, silent nothingness, a terrifying expanse where the very concept of sensation dissolved. I had forgotten how to sense, how to perceive. All sanity, all recollection of who I was, or am, or was going to be, vanished. I curled up like a ball—at least, that's what it felt like—too terrified to move. Did I still have limbs? A body? I didn't know. Where was I? Where was I going? I had not the slightest idea. But one horrifying truth became terrifyingly clear: there was no heaven or hell, only nothingness after death. And that, that emptiness, was the most frightening thing imaginable.
Time became meaningless. I don't know how long I drifted in that terrifying void. The only thing that still functioned, torturously, was my brain, which was more of a curse than a blessing, endlessly replaying the terror of non-existence. And then, after what felt like an eternity, something—or someone—held me, or at least that's what it felt like. A searing, bright light consumed the oppressive darkness, and I jolted awake in this new, small body. Though I don't blame myself for impersonating this young girl's body, I knew she had to die for me to use it. And honestly, I don't pity her for dying so young. She was already gone before I ever entered her body, so it must have been a natural cause anyway, plus I never knew of her existence. If anything, I'm profoundly grateful to her for giving me this life, deeply indebted for this second chance. I'll pray for her, and I'll strive to survive long enough to die of old age in this body she left behind.
It might be a pathetic reason, perhaps, I mean, who wouldn't want to live until they die of old age, but my main goal in this new life for me is to die with no regrets. Trust me, I'm well aware that every living thing, including myself, will eventually face death; I'll die too, no matter what. But since I've been given this new life, I will try to accomplish—no, this is my statement—I will definitely fulfill all my wishes, no matter what. I won't live as a peasant girl for my entire life. Destiny awaits my greatness.. It might even be selfish, or greedy in a way, but it's far from pointless. In this world, my old world, or any world for that matter, who doesn't struggle when staring death in the face? I swear, even if this is my very last life, this is the last time I will die with no regrets. Everyone has something they want to do in their lifetime, something grand or simple, but my wish—no, my will—is that I will not die with any regrets in this new life. It might be a humiliating, even animalistic, drive, but it's mine to choose, and for now, I want to live a proper life with no regrets.
With my personal monologue complete for the day, I finally had the motivation to get out of bed for the day. The straw rustled beneath me, and the familiar chill of the morning air immediately raised goosebumps on my skin the second I put one foot down onto the cold, hard floor. It was too cold; I instantly pulled it back. Maybe I should stay here a little longer. No, all that talk to myself would have been for nothing if I just stayed in bed. Get up! I told myself, But it was so cold, and I really didn't want to.
As I stretched, one side of my body desperately tried to escape the bed's clutches, while the other fought to remain buried in its warmth. While I struggled with this internal debate, I saw Elsie in the corner of the room, looking at me with a peculiar, unreadable expression in her eyes. She was clearly holding back laughter, watching me squirm like a bug trapped in a net. She just left, and all I could think of was the embarrassment washing over me. I sincerely hoped she wouldn't tell anyone what she'd seen. After that encounter, at least I was able to make up my mind and finally leave the bed.
[The reason Aira finally dragged herself out of bed wasn't because she was embarrassed by Elsie. No, her urge to go to the bathroom simply exceeded the fleeting joy of remaining nestled in her straw mattress]
As I finally got off my bed, the floor was still frigid against my feet. I really should get some slippers for myself. I stretched a little, just some simple movements—nothing serious, after all, I'm no yoga guru, When I looked around the room, I saw the other three beds lying empty. That meant I was, once again, the last one to wake up.
But now that I think about it, why didn't Elsie wake me? Normally, she's the one who gets me up every morning. Oh, right, I must be late for school, too. Since there's nothing I can do here, I guess I have no choice but to skip school today. (Internally, I was ecstatic about it.)
Seriously, has Elsie finally given up on me or something? Wow, someone's being very rude. Looks like someone's getting no presents from Santa this year, I guess. Wait a minute... does this world even have a Santa? Do they even celebrate Christmas here? Oh, I still have so many questions about this world, but I can't ask these questions to anyone, or someone might get suspicious. I hope I get all the memories of this girl as soon as possible.
The first order of business, as it had been every single morning for the past week in this new world, First of all was to attend to my personal needs. I entered the bathroom and took care of my business, still unable to quite believe the tiny, wooden toothbrush and its designated corner in the "proper" bathroom—a small comfort in a sea of pervasive discomfort. After brushing my teeth and spitting, I watched myself in the mirror. I leaned closer, paused, and told myself, "Look at this pretty girl." I have to say, this girl really has the face and body of a model, even at this age. She's, no, I was going to be beautiful like a flower with a smoking hot bod I was going to make sure I would have when she grows up.
After all that, it was straight into the relentless cycle of my daily tasks, what I like to call my "Three Labors of the Day." The first one was feeding the Bristlehen, or as I prefer to call them, the chickens on steroids. Each day began with me confronting those monstrous, feathered demons that still made me shiver, even after a week of practice gleaned from Elsie. These birds are incredibly smart and can definitely hold a grudge. Today, when I stepped inside the pen to feed them, they all went silent at once and stared me down. I swear, I had a bad feeling about this; they are definitely planning something.
Next was the pigpen, with its stomach-churning stench and the occasional scurrying runt-pig. My hands, once accustomed to nothing more strenuous than a pen or keyboard, were now calloused and perpetually grimy. The fetching of water from the well, the endless weeding, the mending of fences—it was a brutal education in manual labor. I still wasn't truly accustomed to it, not truly, but my body was slowly, grudgingly, adapting.
Finally, after completing the first two chores, it was off to the bathroom. The choice was between a bath of cold water or rubbing myself down with a hot towel from a small container of warm water. Obviously, I chose the towel over a freezing bath on this cold morning. And then, at last, I got to eat breakfast. If you're wondering about my third labor, I had to do that after coming back from school in the evening, to be more accurate.
Breakfast was a quick, silent affair of coarse bread, eggs, and thin milk. My stomach, no longer revolted by the blandness, simply accepted the fuel it was given. As I chewed, I caught a glimpse of myself in the murky reflection of the window. Aira. This was Aira's face, Aira's life.
It had already been a week. A full seven days since that blinding light, since I, Akira Tsukihara, ceased to exist and became this peasant girl. I missed my old life, ached for its conveniences, its anonymity, its sheer effortless comfort. I missed hot showers, instant noodles, and the glorious glow of a screen.
But if I looked at it in a positive way, I thought, swirling the last bit of milk in my wooden cup, it wasn't all that bad. I was alive, for one. And I was learning. Learning a new language, however sporadically. Learning to survive in a way I never would have imagined. Learning that this entirely different world exist. And while every day had been a monotonous loop of the same gruelling tasks, a tiny, defiant spark flickered within me.
okay, today might be exactly the same; everything has happened precisely like every other day of this week since I arrived. It had to be the same for my boring life i guess. But what if it doesn't have to be? A week was long enough for the universe to get its act together and throw something new, something interesting, my way. My initial fantasies of magic had been cruelly dashed, but surely there was more to this world than just chores and weird animals. Maybe, just maybe, today wouldn't be another endless cycle of dirt and drudgery. I hoped. Desperately.
I picked at my breakfast, the coarse bread a familiar texture in my hand, the slightly-too-large Bristlehen egg bland but filling. In this week, the seven days since that blinding flash. A week since I, Akira Tsukihara, ceased to exist and became this peasant girl named Aira.
I missed my old life. Ached for its conveniences. The hot, endless showers, the instant gratification of online shopping, the hum of a refrigerator, the satisfying click of a keyboard. I missed my apartment, my books, the simple luxury of privacy.
But as I chewed, I tried to find a positive spin. "It's not all that bad," I reasoned with myself, forcing a sliver of optimism into my weary mind. "I mean, I don't have to worry about taxes here, or rent. Food just... appears. Clothes too. Everything's taken care of, in a basic, survival-level way." There was a certain primitive freedom in that, a lack of the nagging financial anxieties that had been a constant companion in my past life. No bills, no deadlines for rent, no worrying about unexpected expenses. Just a simple existence.
Yet, even as I constructed this flimsy silver lining, the words felt hollow. I knew, deep down, I was just making up stuff, trying to cushion the blow, trying to convince myself that this wasn't so terrible so I wouldn't miss my old world too much. But the truth was a persistent ache in my chest. I missed it. I really, truly missed it.
And the most brutal realization of all: I had no way of going back. None. It was all in the past now. The luxurious, effortless life I'd known was gone, a phantom limb aching with memory. I had to forget it. I had to accept that I was Aira, a peasant girl in this strange, medieval world. This wasn't a temporary detour or a vivid dream. This was my life now. And that thought, more than any chore or strange animal, was the hardest to swallow with my bland breakfast.
After I finished eating, the last bite of bread swallowed, I pushed back from the table. My internal monologue was still cycling through the harsh realities of this new life versus the luxuries of my old one. With a sigh, I picked up the plates, walked them over to the basin, and, with practiced movements I'd begrudgingly learned this past week, washed them clean. Then, my hand instinctively reached for the rough fabric of the uniform, the one I'd worn every weekday for school. "Ah, yeah, the good old school," I thought, a familiar wave of boredom washing over me. "Looks like my daily, boring routine of the school life is about to start."
As my fingers brushed the coarse tunic, my mind flickered back to something else, something I'd been actively avoiding all week. I remembered my very first day of "school" in this new world. After the headmaster threw me out of the classroom for disrupting—or rather, not listening to him, such a drama queen, I thought—a rustling sound in the bushes piqued my curiosity. When I inspected it, I found an interesting fellow I decided to call Captor, and it led me straight to a hole.
It was a hole in the wall of the school, hidden behind some thick bushes—a secret passage to freedom. I'd stumbled upon it thanks to the sheer curiosity and desperation born from the boredom of my day-to-day life. The cuteness of that creature, Captor, also played a major role, plus I wasn't very keen on staying in school at that moment anyway.
[It was hard to believe that a creature could be such a perplexing blend of the things Aira both loved and hated. She detested raptor-like dinosaurs with a passion, yet adored cats. And somehow, the feline side of this particular creature managed to completely charm her. For some reason, she really loved that thing, but she was absolutely not ready to admit it]
Stepping through that hole, I thought, This might just be my first adventure in this new life. I was ready to do anything but go back to that school, and a genuine smile of joy spread across my face now that I was out. I seriously hated that place, even after only two or three hours. It wasn't personal, I told myself. In my previous life, I hadn't exactly had a "nice" school life. So, I carried a mix of rage, disgust, and fear whenever the word "school" came up. I hadn't liked my old school life, so why would I like this world's version? At least I'd given it a chance. And now that I was out, I was truly happy.
On the other side of that hole was the forest, situated just beyond the school grounds. "Phew," I sighed, relieved to finally be out of that place. I started searching for the Captor, but couldn't find it anywhere. For some reason, though, I felt a strong sense of déjà vu, like I'd been to this exact spot before, even though I knew I never had. That made me realize this feeling, or rather, these instincts, weren't my own, but Aira's. Even without my own memory of this place, I was sure I knew where to go next.
I began following a path I felt I'd taken countless times, but never actually had myself. As I walked, I eventually reached a hut nestled in what I initially perceived as a forest, but then realized was just an overgrown field. It was hard to imagine anyone living amidst such a dense growth of wild plants. When I got closer, I found both the Captor and an old woman.
when I found that small, dilapidated hut nestled deep in the woods. Living in it was an old woman. I'd spoken to her for a few minutes, surprised by how much of this new language I could suddenly understand. And then, the chilling realization: she knew the real Aira. She spoke of her with familiarity, a deep, unsettling connection that I, the impostor, couldn't share. I'd left that place as soon as possible, a cold dread gripping me, and ever since then, for the rest of the week, I hadn't gone back.
I still hadn't gotten any memories of Aira knowing this woman. Every night, when Aira's past flooded my mind, there was no trace of this hut, no sign of this old woman. Yet, every single day, whenever I reached the school, a strange, undeniable urge would seize me. A powerful repulsion from the school itself, and an equally potent attraction, a magnetic pull towards that hole in the wall, towards the forest, towards that old woman. My instincts were screaming at me to go, to find her, no matter what. But why? I had no idea.
It had already been a week, and I still hadn't gone back. Every day, the urge was there, strong and unsettling, but I controlled myself. Well, just about. "I'm about to head for school now," I thought, picking up the uniform. "Maybe today I can finally get the courage to go back to that old woman that my instincts are telling me to go to for some unknown reason." The thought lingered, a small seed of rebellion in my otherwise predictable routine.
But before I could even pull the uniform over my head, Mira, my new mother, appeared in the doorway, her usual calm demeanor replaced by a worried frown. Her voice was tinged with a soft concern I hadn't heard much from her before.
"Aira," she began, her gaze fixed on the uniform in my hands. "Did you forget? You don't have school today. She paused, a slight tilt of her head. "Why are you trying to get ready for school? Did you forget? How odd.
I stared at her, my hand still holding the uniform, my jaw slightly agape. No school? A wave of pure, unadulterated relief washed over me, so potent it almost made me dizzy. "Oh!" I exclaimed, a genuine, unforced smile finally spreading across my face. "Oh, so this world also has Sundays too! Thank God!" The thought of a day without endless math lessons or the schoolmaster's stern gaze was like a ray of sunshine breaking through the perpetual gloom.
But my moment of blissful liberation was short-lived. Mira's expression remained serious. "Today is Octaday," she corrected, her voice gentle but firm. "The eighth and final day of the week." My smile faltered. Octaday? An eight-day week? Of course, because why would anything be simple here?
"And this is the day we go to the church," she continued, her gaze slightly narrowed, as if examining me for signs of fever. "Did you forget? How strange. Usually, you remember everything." She frowned again, a fleeting shadow of concern crossing her features, before shaking her head slightly. "Well, anyway, we are getting late. Take off that uniform and get ready, Aira. We are going to church."
My only thought, my internal monologue screaming in utter disbelief, was: "Wait, this world also has church?"
I peeled off the school uniform, the coarse fabric a stark reminder of my abruptly interrupted plans. As I pulled on the regular, equally rough, clothes of a peasant girl – a simple tunic and skirt – my mind, ever the cynic, latched onto Mira's last word. "Church."
"So this world also has Jesus or something like that?" I thought, a sardonic smile playing on my lips. "So Christ does exist here, then, or so I thought to myself jokingly." It was a bizarre concept to overlay onto this rough, fantastical-but-not-really medieval world. Would there be stained glass and hymns? Or would it be a crude wooden shack with chanting? My previous life's understanding of religion, a complex tapestry of global faiths, suddenly felt woefully inadequate.
Then, a more personal, equally absurd thought struck me. If this body's previous owner, Aira, was a practitioner of this religion, did that automatically make it my religion too? Technically, I was in her body. Did spiritual beliefs transfer like memories and calluses? The idea was both amusing and deeply unsettling. Was I about to be forced into an impromptu conversion?
Before I could spiral any further into theological ponderings or existential dread about my new spiritual identity, Mira's voice cut through my thoughts. "Aira! Are you ready? We are leaving!" she called from outside, a hint of impatience in her tone.
"Coming!" I yelled back, my voice still feeling a little unfamiliar in my throat. I quickly smoothed down my tunic and hurried out of the house.
The entire family was already gathered by the door, ready to leave. All six of us, including myself: Mira and Toren, the stoic parents; Elsie, ever practical; Joren, the older brother with the perpetually annoying smirk; and the little boy, whose name I still hadn't quite grasped but who now looked wide-eyed and excited, probably at the prospect of something different from farm chores.
I instinctively fell in behind them, a silent observer in my own life. Elsie and the little boy walked ahead, chattering in low tones. Mira and Toren followed, their expressions somber and purposeful. Joren, predictably, lagged a bit, occasionally casting a glance back at me, as if expecting me to bolt. I ignored him, my eyes scanning the unfamiliar landscape. I had no idea where this "church" was, so following was my only option. The dirt path wound through the scattering of huts, then between fields that stretched out, fallow or green, under the pale morning sun. The air was cool, carrying the familiar scents of damp earth and distant livestock.
As we walked, I kept my guard up, half-expecting another multi-horned animal or a giant Bristlehen to pop out from behind a bush. This world had already proven it loved to blend the mundane with the subtly monstrous. What form would its religion take? Would there be peculiar deities, or strange rituals? My mind, despite itself, was brimming with morbid curiosity. After all, if I was going to be stuck here, I might as well try to understand the local customs, even the spiritual ones. It might just give me another clue about the absurd, inconsistent reality I was now trapped in.
We had been walking for what felt like an eternity. My internal clock, still calibrated to modern speeds, screamed in protest. "It's been more than an hour and a half!" I thought, exasperated, my feet starting to ache in my rough, peasant shoes. The sun was higher now, beating down with a surprising warmth for what felt like early morning. "How long is this going to be?" I really hoped this church wasn't in another village entirely. My stomach was already rumbling faintly, and the thought of more walking without so much as a snack was almost unbearable.
The scenery hadn't changed much either – more dirt paths winding through fields, dotted with those unsettling multi-horned cattle. Elsie and the little boy, bless their endless energy, still chattered away up front, seemingly oblivious to the unending trek. Mira and Toren walked with a stoic endurance that I could only envy, their faces set. Even Joren, usually quick to complain, seemed resigned to the journey. Clearly, this was just a normal Octaday for them. For me, it was another test of endurance in a life that was becoming nothing but tests.
My mind started to wander, as it always did when faced with prolonged boredom and physical discomfort. I pictured my old life, driving to a bustling city mall. Church wasn't something I frequently visited back in my old life, to be frank; I'd never visited a place like that out of my own will. I could still remember my first mother dragging me to church once a week when I was a child. I'd whine about it most of the time back then. She used to sternly tell me I would one day go to hell. And now, after death, I wasn't sure I was in as bad a place as hell. I clearly knew by now there wasn't really a hell or heaven after death, but still, believing in those concepts did help.
My next thought was a deep one: Humans are such complicated creatures. Even after knowing what we are, where we come from, and how we are going to die—even after finding all the necessary answers to life—we still believe in an entity that doesn't even exist. Even without proof of a god, we still believe in something beyond human comparison. We believe, no, we want there to be something after death, someone to look after us, even if no one is. I envy them, because for someone like me who has seen what is left for us after death, truly what one said is correct: ignorance is bliss, and knowledge is the end to one's fascination. I smiled a little under my poker face, thinking I sounded like an old philosopher teacher.
Speaking of which, I hoped my mother was doing alright. I wondered how she would receive the news that her daughter had passed on. What face would she make? What emotions would be going through her mind? It all seemed pretty obvious, but still, I would love to see it. I never had the chance to see her again. I should feel sad, but I didn't feel like it. It felt like I was overreacting, but at the same time, I felt kind of calm about it.
I imagined my original mother would be furious when she heard. I could picture her scolding me, recall what her angry voice sounded like, what kind of puffy face she would make. But all I could imagine was a blurry face with no sound. No, wait, what? What was happening? Had I forgotten my mother's face? That couldn't be true. How? When? How could this have happened? And what was I thinking? She wasn't an emotional type; she was calm-headed, like me. No, she was distant and lonely. No, maybe she was abusive? Or maybe overcompensating? What's happening to my memories? I thought to myself, my mind stressed. Am I forgetting my memories of my past life? So, doesn't that mean that one of my assumptions was correct after all?
I couldn't think, or rather, remember how she would react. I couldn't even remember what she sounded like or how she was supposed to look. I soon realized that one of my assumptions was correct: my theory of old memory loss might be accurate after all. With this new, terrifying revelation, I involuntarily stopped walking for a second, the idea of the theory sinking in, realizing the weight of the reality I was currently in. And it wasn't looking good.
I stopped for a moment, taking in all that I'd just realized. As a former author, I already possessed a very imaginative mind, and ever since I'd been reincarnated into this new world as someone else entirely, a realm of possibilities and assumptions had bloomed in my head. Many, in fact.
One of my theories was that since I was receiving Aira's memories, living through them in my dreams, perhaps one day I would forget my old memories to make room for hers. Another was that the old memories of my former self, Akira Tsukihara, would simply fade with time as I started living as Aira, much like how memories naturally decay. And then there was the idea that once I received all of Aira's memories, they would overwrite my old ones, or something entirely different might happen—like her memories merging with my own, creating a completely new, hybrid set of recollections. I had created many other theories for various fictional situations like this, and now, one of them had just appeared on my doorstep with the possibility of becoming true. I seriously had no idea what to do.
But before I could think any further, I felt a flick on the back of my head. It was Joren. He looked at me with a smirk but a confused face, asking why I had stopped all of a sudden. All I could think about was, Not this again. I was in the middle of analyzing, and now that he'd disturbed me, my train of thought had just crashed. I looked at him with anger. Forget what I said; as long as I'm with him, this place can be considered hell. I walked away from him without answering and ran to catch up to the rest of the family.
When I finally managed to reach them, I was gasping and sweaty. Elsie turned to me, a confused look on her face, and asked, "Why are you so out of breath? Were you running? Why?" But in return, I just asked her, "How long is it going to take until we reach church?"
Elsie looked even more perplexed. "What are you talking about? The church is right over there," she remarked, pointing. "See? You can see it from here. Look!"
But all I could see was the uneven dirt road stretching ahead and the endless wheat fields swaying around us. There was no sign of any church. When would this church finally arrive?
Just as I was about to give in to a full-blown internal whine-fest, the path ahead curved around a small rise, and then, finally, I saw it. My jaw, I swear, went slack.
This was not the crude wooden shack I'd imagined, nor was it a grand, gothic cathedral of my old world. This was something else entirely. Perched on a gentle hill, overlooking the scattered huts of the village, stood a structure of imposing, silent majesty. It was built entirely of a dark, almost obsidian-like stone, smoothly cut and fitted together with a precision I hadn't seen anywhere else in this rough-hewn world. The walls soared upwards, not with spires or intricate carvings, but with a severe, almost minimalist power. It was sleek, angular, and strangely modern in its starkness, utterly unlike the rustic, haphazard construction of everything else around here.
The windows weren't narrow slits or even leaded glass; they were massive, seamless panes of what looked like polished dark crystal, reflecting the setting sun with a deep, internal glow. There were no crosses, no saints, no familiar religious iconography. Instead, etched into the dark stone above the heavy, bronze-bound double doors, was a single, striking symbol: a perfectly symmetrical, stylized spiral, coiling inwards to a luminous core. It wasn't just etched; it seemed to hum with a faint, almost imperceptible light.
"Holy cow," I whispered, the modern idiom slipping out. This was, without a doubt, the most stable and intricately built structure I had seen in this entire world. It radiated an ancient power, a permanence that belied the temporary, fragile nature of everything else. Here, finally, was proof that this world held more than just mutated farm animals and inconsistent technology. This was something… deliberate. Something important.
My family, usually so focused on the mundane, approached the doors with a reverence that was palpable. Their voices, usually murmuring or practical, had fallen silent. Elsie clutched a small, polished stone in her hand, her gaze fixed on the spiral symbol. Even Joren's smug expression had softened into something akin to awe.
As we neared, a low, resonant hum began to emanate from within the structure, a sound that vibrated deep in my chest, strangely comforting yet undeniably alien. Mira placed a hand gently on my back, urging me forward.
We pushed through the heavy doors, which swung open with surprising ease, and stepped inside. The interior was vast, echoing, and bathed in a soft, ethereal light that seemed to come from the crystal windows themselves, casting long, shifting shadows. There were no pews, no altars, no familiar religious trappings. Instead, the floor was a smooth, dark stone, leading to a central, raised platform where a single, massive, glowing crystal obelisk stood. Its light pulsed with the same mesmerizing, intricate spiral pattern etched on the outside.
A handful of people were already kneeling on the floor, their heads bowed, their hands pressed together as if in prayer, but their quiet murmurs were not Latin, or Hebrew, or anything from my world. It was a rhythmic, almost hypnotic chant in the language of this land, but with a different cadence, a deeper resonance. The air itself felt thick with a palpable energy, a sense of quiet power that hummed on my skin.
My cynical thoughts about "Jesus or something" evaporated instantly, replaced by a profound sense of awe and a prickle of unease. This was not Christianity. This was something utterly different. And as the doors swung shut softly behind us, plunging the outside world into shadow and sealing us within this strange, glowing sanctuary, I knew I was about to find out exactly what.
CHAPTER: 4, Part-2.
The massive, bronze-bound doors swung shut with a soft, resonant thud behind us, sealing us inside the echoing vastness of the church. The air was cool, thick with a palpable, comforting atmosphere, a subtle hum that vibrated deep in my surroundings. The temperature of the room was notably cooler than the outside, offering a refreshing reprieve as we walked through. It felt almost like there was some hidden air conditioning inside this building.
Hmm, I wondered, what if this place is cold because it has some kind of magical effect? Which is the reason why this place has such a nice atmosphere? Or even better, some kind of spell was put on us when we entered, making us feel better without us even knowing it? At any rate, I desperately wanted the answer to be magic in the end and hoped what I was thinking was true. Yeah, I was aware this was stupid, to still cling to the belief that this world had magic. But in the end, what did I have to lose? So I still clung to my imagination of this world having magic, knowing I didn't have a single clue if magic even existed here.
But I was hoping to find some clue to the existence of magic, or at least some other knowledge about this new world. I still had no clue about this new world I'd been reincarnated into, and I hoped to find some information here. The fragments of memories I'd gotten from Aira's dreams, the previous host of this body I was now inhabiting, were as useful as a mouse trying to carry an elephant—useless and stupid. So this church was one of my few hopes, since I couldn't ask anyone any obvious questions without them getting suspicious.
As I looked around the church from the inside, the white Marble pillars were large and stiff, holding the ceiling, and on the walls were colourful glass windows that made it look quite beautiful. I made sure to look like I didn't care; otherwise, I might get caught. By the way, while I was looking around, I realized that anyone from my old world could immediately tell what kind of church this was. It was unlike any church I'd ever imagined. No pews, no ornate gold, just smooth, dark stone leading to a central, glowing crystal obelisk. I thought to myself, this looks less like a church and more like a bar with gothic vibes, if you catch my drift. This church seemed designed so that anyone from my old world could conform to it, but since I wasn't in my original world, it might be different for me. For others, though, it was perfectly normal.
While I was busy pondering this place, my eyes, however, were drawn upwards. Far above, spanning the immense arched ceiling, was a breathtaking and profoundly unsettling piece of art. It wasn't a fresco, but a mosaic crafted from countless shards of colorful glass, much like the stained-glass windows of my old world. But the image it depicted was chillingly alien.
It showed a woman—half of her face beautiful, while the other was skeletal. Her hair swirled around the picture like a black mist coming from her head. She had one golden eye, and the other was hollow. She was holding a child, young and seemingly bleeding from its mouth, while the woman just watched it come close to death, their forms rendered in vibrant, almost luminous hues. Yet, half of the woman's face was a grotesque, skeletal visage, a stark contrast to the living, serene half. From her skeletal hand, tendrils of soft, glowing light seemed to gently flow into the child, who gazed up at her with an expression of peaceful acceptance. The overall impression was one of a solemn, beautiful, yet terrifying exchange—a transfer of life, or perhaps, the granting of an afterlife.
As I pondered what this picture meant, I saw my new family was already kneeling on the smooth stone floor, their heads bowed, hands pressed together. The soft, rhythmic chanting of the other congregants filled the space, a hypnotic murmur that seemed to weave through the very light emanating from the crystal obelisk. I hesitated for a moment, then, feeling the subtle pull of expectation, lowered myself onto the cold stone beside Elsie, mimicking their posture.
While kneeling on the ground, my gaze drifted back to the haunting picture on the ceiling. I took a good, long look at the mosaic, trying to decipher the complex imagery. My main objective in observing it wasn't to question this place, but because I had a growing feeling, I'd seen that picture somewhere before. No, it was more like I'd read about it.
This couldn't be another one of Aira's memories sprouting from my head. I mean, things like this had already happened to me multiple times a day—the feeling that I knew something, like it had already occurred, when in reality, I'd never even experienced it. But this was different. This feeling was not from Aira's memories, but from somewhere else, though I couldn't for the life of me recall what or where exactly.
As I was lost in thought, a new sound cut through the chanting, taking me by surprise. A voice, deep and commanding, resonated from the front. My gaze snapped forward. Standing before the glowing obelisk, having emerged from a hidden alcove, was the priest. He was a figure of quiet power, clad in robes the color of deep night, unadorned except for a faint, shimmering spiral emblem stitched over his heart, mirroring the symbol outside. His face was stern, lined with age and what looked like deep contemplation, and his eyes, though ancient, held a piercing, intelligent glint that reminded me unsettlingly of the schoolmaster. He didn't carry a book or a sacred text; his hands were empty, held loosely at his sides.
The chanting subsided, replaced by a profound silence that seemed to hum with anticipation. The priest raised his hands slowly, and the crystal obelisk at his back pulsed brighter, casting vibrant, shifting patterns across the dark stone floor. This was clearly going to be a service unlike any I had ever witnessed.
The priest stood before the glowing crystal obelisk, his gaze focused on all who had joined him. He was an old man but looked well-fed, his stout body a testament to it. His face was kind, but I still didn't trust him completely. As I pondered this, he spoke again, his dark robes a stark silhouette against the obelisk's pulsing light.
The profound silence of the vast chamber was broken only by the soft, almost imperceptible hum that still vibrated in the air. He raised his hands, slowly and deliberately, and the crystal behind him pulsed in response, casting a mesmerizing spiral of light across the smooth stone floor. My family and the few other congregants remained kneeling, utterly still, their heads bowed in deep reverence.
Then, the priest's voice—deep and resonant—filled the space. It wasn't loud, but it carried an undeniable weight, a solemn power that commanded attention. "Children of the life," he began, his gaze sweeping over the assembled few, "we gather today, on this joyous occasion, to honor the Goddess, She Who Weaves Life and Unravels Death."
My internal cynic immediately flared. Goddess of Life and Death? "Oh, so this is it," I thought, a familiar wave of skepticism washing over me. "Another one of those. All hail the mysterious, omnipotent deity." My mind, still firmly rooted in the scientific, logical world I'd come from, immediately categorized this as pure, unadulterated bullshit. It was just another ancient, superstitious belief system, no different from the thousands that had existed in my old world. People cling to abstract hope in the face of a harsh reality that's often a result of their own decisions or bad luck. Plus, I experienced death firsthand and I know for a fact that there is no afterlife. So for me, all this is nothing but bullshit.
And for starters, if there's a goddess who is both life-giving and life-taking, isn't that just nature taking its course? Not only that, but wouldn't it be much better if we gave her the title "God of Creation" or "Nature"? These are just my personal opinions, of course, and anyone can disagree. I won't complain. But as a writer in my original life, giving characters a proper title according to their plot and importance is crucial to increase a story's popularity. After what I've been through, I don't think I'll ever acknowledge the existence of this god or any god for that matter. For me, all gods are just fictional fantasy characters.
The priest continued, his voice taking on a rhythmic, almost hypnotic quality. "From Her embrace, we are born into the light. To Her embrace, we return back to her. She is the breath in our lungs, the warmth in our blood, and the final stillness that grants us peace." He spoke of balance, of the eternal dance between creation and decay, of acceptance of one's place in the natural order. His words were poetic, evoking imagery of sun-drenched fields and starlit nights, of the circle of seasons and the inevitable surrender to the earth.
As he spoke, the kneeling congregants began to respond, their voices joining in a low, harmonious chant. It wasn't the rhythmic murmuring from earlier, but a more formal, almost liturgical recitation. Their hands remained pressed together, and their eyes, when some dared to lift them, were fixed on the glowing obelisk, or perhaps, on some unseen presence beyond it.
I sat there, my mind stubbornly detached. Goddess of Life and Death, huh? I thought, my gaze drifting back to the unsettling glass mosaic on the ceiling, the two-faced woman. So that's who she was. The art was beautiful in its chilling way, but the religious rhetoric still felt like empty words to me. All this solemnity, this ancient stone, this vibrant light… for a story. A myth. It just confirmed my growing belief that this world, for all its occasional strange creatures and inconsistent technology, was fundamentally primitive in its core beliefs.
"This is all bullshit," I concluded, a familiar weariness settling over me. Another day, another disappointment. No magic, just more mundane, albeit strangely adorned, versions of what I already knew.
The priest's voice deepened, resonating with an almost physical weight that seemed to press down on the air around us. He shifted his stance, and the light from the obelisk behind him seemed to intensify, casting starker shadows across his face. "Such is the Law of Life and Death," he intoned, his words slow and deliberate, each one weighted with an ancient authority. "All that lives shall surely die. It is the inescapable truth, the final mercy, the ultimate decree of the Goddess."
He paused, letting the truth hang in the echoing silence. Then, his voice grew softer, yet no less firm, as he spoke of what came after. "And for those who walk in faithfulness, who honor the cycles and serve the balance, there awaits the Eternal Sleep within Her Embrace. They shall know peace beyond understanding, dwelling in the sacred light, returned to the source of all being. This is the Heaven promised to the devout."
A collective, almost imperceptible sigh rippled through the kneeling congregants, a murmur of hope. Their faces, when I dared to glance at them, held a mix of serenity and longing.
But then, the priest's tone hardened, a subtle edge creeping into his voice that sent a faint chill down my spine. "Yet, for those who scorn the Cycles, who deny the Goddess's wisdom, who sow chaos and refuse their place… for them, there is only the Endless Fragmentation. Their essence shall be scattered, their being dissolved into suffering, unable to find peace or return to the Source. This is the Hell of the lost, the eternity of anguish."
My internal monologue, which had been so quick to dismiss everything, now wavered for a split second. Hell? Endless fragmentation? It sounded like a more philosophical, existential kind of torment than the fire and brimstone I was used to from Christian teachings. Still, the core message was the same: good people go to heaven, bad people suffer forever.
"This is nothing true," I instantly thought, my skepticism snapping back into place, even stronger than before. "Far from it." I'd heard variations of this tale a million times, in a million different cultures and religions. It was a universal human construct, a way to control behavior, to offer hope, and to instill fear. It was all about narrative, about belief. And I knew, with every fiber of my being, that it was just that: a story. A very well-told one, perhaps, given the impressive architecture and the priest's commanding presence, but a story nonetheless.
My mouth remained shut, a tight, unyielding line. There was no point in arguing, no point in challenging their deeply held beliefs. I was a stranger here, an intruder in Aira's body, and the last thing I needed was to draw attention by disrespecting their sacred traditions. I just kept my head bowed, pretending to be as devout as the rest, while my mind screamed its silent, disbelieving protests.
The priest's voice, which had just delivered the grim tidings of "Endless Fragmentation," softened once more. He raised his hands, the dark fabric of his robes falling in graceful folds, and the light from the obelisk seemed to brighten, casting long, dancing shadows across the ancient stone walls.
"Such is the Will of the Goddess," he intoned, his gaze sweeping over each kneeling figure with a deep sense of conviction. "To live, to die, and to return. To embrace the inevitable, and through faithful service to the Cycles, to find ultimate peace within Her boundless embrace. This is the truth that guides our days, and lights our path to the beyond." He spoke of blessings, of the interconnectedness of all living things, and of the sacred duty to nurture life, knowing it would one day feed death, and from death, new life would spring. It was a philosophy far more entwined with nature than any religion I'd ever known—a stark cycle of existence rather than a linear journey to salvation.
The priest finished his talk, and the obelisk's light settled back into a softer glow. The congregation stirred, and my knees ached from the hard stone floor. Then, he spoke again, and the shift in his voice was immediate. He wasn't asking for a donation; he was calling for an act of devotion.
He spoke of the "Cycles" he had just described—the giving of life to nurture new life. He talked about how the Goddess provides for Her flock, and how it is the flock's sacred duty to provide for Her temple. He gestured to the obelisk, and the light pulsed with his words, bathing him in a warm, golden glow as he spoke of "blessings" and "nourishment for the community." The light would turn a colder, starker white when he spoke of the shame of those who could not give, making them feel like a disgrace to the goddess, even for a moment. He was using lights and colors to manipulate the audience without anyone even knowing it.
It was a brilliant trick. A genius marketing skill, or a freaking over-the-top, underrated mind-washing skill that even I myself am afraid of its potential. He wasn't just asking for money; he was making the people believe they were participating in the divine cycle itself. He used the name of the goddess as if there were no tomorrow, all for his own gain.
I was taken aback by how easily he did it. The way he used the light, the tone of his voice, the subtle shifts in his language—it was all designed to create a spectacle that would make people feel a deep, spiritual obligation to give. It was a well-crafted performance, and I, a writer who used to craft stories and characters, saw it for what it was: a scam. But I shouldn't stir up any trouble that might draw attention to me, so I kept my mouth shut.
My new family, too, began to stir. Elsie stretched subtly, then glanced at me with a relieved expression. The little boy, who had been surprisingly still throughout the long sermon, now bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, eager to leave. We started to shuffle toward the heavy bronze doors, the murmur of hushed voices gradually filling the space as people exchanged quiet greetings and farewells.
Just as we reached the threshold, and the welcome fresh air of the outside world beckoned, I noticed that Toren, my new father, had stopped. He hadn't followed us out. Instead, he turned back, his gaze fixed on the priest who was still standing by the glowing obelisk. There was a look on Toren's face I hadn't seen before—a mix of deep concern and a quiet determination. He took a few steps back toward the front, a silent indication that he intended to speak to the priest alone.
Mira paused, casting a worried glance back at Toren, but then gently nudged Elsie and me forward. "Come on, Aira," she murmured, her voice soft. "Let's not hold up the others."
I glanced back, my curiosity piqued. What could Toren possibly need to discuss with the priest that couldn't wait? Was it about the crops? A village dispute? Or something... more personal? The image of the stoic farmer and the ancient spiritual leader was intriguing, one that hinted at layers of this new life I still hadn't uncovered. But the door was open, and Mira was ushering us out, back into the mundane reality of the dirt path and the fading evening light.
We stepped out of the vast, silent church, leaving the cool, humming interior for the familiar warmth of the late afternoon sun. My eyes blinked, adjusting to the brighter light after the ethereal glow inside. Mira gently nudged me, and I fell in line with Elsie and the little boy, leaving Toren alone with the priest in the echoing chamber.
As we walked back down the dusty path, away from the imposing dark stone structure, Elsie finally broke the silence. "Mama," she began, her voice a little softer than usual, "why didn't Father come with us? Is he going to be long?"
Mira, who had been walking with a quiet, almost distant air since leaving the church, offered only a vague answer. "He had important matters to discuss with the priest, Elsie. It's nothing for us to concern ourselves with." Her tone was dismissive, a subtle barrier thrown up to discourage further questions. It wasn't angry, but it was firm.
Important issues, huh? And none of our concern? That only made me more curious. What kind of "important issues" would keep the stoic, practical Toren behind in a solemn religious building with a mysterious priest? My writer's brain immediately started concocting theories, from village politics to something far more personal, perhaps even related to Aira's forgotten past.
The walk back felt quicker, or perhaps I was just less aware of my aching feet now that the formal setting of the church was behind us. The afternoon sun cast long shadows as we approached the familiar cluster of huts. By the time we reached our humble home, it was well past noon.
"Go on now," Mira said, a rare, soft smile gracing her lips as she addressed Elsie and the little boy. "You've done your duties for the morning. After you eat your lunch and change into your casual clothes, you're free to do anything you want for the rest of the day."
The little boy, whose name I still hadn't quite grasped—a detail that bothered my former-author brain more than it probably should—let out a whoop of pure delight. He immediately scampered off toward the house, Elsie following with a more sedate but equally relieved grin.
Free? I thought, a small spark igniting within me. The concept felt alien after a week of relentless chores and unexpected school detentions. I mused on how my day had started—the aching head, the existential dread, the shock of Octaday and the church—and realized it was only noon. The morning had felt like an entire day condensed into a few hours. Now, an afternoon of unexpected freedom stretched before me. The thought was almost dizzying. What did peasant girls do for "free time" in this world? And more importantly, could I finally find the courage to go back to that hut in the woods, to the old woman who knew Aira, and perhaps, uncover some of the answers I desperately sought?