The sky was heavy with clouds, and the air was thick with the scent of rain and dust.
Natsumi's footsteps touched the ground softly, as if she did not wish to disturb anyone—or perhaps… she did not want to be noticed at all.
She walked along a narrow street, its stones cracked with age, the houses lining it silent, as though watching her in wordless judgment.
Her small bag hung from her shoulder, and her clothes were dull in color—not for any reason except that time had stolen their brightness… just as it had stolen hers.
She passed by a group of girls. She did not look at them, but she heard their words clearly:
"Look… the orphan again."
"She still walks like she owns the world."
"I wonder if she even eats!"
She did not respond. She did not stop.
She simply kept walking, as if the words had never reached her—though they pierced her like an arrow.
When she reached the back alley, the place where she usually found a fragment of peace, she found them there.
Familiar faces… faces filled with hatred.
One of them stepped toward her quickly and shouted:
"What are you doing here? Spying on us?"
She did not answer. She did not try to defend herself.
She knew words were useless.
Another stepped forward, grabbed her hair harshly, and slammed her to the ground.
Blows followed. Insults. Mocking laughter.
Time seemed to stop, and the place emptied of everything… except pain.
Natsumi's eyes did not shed a single tear. She stared at the gray sky and whispered, her voice barely audible:
"If I were given a chance… just one chance… I wouldn't leave anything standing."
Then darkness fell.
And silence followed.
Darkness… then light.
Between the two moments, there was no time.
Natsumi's soul, which had faded in silence, did not vanish—it waited.
When she opened her eyes again, she was not on bloodstained ground, nor on a battlefield.
She was inside a small wooden cabin, warm despite the cold that surrounded it.
The lights were dim, the walls filled with old books and strange tools she had never seen before.
A face hovered above her—an elderly woman with ash-gray eyes and snow-white hair.
She smiled gently and said:
"Thank goodness… your soul has returned to life, little one."
But the child did not cry. She did not scream.
She simply opened her wide eyes and stared at the ceiling, as if carrying a lifetime too heavy for her small body.
What is this place?
Am I… a child?
Am I… alive?
She could not speak. Her body was weak—but not worthless.
Inside it, something else existed… something asleep, but not dead.
Days passed. Then weeks.
The old woman was called Mira. She lived in a remote village surrounded by forests, unknown to most of the world.
She raised the child as if she were her granddaughter and named her:
"Zeria."
She did not know that the name was no coincidence.
Nor did she know that Mira… had been waiting for her arrival for years.
At night, Zeria would wake without reason.
She felt something moving in her blood, breathing beneath her skin, calling to her from deep within.
She would sit by the window, gaze at the moon, and whisper:
"Why do I feel like… I'm not like the others?"
Each time, Mira would watch from afar, silently—her eyes gleaming with something that looked like worry… or anticipation.
Years passed slowly, yet they never erased the sense of alienation Zeria felt from the moment she was reborn.
She lived in Mira's care and learned how to walk, how to speak, how to plant and cook and laugh… but she never learned how to belong.
The village was small and isolated, its people kind… but cautious.
They smiled at her, yet their eyes lingered, stealing details of her face—as if they could not believe she was just a girl.
Zeria grew slowly, reaching the age of seven.
With her long white hair unlike anyone else's, and eyes that sometimes shifted from gray to cold blue, she became the talk of the children and the whispers of adults.
"Have you seen her eyes? I've never seen anything like them."
"And Mira… where did she come from? No one knows."
"Some nights, her room glows from the inside—as if she isn't human."
She heard everything. But she never replied.
In her heart, a thousand unanswered questions.
She spent more time in the forest than at home, walking alone among the trees, as if she knew the path despite its lack of signs.
One day, as she touched the trunk of an ancient tree, she heard the voice for the first time.
"Wake up…"
She froze. It was not an external voice—it was inside her head… or her heart.
"Do not remain asleep. The time is approaching."
She pulled her hand away and ran back home.
That night, she dreamed.
She saw herself standing amid flames… holding a blue knife, her body drenched in blood.
People around her were fleeing, and she stood there, smiling.
She woke up crying—not out of fear, but longing.
"Who was I?"
She found no answer.
But something within her began to stir.
And from that night on… she began to change.
Three days passed after the strange dream, yet she could not forget it.
Something inside her had awakened—and refused to sleep again.
That morning, Zeria went to the forest as usual, accompanied by a group of village children.
They gathered herbs and fruit for Mira, running and laughing… all except her. She walked quietly behind them, watching.
One of the girls—Lina—approached her and asked:
"Why don't you play with us?"
Zeria looked at her with her gray eyes and replied calmly:
"I'm not good at playing."
Lina laughed lightly and ran off.
But one of the boys, Toma, said mockingly:
"She doesn't play because she's scared… or because she isn't one of us."
The others laughed. Zeria said nothing.
But the air changed—suddenly heavier, as if something unseen had grown angry.
Then something happened that no one expected.
As Toma stepped near a small pit between the trees, his foot slipped, and he screamed.
No one was close enough to catch him… except Zeria.
Without thinking, she reached out her hand.
But instead of grabbing him, a faint blue shimmer burst from her palm—like a transparent thread of light. It wrapped around him, halted his fall, and gently pulled him back.
The children froze.
Even Zeria could not believe what she had done.
Toma fell sitting on the ground, eyes wide:
"What… did you do?!"
Zeria stared at her hand.
She was uneasy… but not afraid.
Instead, she felt something else—a strange pleasure, as if this was what she had been waiting for.
The children ran back to the village, shouting:
"Zeria isn't normal!"
"She enchanted Toma!"
"She used a strange power!"
That night, Zeria sat beside Mira and whispered:
"I'm… not one of them, am I?"
Mira did not answer immediately.
She looked at the moon through the window, then said:
"No, Zeria… you are something far greater than they could ever imagine."