Aira hated this life. Every waking moment was a cruel reminder that she no longer belonged in the comfort of her old world. The endless toil, the stench of filth, and the weight of exhaustion bore down on her, but despite all of it, one thing kept her going—her mother.
She was the hardest worker among them all, waking before dawn and collapsing well past nightfall. Yet, she never complained, never raised her voice, and never questioned the cruelty of their existence. She carried an unshakable gentleness, her hands rough from labor but warm with love. When Aira felt broken by her fate, it was her mother's arms that held her, her soft voice that whispered reassurances in the dark. No matter how little food there was, she always made sure her children had enough before taking a single bite for herself.
But the kindness that comforted Aria also tormented her. Because the one her mother took care of wasn't truly her daughter. It was Akira Tsukihara—the woman who had created this world and trapped herself within it. Her mother's love felt undeserved, an illusion of warmth that did not belong to her.
One day, Aira was injured while working in the fields. A deep gash on her leg bled profusely, and she was too weak to walk home. Yet, before anyone else could react, her mother was already there, carrying her back in her frail arms as if Aria weighed nothing. She patched the wound with careful precision, whispering words of comfort. That night, as Aria lay on their straw mattress, she couldn't shake the gnawing guilt that ate away at her. How cruel was it that she had written a world so merciless, and now, she was benefiting from the kindness of those she had doomed to suffer?
A World of Death and Suffering
The days passed, and with them, the weight of the world pressed heavier upon Aira's shoulders. She knew this world, but not in the way she should have. She had written it, but only through the eyes of its nobles, its heroes, its chosen ones. She had never cared about the villages, the peasants, the unseen masses who struggled every day just to survive.
And now, she was one of them.
She was trapped in a medieval fantasy world modelled after 15th and 16th-century Europe—a time of unrelenting cruelty, where kings and nobles ruled with an iron fist, and commoners were less than dirt. There was no justice for people like her. No protection. No escape.
Wars were constant, tearing through villages and leaving nothing but corpses and ruin. Violence was the law of the land, and the weak were nothing but stepping stones for the powerful.
Then, there was disease—the true horror that lurked unseen. The Black Death, magical in nature, was whispered to be the Devil's curse, its victims left to rot in agony. Smallpox, syphilis, and typhus spread like wildfire. The sick were cast aside like garbage, their flesh festering, their bodies trembling with fever until death took them in fits of agony.
Healing magic existed, but it was useless against disease. It could close wounds, mend broken bones, but it did nothing to fight infection. The priests and clerics, self-proclaimed healers of God's will, were powerless against the relentless plagues that swept through the land. The hospitals—if they could even be called that—were nothing more than death traps, where the ill were left to die in agony, surrounded by filth and decay.
Doctors were butchers with no understanding of medicine. They did not wash their hands, performed surgeries with rusted tools, and knew nothing of bacteria or infection. Their remedies were cruel jokes—leeches, bloodletting, and prayers to false gods.
And then there was the Church—the rotting, corrupt institution that ruled over them all.
The Witch Hunts
The Church claimed to be the voice of God, but all Aira saw was a den of vipers feeding off the suffering of the masses. Priests lived like kings, demanding tithes from the starving poor. Sins could be forgiven—not through repentance, but through gold.
And when the Church needed a scapegoat, they found one easily: women.
Women were the lowest of the low. They were property, their only worth tied to their fathers, their husbands, or their ability to bear children. They could not own land, could not work freely, could not make decisions for themselves. They were given no education, kept ignorant and obedient.
But worst of all was the fear of witches.
Any woman who defied the Church, who was too smart, too independent, or too skilled in things beyond the comprehension of men, was marked as a heretic. And her punishment was death.
There was an old woman who lived at the edge of the village, a kind soul named Martha. She was wise in the ways of herbs and medicine, her knowledge often sought by the villagers when injuries or sickness plagued their families. She was respected—until she was feared.
It started with a single accusation. A young boy had fallen ill, his fever refusing to break. The priests said it was the Devil's curse, a punishment for the sins of the village. But someone pointed a trembling finger at Martha. She had given the boy medicine, they whispered. Perhaps she had cursed him instead.
That was all it took.
She was dragged from her home in the dead of night, beaten, and bound. Aira watched in horror as the village that once relied on her now gathered like vultures, their eyes filled with hatred.
The priests called for her execution, and the people cheered. A pyre was built in the center of the village, the wood stacked high. Marta pleaded, her voice hoarse and broken, but no one listened. The priests chanted prayers as they set the fire ablaze.
Her screams were deafening.
Aira watched as the flames consumed her, the scent of burning flesh filling the air. Marta's agony was a spectacle, her death an entertainment. The villagers laughed, children clapped, men and women whispered praises to God.
Aira wanted to vomit. To scream. To run. But when she opened her mouth, a sharp slap struck her across the face.
Her mother.
Aira's breath hitched as she looked into her mother's tear-filled eyes, her hands trembling. It wasn't anger in her expression. It was fear.
"Do not speak," she whispered. "Do not cry. Do not question. If you do, you will be next."
And in that moment, Aira understood.
This world was not just cruel. It was merciless. It did not matter if someone was good, kind, or innocent. The only thing that mattered was power. And Aria had none.
She had written this world into existence, but she was nothing in it. Just another nameless commoner. Just another girl. And in this world, girls like her were expendable.
Tears burned her eyes, but she swallowed them down. She could not afford to break. She could not afford to be weak.
Because in this world, the weak did not survive.