AIRA HATED THIS LIFE. EVERY BREATH SHE TOOK WAS FILLED WITH THE STENCH OF ROT, SWEAT, AND DESPAIR. THE WORLD WAS A CAGE OF SUFFERING, AND SHE WAS LOCKED WITHIN IT, DROWNING IN MISERY WITH NO ESCAPE. EVERY MORNING, SHE WOKE TO ACHING LIMBS AND AN EMPTY STOMACH. EVERY NIGHT, SHE COLLAPSED ONTO A BED OF STRAW, TOO EXHAUSTED TO DREAM.

But despite it all, one thing kept her going—her mother.

She was the hardest worker among them all, rising before the sun and collapsing only when the weight of exhaustion finally overpowered her. Yet, she never complained. Never cursed. Never allowed despair to crack the gentle mask she wore. Her hands, rough and calloused from labor, still cradled Aira with warmth. When hunger gnawed at their bellies, she always ensured her children had food before taking even a single bite.

Aira should have felt comforted. Should have been grateful.

Instead, guilt ate at her like a parasite burrowing into her soul.

Because the woman who called her ‘daughter’—who suffered and starved just to keep her alive—was caring for a stranger.

Aira wasn’t really her child. She wasn’t even of this world. She was Akira Tsukihara, the woman who had created this cruel reality with her own hands. She was a god trapped in the body of a peasant, forced to live in the very world she had written into existence. Every act of kindness her mother showed her felt like an illusion, a warmth she had no right to bask in.

Aira had designed this world to be brutal, merciless, and unforgiving. And now, she was drowning in the suffering she had once thought was just good storytelling.

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A WORLD OF DEATH AND SUFFERING

The days blurred together, each one heavier than the last. The weight of existence pressed down on Aira like a rusted dagger against her throat. The world around her was filled with misery, and she could do nothing but endure it.

She knew this world. But she had only known it from the perspective of its heroes, its nobles, its chosen ones—those blessed with strength, magic, and the favor of gods. She had never stopped to think about the nameless villagers, the peasants who suffered in the background of her grand story. They were nothing but scenery.

But now she was one of them.

She lived in a medieval nightmare modeled after 15th and 16th-century Europe—a world where the strong thrived and the weak were trampled into the mud. There was no justice here. No mercy. No salvation.

Wars never ended. They were as constant as the rising sun. Villages were burned to the ground, their people slaughtered like cattle. The streets ran red with blood, and no one wept for the dead. Violence was not only expected—it was the law of the land.

And then there was the disease.

It was worse than war. Worse than famine. The true horror of this world was the sickness that devoured entire towns, leaving only rotting corpses and the stench of decay in its wake.

The Black Death. The Devil’s Curse. Whatever name people whispered in fear, it was the same horror. The afflicted suffered in ways that were beyond comprehension—their skin turned black, their flesh split open like overripe fruit, and their bodies trembled with violent seizures until death claimed them in agony.

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No one helped them. The sick were dragged from their homes, cast into the streets, and left to rot. They screamed for mercy, but no one listened.

Healing magic existed, but it was powerless against disease. It could close wounds, mend broken bones—but it did nothing to fight infection. The priests, the so-called holy men of the Church, were just as useless. Their prayers did not cure. Their blessings did not heal. They fed off suffering like parasites, offering empty promises in exchange for gold.

And then there were the doctors.

They were worse than the plague itself. Butchers in robes, slicing people open with rusted knives, draining their blood with leeches, forcing them to drink concoctions of poison in the name of healing. They knew nothing of germs, nothing of infection. And when their ‘treatments’ failed—as they always did—they simply shrugged and called it God’s will.

Aira had written all of this into her world, but never before had she felt its horror so intimately.

And then she saw something far worse.

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THE WITCH HUNTS

The Church ruled over all. A kingdom of gold built on the suffering of the masses. They demanded obedience, controlled the people through fear, and silenced any who dared to defy them.

But when fear alone wasn’t enough, they needed an example.

They needed witches.

Women were the lowest creatures in this world. They were property, their worth measured only by their fathers, their husbands, or their ability to produce children. They were given no freedom, no education, no voice. They existed only to serve.

And when something went wrong—when famine struck, when sickness spread, when crops withered in the fields—they needed someone to blame.

It always fell on women.

There was an old woman named Martha who lived at the edge of the village. She was a healer, her knowledge of herbs and medicine saving countless lives. But wisdom was dangerous in a world ruled by ignorance.

One day, a young boy fell ill. His fever refused to break, his body convulsing in endless suffering. The priests claimed it was the Devil’s work. A curse. A punishment.

And then someone pointed a trembling finger at Martha.

“She gave him medicine,” they whispered. “She must have poisoned him.”

That was all it took.

She was ripped from her home in the dead of night, her frail body dragged through the dirt as the villagers screamed for her death. They threw stones, spat on her, ripped out her hair in fistfuls.

The priests built a pyre in the village square, stacking wood high. They lashed her to the post, gagged her mouth to silence her screams.

Aira stood in the crowd, her blood turning to ice as the first flames licked at the wood.

Martha’s muffled screams turned to animalistic shrieks as the fire climbed higher, her flesh melting, blistering, blackening. The air was thick with the stench of burning meat.

And the villagers laughed.

They cheered, watching the flames devour her like children watching a festival bonfire.

Aira wanted to scream. To fight, to stop it, to do anything. But before she could move, a sharp slap struck her across the face.

Her mother.

Aira stared into her mother’s wide, tear-filled eyes. Her hands trembled. But her grip on Aira’s arm was ironclad.

"Do not speak," she whispered. Her voice was barely audible over the crackling flames. "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 you were good, kind, or innocent. The only thing that mattered was power.

And Aira had none.

Tears burned in her eyes, but she swallowed them down. She could not afford to be weak. She could not afford to break.

Because in this world, the weak did not survive.