Having resigned herself to her inevitable fate, Arjezthea allowed darkness to slowly enclose her. She silently waited for the gods to claim her soul and for her existence to be erased. Yet, for some reason, nothing happened.

She had died, of that she was certain. Looking around her, she saw nothing but an empty void. She no longer had a body, only her soul remained.

"Is this the afterlife?" she wondered.

It was completely different from what she had expected. Arjezthea wasn’t a believer. Though she had always loved fantasy and magic, she had never believed in it. In fact, she had been the scientific type—logic was what grounded her. If something couldn’t be explained rationally, she simply didn’t accept it. So, when death loomed over her, she expected nothing but oblivion. She thought she’d vanish completely. Yet here she was, conscious, aware, even if there was no flesh.

If this was the afterlife, it wasn’t the heaven or hell she’d heard of. No angels to greet her, no demons to torture her soul. Just nothingness. In a way, it was worse than any kind of hell—an eternal void, a place of endless nothing. Yet, strangely enough, she didn’t mind. After all the struggles of her previous life, this dark, quiet void was peaceful.

She allowed herself to float in the nothingness, slowly slipping into a deep sleep, finding a twisted solace in the silence.

Her mind wandered back to her previous life, the life she thought had ended.

Her parents had been the kindest people anyone could meet. Though they had spent years unable to have children, they were content with one another. That is, until Arjezthea—a miracle child—arrived. After years of infertility, her parents had given up hope of conceiving. When she was born, the doctors called her a gift from the gods. At first, their family couldn’t have been happier. They adored her, and she was raised with nothing but unconditional love.

But that happiness was short-lived.

Arjezthea had been six years old when the symptoms first appeared. She would get tired easily, lose her appetite, and faint from time to time. At first, the doctors were reassuring, saying her condition wasn't too serious. Aplastic anemia, they said, could be treated. They assured her parents that the success rate among children was high. Unfortunately, Arjezthea belonged to the minority whose treatment didn’t work.

Her condition worsened, and after multiple failed treatments, the doctors told her devastated parents that a blood and marrow transplant was the only option. Her parents volunteered, of course, but neither was a match. Finding a donor was a near-impossible task. As the years dragged on, her parents worked themselves to the bone trying to support her medical treatments. They sold their home and took on extra jobs, sacrificing everything for her, and she could see the toll it took on them.

She hated it. She hated being the reason her parents struggled, their joy fading away as they aged prematurely under the weight of stress and helplessness. She hated the gods for allowing this—why grant her life, only to fill it with suffering? Over time, resentment filled her heart. She had ruined their lives. She resented the cruelty of it all.

But there had been one thing that gave her solace. Stuck in her hospital room, she had spent hours, days, and years creating another world—Adamia. She drew creatures, cities, lands, and legends. It became a fully fleshed-out universe, with its own cultures and history. In this imaginary world, she was free. Free from her sickness, free from the pain. Her imagination had been the only thing to keep her sane.

Then, when she had nearly given up hope, the doctors found a donor.

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

It had been a miracle—her family’s miracle. The transplant was supposed to save her. Her parents were overjoyed, crying with relief, knowing their little girl had fought so hard to stay alive.

But once again, the gods mocked her. Despite everything, Arjezthea had died anyway.

As these memories surged through her mind, she felt herself being drawn back from the unconscious state she had fallen into. The comforting darkness around her started to push her away. Disoriented, she realized that she could feel her body again—no longer weightless. A body? Suddenly, pain seared through her lungs as air rushed in. She gasped, feeling the burning sensation of new life filling her. Her entire body screamed as sensation returned, and a soft cry escaped her lips. Startled, she heard her own voice—a baby’s cry.

Panic set in as she realized what had happened. Her vision was blurred at first, but slowly, shapes took form. The white walls, the ceiling—it was all familiar but strange. It wasn’t the hospital she had known in her past life. The furniture was old, the walls stained, and cobwebs clung to the corners.

A woman leaned over her, her face tired but filled with warmth and love. The woman had long, raven-black hair, piercing blue eyes, and long, pointed ears.

Pointed ears?

Compelled by curiosity, she tried to reach for those ears, but her arm stopped short. She stared in disbelief at her tiny hand—undeniably a baby's hand. Panic flooded her mind.

"A big woman… a baby’s hand… no way…"

It dawned on her. It wasn't the woman who was unusually large; she was the one who was small. She had been reborn.

For a brief moment, thousands of thoughts assaulted Arjezthea's mind. She didn’t want to believe it. Could this be some trick by the gods, mocking her once again? But as she felt the warmth of her new mother’s embrace and gazed into her loving eyes, her doubts began to fade. She was alive again. She had been given another chance. Whether it was a cruel joke or a blessing, she would live this life for herself and for the parents she left behind. But as memories of her previous life crept in, she wondered—was it truly fair to forget her past? To leave her parents behind?

Suddenly, a soft voice cut through her thoughts. "Hello, my little angel."

Arjezthea froze, gazing up at the woman who cradled her—her new mother. The elven woman’s loving eyes dispelled Arjezthea's worries. She no longer questioned her place in this world. She would live. For herself, for her past parents, and now, for this new mother who already filled her heart with warmth.

Before she could dwell any longer on these thoughts, a small face popped into view. A boy with messy brown hair and bright black eyes peered down at her.

"Mommy, what’s her name?" a little boy asked, peeking at her from behind the woman.

"Arvion!" her mother exclaimed, laughing softly. "You scared her."

"Sorry, Mommy..." the boy apologized, looking sheepish.

Her mother paused, then smiled. "How about Solara?"

"Solara?" the boy repeated, his eyes lighting up. "I like it!"

Arjezthea—now Solara—felt a sense of peace. She had been reborn into a family filled with love. The room might have been modest, but that didn’t matter. For the first time in years, she was healthy, surrounded by people who truly cared for her.

"Mommy, look! Solara has golden eyes!" Arvion shouted; his voice full of wonder.

The mother’s expression softened into worry. "Golden eyes…" she murmured, brushing a strand of hair from Solara’s forehead. While her daughter's eyes were captivating, she knew that such an unusual trait would undoubtedly bring challenges.

"Mommy, is something wrong?" Arvion asked, concerned.

"No, everything is fine," she replied, offering him a reassuring smile. "Arvion, you’ll protect your sister, right?"

"Of course! I’m her big brother!" he declared proudly.

As the siblings bonded, Solara looked at her new family with gratitude. Though the world she had been reborn into was unfamiliar, their love was real. She marveled at how everything around her seemed familiar yet distant—until her mother gently kissed her forehead and whispered:

"Welcome to Adamia, my child. May the Goddess Arjezthea watch over you."

Solara—Arjezthea—froze, her heart skipping a beat.

"Wait... did she just say Adamia? And... Goddess Arjezthea?! That's me!"

Back when she was still stuck in the hospital, she created Adamia strongly inspired by high fantasy movies she watched—a world that has intricate world-building and was inhabited by mortals who worshipped the Gods and Goddesses. And since she was still young at that time, she named the Goddess of Creation after her name. As a child, who wouldn't want that though?

Suddenly, it all clicked.

Cold realization washed over her.

She wasn’t just reborn in any random world.

She had been reborn in the very world she had created.