Outside, the morning breeze blew softly once more.

  The thin curtains swayed gently, carrying the sunlight across the wooden floor of the room. The sounds of the village gradually faded—the laughter of children, footsteps, and soft conversations blending back into the rhythm of everyday life.

  Lilya drew a deep breath.

  The air filled her chest.

  Warm. Fresh. Real.

  She closed the window slowly, leaning against its frame for a moment, letting silence once again fill the room.

  Alone.

  “…I really am,” she whispered softly.

  “…alive.”

  She turned from the window and walked back toward the bed. Her steps were light—she noticed it, but didn’t think too much of it. At that moment, her mind was still full of the warmth she had just received.

  Lilya sat on the edge of the bed.

  The bed creaked softly under her weight, a sound familiar since childhood.

  She smiled faintly without realizing it. A smile not born from great joy, but from a calmness that was difficult to put into words. She lowered her gaze, looking down at her hands resting on her thighs. Her skin was still smooth, her fingers slender—not unlike those of an ordinary village girl used to light chores. There were no scars. No signs of extraordinary strength. She opened and closed her fingers slowly, feeling each movement carefully, as if trying to confirm that the sensation was truly real and not some lingering trace of a dream.

  Then she shook her legs gently, her heels brushing against the wooden floor with a soft rhythm. A simple motion—but something unsettled her. Lilya froze, her smile fading slightly.

  “I didn’t pay much attention because I could walk fine earlier,” she murmured, almost talking to herself. “But… there’s something off about my body.”

  She clenched her fists slowly, then relaxed them. A faint, strange feeling lingered, as if her body moved too obediently, too perfectly.

  “It’s like this body isn’t completely mine,” she whispered, taking a hesitant breath, “…but also… it is.”

  Lilya furrowed her brows.

  Not a cute or casual frown—but one of deep thought, something rare for her. Usually, she let things pass without notice. But this time, her mind was working—truly working.

  “If… this is a side effect of the soul synchronization just now,” she murmured softly, her voice serious,

  “does it mean I can’t live normally?”

  She stared at her hands again, this time for longer. Her fingers moved slowly, opening and closing, as if testing the limits of something unseen.

  “I mean…” she continued, her brows knitting tighter, “all the stats in Hikaru’s game… I looked strong enough.”

  She paused.

  Then added, half in doubt, half in disbelief at herself,

  “Like the fairy tale characters Cecilia used to read me when I was little.”

  A moment of silence.

  Then—without warning—

  The vision appeared again.

  The elegant white-and-gold armor. The chestplate fitting perfectly to her body. The blue-and-gold mantle flowing from her shoulders with a gentle, soft glow. The short armored skirt moving lightly as if it merged with each step.

  Celestial Veil.

  Lilya’s cheeks immediately flushed.

  “B-but… Celestial Veil…” she murmured, her voice shrinking.

  She covered her face with both hands.

  “This isn’t battle armor…” she whispered.

  “…it’s show-off clothing.”

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  Lilya collapsed onto the bed with a soft thud.

  “Why is the stomach part… so exposed?!”

  “And why is the thigh part showing too?!”

  She buried her face in the pillow, rolling over.

  “Hikaru…” she muttered in resignation.

  “You’re a Sword Saint, not a summer festival idol…”

  She peeked through her fingers and sighed lightly.

  “…though I admit,” she added quickly, as if afraid of her own thoughts,

  “the design really is… beautiful.”

  She shook her head vigorously.

  “I-it’s not like I want to wear it, okay!”

  A few seconds of silence followed.

  Lilya sat up slowly. Her cheeks still warm, but her breathing was more even. She brushed her face lightly, as if to shake off the vision that had intruded uninvited in her mind.

  “…I can’t,” she murmured softly.

  She pictured Cecilia.

  Cecilia, cheerful. Cecilia, kind. Cecilia, who had fed her soup without hesitation earlier that morning.

  Then—the vision returned mercilessly.

  Cecilia stood before her, looking at the Celestial Veil adorning Lilya’s form. Surprised. Pausing for a moment. Then a small, dangerously teasing smile.

  “Lilya… what is that outfit?”

  “—NO!” she shouted instinctively.

  Lilya shook her head vigorously, her blonde hair swinging wildly.

  “I can’t imagine Cecilia seeing me wearing this!” she said quickly, almost panicking. “It’s… it’s a visual trap!”

  But her mind, clearly unwilling to cooperate, added more details without permission.

  The vision of Cecilia smiled faintly.

  “But… it suits you.”

  Lilya froze.

  Her face burned hotter.

  “Why… why does my wild imagination praise me?!” she protested softly, her voice a mix of embarrassment and despair. “It’s your fault, Hikaru! Everything’s your fault!” she yelled, tossing herself back onto the bed.

  “Ughhh…” she groaned, rolling to the side.

  Her hand grabbed the pillow beside her, burying her face into it with force—too hard, as if she hoped that by pressing long enough, she could disappear from the world entirely.

  “I’m just an ordinary village girl that everyone cares about…!” she shouted from behind the pillow, her voice muffled and desperate.

  “Not a cute little idol showing off on a stage!!”

  She stopped struggling.

  A few seconds passed.

  Only her own breathing, muffled by the fabric, filled the room.

  “….”

  Lilya took a slow breath, then exhaled, trying to calm herself.

  “Calm… calm…,” she murmured softly, still burying her face.

  “No one’s looking. No one knows. It’s just a vision. Just my wild thoughts…”

  Her grip on the pillow loosened slightly.

  “…right?”

  KRSSHK.

  “…eh?”

  Something strange happened in her hands—not pain, not shock—but gone. Lilya reflexively pulled her face from the pillow and sat upright. Fabric and stuffing flew in the air before falling in disarray onto the bed and floor. The pillow she had hugged was now torn in two, the rip rough and uneven, as if crushed with unnatural strength. Lilya coughed lightly, brushing the cotton out of her hair and face.

  She lowered her gaze to her own hands. Lilya opened and closed her fingers, then wiggled them gently. No pain. No heat. No tremor. Her skin was intact, her nails unbroken—no sign she had exerted any force. She stared at her palms as if hoping to find an answer there.

  "This was impossible…" she thought.

  "I didn’t feel like I used any strength…"

  Her throat felt dry. Lilya swallowed, lifting her head slightly.

  “[Status… open,]” she said softly, her voice more serious than before.

  Before her, a familiar transparent panel appeared.

  Lilya stared intently, her eyes scanning each line quickly.

  Name: Lilya Asthon

  Race: Human

  Class: Village Girl (Sword Saint – Dormant)

  Sub-Class: None (Sword Dancer – Dormant)

  Level: 100 (Max)

  Title: None

  At first glance, nothing seemed wrong.

  …or at least that’s what she thought.

  But as soon as her eyes caught the word “Dormant,” her chest tightened.

  “Do… dor… mant?” she whispered softly, as if hoping the letters would change if she pronounced them carefully enough.

  She paused.

  According to Hikaru’s memories—which always appeared at the most inconvenient moments—dormant meant temporarily locked. Not gone. Not broken. Not misinput.

  Just… sleeping.

  “…oh.”

  Lilya nodded slowly, trying to digest it.

  Then her gaze dropped slightly.

  Level: 100

  She stopped breathing.

  One second.

  Two seconds.

  “…hah?”

  What village girl wakes up in the morning, feeds the chickens, and ends up at max level?!” she screamed internally in panic. “This isn’t level ‘I help the villagers sometimes,’ this is level ‘please summon the Demon King’!!”

  Her hands began trembling as she scrolled down the panel, desperately hoping to find a logical explanation at the very end.

  But what she found only made her neck tingle and cold sweat trickle down without permission.

  HP: 98,500 / 98,500

  MP: 62,000 / 62,000

  Stamina: 120,000 / 120,000

  Lilya’s eyes widened in disbelief, her breath caught in her throat.

  “Told you!!” she screamed internally.

  “I—who normally don’t even reach 500 HP—now almost have a hundred thousand?!” Her fingers trembled as her gaze moved to the next line.

  “And what is this MP?! Crazy! I could only cast basic magic—light fire, clean water—and my MP never passed 200 before, you know?!”

  Then she looked at her stamina, her face immediately pale.

  “And what’s with this stamina…? Last time it was around 1,200, a bit above others due to all the physical work—but this… this is insane! This isn’t a village girl’s body… this is a monster’s!!”

  Her chest heaved, her breathing growing rapid without her realizing it. Every time her eyes glanced at the status panel, her head felt light, as if she might faint for the second time. Lilya swallowed, hastily looking away. She couldn’t risk it—reading any more stats—STR, AGI, or the strange skills—she could actually die from sheer shock.

  Tears began to gather at the corners of her eyes. Lilya covered her face with her hands, her shoulders trembling gently. The status panel remained floating before her—cold, impassive, but she couldn’t bear to look at it.

  “I… I just want to live normally…” her voice broke, almost inaudible. “I don’t like fighting… I never wanted to be this strong… Why is something that shouldn’t exist… actually here?!”

  “Hi… Hikaru!” she shouted through her hands, her voice hoarse from the flood of emotions. “This is all your fault! You’re responsible!!” In her mind, she pictured the man—the pitiful NEET who created an overpowered character without thinking of the consequences. “You just gave me this power… and then left…!”

  But her anger didn’t last long. Lilya drew a shaky breath, then let out a small, fragile laugh through her tears.

  “Ugh… what am I even doing, scolding another version of myself…” she murmured softly. Her hands slowly fell from her face, leaving her warm, tear-stained cheeks exposed.

  She sobbed quietly for a few more moments before her breathing finally began to settle. She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hands, erasing the remaining warmth of her tears.

  Her gaze drifted back to the status panel before her—silent, bright, and brutally honest. Her fingers trembled as they lifted—not from fear alone, but from the decision slowly solidifying in her chest.

  “…enough,” she whispered softly, yet firmly.

  With a simple motion, Lilya swept her hand to the side. The panel shimmered for a moment, then faded away silently, lines of light contracting as if it had never existed. The room was silent again, leaving only the familiar small bedroom, the wooden bed, and the morning light streaming through the window. No numbers. No titles. No visual burden forcing her to face something she wasn’t ready for.

  Lilya lowered her gaze to the wooden floor beneath her feet. Her chest still felt tight, but beneath it, something else lingered—hard, warm, and slowly forming into resolve.

  “I’m Lilya Asthon,” she whispered, as if introducing herself to the world—or perhaps to herself. “A village girl of Eldwyn. Not a character. Not an avatar. Not a tool for battle.”

  She lifted her head and stood from the edge of the bed with a steady movement—neither hurried nor hesitant. She knew now that the absurd legacy Hikaru had left her was real, and she didn’t deny its existence. It was there. Real. But it would not define her life.

  Lilya took a single step forward, then raised both hands above her head, fingers spread wide as if reaching for the invisible sky above the ceiling. Her chest expanded, her breath full, her voice released without restraint—clear, strong, and honest.

  “I will be myself!!” she shouted, her voice trembling with emotion but unwavering.

  The Sword Saint may slumber. Status may be dormant. Hikaru’s legacy may wait. For now, Lilya Asthon chose to live as Lilya Asthon—and that decision, more than any number, was her first true act of strength.