Thousands of years before the current age, in an elven village deep within the ancient forest, a girl is born.

  “So cute,” one of the nurses says as the doctor delivers the baby to her mother.

  The baby doesn’t cry. The doctor gives her a light tap, but she only stirs quietly. Still, her breathing is steady — calm, almost too calm for a newborn.

  “Here is your baby. It’s a girl,” the doctor says, handing her to her mother.

  Her parents decided to name her Gravielle.

  The name came from the day she was born — when the doctor, startled and exhausted, accidentally slipped her from his hands.

  But instead of falling… the infant floated gently in the air.

  From that moment on, everyone knew this child was touched by something beyond nature.

  The daughter of the hero himself.

  The air was filled with joy… except for the hero.

  In his heart, he had wished for a son — a future warrior to inherit his legacy.

  Bound by the same chain of obedience that ruled him since childhood, he followed tradition and acted indifferent to the infant.

  Even as her tiny eyes reached for him, he looked away — not out of hate, but out of duty.

  But his wife’s joy softens him. Though indifferent at first, the hero eventually learns to love his daughter. Over time, he begins to doubt his old ideals. Still, his way of showing love remains… different.

  As she grows, he treats her not as a delicate child, but as something in between — not quite daughter, not quite heir, just someone who must be strong.

  While other children played with dolls or chased fireflies, Gravielle spent her days surrounded by scrolls and spellbooks.

  In her free hours, practiced magic instead of learning the language of laughter.

  The hero treated his daughter with a mix of pride and restraint — affection, yes, but always bound by duty.

  She grew quiet and thoughtful, speaking little. Most of her companions were the village elders, for the other children were busy learning the human language.

  In that era, elves and humans were still learning how to endure one another.

  Most young elves studied the human language to prepare for future generations — to coexist, to adapt.

  But Gravielle was different.

  She was tasked with mastering the ancient tongue, to become a bridge between the old ways and the new villages.

  Duty, obligation, and discipline — those were all she was taught, shaped entirely by her father’s ideals.

  The hero feared that, being a girl, she might lack the resolve expected of a warrior.

  Her father often watched in silent awe, though unease coiled tightly within his chest. Her ability was extraordinary — yet still, in his eyes, it did not compare to what he had achieved at her age.

  So he trained her harder, not out of cruelty, but out of the belief that strength must erase weakness.

  Each day, her father trained her to one day inherit his title.

  Many elves disagreed, whispering that a hero’s mantle was not meant for a girl. But the father never wavered.

  “She will become a hero,” he declared. “Not because she’s my daughter — but because strength has no gender when it's about protecting others.”

  The council elders frowned.

  “Her unique skill is levitating small stones,” one muttered. “That hardly makes a savior.”

  The hero smiled faintly, already crafting his answer.

  “Well,” he said, scratching his chin, “give her time — she’ll lift boulders soon enough. Or at least swing a big sword while she tries.”

  The hero’s reputation was at stake, so he did what he must — even if it meant exhausting the elders themselves. It took three meetings before the council relented — not out of agreement, but out of exhaustion. They had learned one thing about the hero: he never yielded.

  —------------------------------------------------------

  “Dad, I’m done reading,” the girl said, closing the old elven tome.

  “Good,” her father replied with a faint smile. “Then let’s train with the bow.”

  Her movements were elegant — the string drew taut with flawless precision, her aim unwavering. She moved with the poise of a dancer and the focus of a seasoned warrior. Yet, what truly set her apart wasn’t her archery or swordsmanship, but the quiet hum of mana that surrounded her — a magic far too refined for her age.

  Her power was mesmerizing… yet unnatural. Even among the others at her age, none could rival her. She outshone the young men in combat trials and earned the respect of both boys and girls her age.

  Elves her age wanted to be near her constantly, but her lack of social skills drove most away. She wasn’t one to smile often, and when she did, it was an odd, unsettling smile. Over time, she became more of a distant figure—a celebrity admired from afar rather than a peer to be known.

  But as the seasons passed, that quiet pride in The hero's heart grew heavier with worry — and so did the girl’s questions.

  She would watch the village from her window at night, seeing candlelight flicker in the homes where laughter and song filled the air. Birthdays, celebrations of life — yet she had none.

  “Why don’t I have one?” she murmured to herself.

  And deep down, she knew. A faint, unshakable feeling told her she didn’t truly belong. It was as if she had been placed here — not born, but constructed. Programmed to live a life she didn’t choose.

  Still, she kept those thoughts buried. She feared that speaking those thoughts aloud might shatter the bond she cherished most. Her father wasn’t just her world — he was the world. His voice steadied her, his approval kept her breathing. Somewhere deep inside, she knew it wasn’t right to depend on someone so completely, to need him the way she did. But she couldn’t stop. She developed an emotional dependency that she didn't realize completely, making this situation harder for her development as she grows up.

  —-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  “She’s growing so fast, but I don’t see progress,” The elf hero muttered one night, his gaze lost in the flickering firelight.

  “Sweetheart,” his wife said gently, resting a hand on his shoulder, “she’s ahead of every child her age. Maybe even stronger than a few of the elders.”

  He exhaled, heavy with thought. “But she’s not hero caliber yet.”

  “And what makes someone ‘hero caliber,’ exactly?” she asked with a teasing smile.

  “Good question, honey — but you and I know it takes a broken skill. Like me. I have—”

  “An item is not a broken skill,” she interrupted, amused.

  “Yeah, yeah, you got me,” he chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “But I’ve got divine blood, that counts for something, right?”

  She only shrugged, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Maybe. Or maybe you’re just lucky.”

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  He laughed, and for a brief moment, the worries faded with the crackling fire.

  —---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  That same year, the elves forged a pact with the humans — a promise of peace and unity, sealed by shared bloodshed. Together, they would march against the demon lord.

  News from the humans arrived: the demon lord had destroyed the eastern elf village. Fearing the same fate for his own people, the hero acted without hesitation.

  He readied his warriors for battle. Despite his wife’s desperate pleas, he made a single, unwavering decision — their daughter would go with him.

  “You’ve lost your mind!” his wife cried, clutching the girl tightly.

  “He’s ready to—”

  “He?” she snapped, cutting him off. “She may be strong — maybe everything you hoped for — but she’s still a child!”

  Gravielle stood frozen between them, the firelight flickering across her pale face. She didn’t understand all their words — only the tremor in her mother’s voice, the way her tears wouldn’t stop.

  Gravielle wondered why her mother was crying — and why her father’s silence felt heavier than any weapon he carried.

  For the first time, she found the courage to speak — not because she was fearless, but because her curiosity outweighed her fear. Maybe her father wasn’t who she thought he was. Maybe he would listen. She had always believed that people revealed their true selves in the worst moments, and she prayed this wasn’t one of them.

  “Dad,” she said, her voice trembling yet eager, “look — I can levitate heavier objects now.”

  Levitating multiple knives and droplets of water, she raised her hands, focusing with all her might as the stones around her lifted and spun lazily in the air. It wasn’t just a display of progress; it was her attempt to protect her mother from his rising anger — to show him she was strong enough, useful enough, to go with him.

  Usually calm, she could not maintain her composure now; her heart ached. She didn’t know if she was proving her strength… or silently begging for his love.

  Her father’s expression twisted. “What!?” he shouted — his voice bursting with power, the sheer force of his aura knocking her to the floor.

  Gravielle froze, trembling as he glared down at her. “Levitation? That’s all you can do?” His tone cut sharper than any blade. “Damn it, girl — focus on something useful. Start training with lightning next time.”

  Her lips quivered, her breath shallow. He hated weakness. He’d told her countless times: Heroes don’t cry.

  “Remember,” he said, voice lowering to something colder, heavier, “in war, there’s no mercy. And now I see why your mother was against you joining us — you’re strong, but your heart is still fragile. You must fix that. Weakness isn’t allowed.”

  Then he turned and left the house.

  The door closed, and with it, the last warmth in her chest faded. All she could do was obey by detaching the few emotions she has.

  It was the last time her mother saw her smile.

  —----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  Two years after the war began. What lingered in everyone’s minds was the fact that Gravielle hadn’t gone to war, and the combined forces of humans and elves had failed to defeat the Demon Lord’s army. The hero elf had fallen.

  Now, most of the elves turned their eyes on Gravielle. With their village’s face and protector gone, expectations—and blame—rested squarely on her shoulders. Humans, too, began to question their pact, declaring they would no longer defend the elven village until further notice.

  In the tomb of her father—or what remained of him—Gravielle stood silently. She did not cry. She simply gazed ahead, her expression unreadable, her eyes dim but calm. Somewhere deep inside, she thought that her father would be proud of her—for holding herself together even in his graveyard.

  A group of men arrives from the human lands. They claim to have come to investigate the elves and “offer protection.” With the elders' fear they allow the reluctant permission, humans decide to take Gravielle with them — as payment for peace.

  “Gravielle… we’re sorry to let you go,” the oldest elder says, his voice trembling. “But it’s the best for the village. Your duty now is now to get in the human civilization and represent the race elf.”

  Gravielle only nods.

  Deep inside, she feels something strange — a quiet sense of freedom. Her mind, once locked in a cage of duty and expectation, starts to loosen its chains. She had always been afraid to speak her thoughts to her father, afraid to say when she disagreed. Silence had turned her into a machine.

  Now, she thinks maybe this path will let her breathe.

  But humans are no different. They see her only as the hero’s daughter — a weapon to be honed, not a girl to be understood. They train her ruthlessly, believing she must carry hidden power in her blood.

  Her identity is shattered. As a future agent of the kingdom, she’s treated not as a person, but as property to be maintained. As any agent of the kingdom every year their info is changed, her name is changed. Her records are rewritten. New documents, new birthplace, new past.

  Humans, though, must also update their information, yet deep down they remember who they are. Their families remind them; their brief lives leave memories intact. She, however, had no roots to anchor her past. And with a lifespan stretching across millennia, the weight of forgetting would only grow heavier with time.

  No one ever questions it. No one ever remembers who she really was.

  For her, it becomes a quiet nightmare — she looks in the mirror and doesn’t recognize the name on her badge, doesn’t even know which version of herself she’s supposed to be. To the world, she’s just another agent. But deep down, she knows… she’s a ghost built from lies.

  “This year my name is yin.” she speaks to herself “Again… without breaks,” she sighs in her ancient elven tongue. Her sentences are short but precise.

  —----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  During her first years, she was sent alone into dungeons, facing beasts in the lower levels—sometimes hungry, sometimes bruised, sometimes barely awake from exhaustion. Days blurred into one another.

  Yet she did not break.

  The kingdom was harsh, even cruel, but it gave her something her father never had: time. Time that belonged solely to her. Time to do as she wished, without bending to her father’s expectations.

  The hardest question remained: what was it that she truly yearned for?

  Even if six of seven days are swallowed by work and training, the last one belongs to her alone.

  And on that day, she sits quietly on her bed — no sword, no orders, no expectations. Just silence.

  Silence, and the faint, uncertain feeling of being alive.

  The knights notice her during her free days. She orders food and lies on the bed, doing nothing more. She doesn’t live the life anyone expected — not the life a hero’s daughter should live. The knights worry about her training and send word to the high-ups.

  —----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  During the council of mages:

  “What can we do? She’s not progressing,” one mage asked, exasperated.

  “More work isn’t the answer, obviously!” another snapped.

  “She isn’t suffering enough in the lower dungeon levels. But if we send her to higher floors, there’s a real risk she could die,” a third added.

  “Why should we care? Better she dies with a chance of advancing than stays stuck in mediocrity,” a fourth says coldly.

  “Because that would waste all the time we spent on her!” another argues.

  The council grows divided over the girl’s future. Some argue for harsher measures, others for patience.

  “She’s really good at magic,” one elder finally admits, “but she’s like most of our best mages — nothing more. But perhaps we can find a solution if we maintain our mind’s open”

  Between the heated comments, the council finally agreed on a middle ground: she would get more work, but in a different way. During her free days, they decided she would take classes in the kingdom — a little of everything: cooking, Human language, human history, astronomy, mathematics, engineering, even human languages. They wanted to see what she might progress toward.

  Cooking was a disaster. Eggs cracked, chicken burned, and somehow she managed to make even soup look like an abstract painting.

  History didn’t interest her. She barely listened, but somehow the information stuck anyway.

  Mathematics, however, surprised her. She was good at it. Numbers felt safe, logical — a way to exercise her mind without moving her body.

  But nothing captivated her like astronomy. The stars, the planets, the vastness of it all — it felt magical in a way that magic itself never had. For once, she forgot her exhaustion, her training, her duty. For once, she felt small in a comforting way, rather than pressured.

  The sky became something she could explore without rules. And Yin, for the first time in a long time, felt a spark of wonder that belonged only to her.

  The classroom buzzed with chatter, but Yin sat quietly in the back, her hands folded. The professor, a tall human with wild white hair that looked like it had been struck by lightning one too many times, slammed a hand on the desk.

  “Silence, everyone! Welcome to the wonders of the cosmos!” he boomed. “Today, I will show you things that will make your hearts race and your minds explode!”

  The students murmured nervously, unsure whether he was serious. Yin tilted her head, unimpressed at first — she had seen enough chaos in dungeons and battlefields.

  But then the lights dimmed. A giant holographic projection of the night sky unfolded above them. Stars swirled, galaxies spun, and distant nebulae pulsed with color. Yin froze.

  “Behold!” the professor continued, gesturing wildly. “Our universe is vast — unimaginably vast. Trillions of stars, countless planets, some like Earth… some stranger than your wildest dreams. Out there, worlds exist that you cannot even imagine. Entire civilizations might live or die while we sit here, unaware!”

  Yin’s eyes widened slightly. The stars seemed to hum. Even without magic, she felt it — a quiet pull, a rhythm that echoed something deep inside her.

  “Some of you will chart planets. Some will study the storms of stars. Some might even discover what lies beyond the edge of the galaxy. But most importantly,” the professor leaned closer, eyes gleaming, “you will feel small. You will understand your place. And only then can you dream big enough to reach the stars themselves!”

  The other students exchanged nervous glances. Yin didn’t move. She could barely speak due to not knowing the language, only felt her chest tighten in awe. The universe — endless, brilliant, something inside was calling her.