Starting with Frieren

"Isanze, happy birthday~! This is your birthday present from us."

"Thank you, Mom and Dad."

Sixteen-year-old Isanze accepted the gift box with a calm face but didn't bother opening it. It was just another fake thing, after all.

Her indifferent expression and drooping eyes, lacking enthusiasm for anything, were eerily reminiscent of Sere's past demeanor.

"Isanze, your hair is so long now. Aren't you going to cut it?" Ivan asked again.

Perhaps due to inheriting Serie's genes, Isanze's height had remained stubbornly short. Now, her hair had grown all the way down to her hips, making daily maintenance a likely hassle.

"No need, Dad. My hair is one of the few real things by my side. Please don't cut it."

"I'm sorry."

"Why apologize? You didn't do anything wrong, Dad," Isanze replied with a strained smile. "This is just the helplessness of fate."

Serie watched the interaction between father and daughter, taking a deep breath.

Over the years, Isanze's situation had always been a heavy burden for Serie. After all, at the root of it, she was the one responsible for this state of affairs.

"By the way, why don't you open the gift?" Ivan interjected. "Your mom went through quite an ordeal to find it."

Obediently, Isanze opened the gift. She had expected some intricate or delicate item, but instead, it was a simple drawing—a family portrait she had drawn as a child, featuring herself, her mom, and her dad.

Even in this false world, there were still traces of truth.

"Thank you... This is such a wonderful birthday gift."

For once, Isanze's smile was not as forced as before. Though tears glistened in her eyes, her expression carried a newfound sincerity.

"Isanze," Serie softly called her daughter's name, stepping forward to embrace her.

"Huh? Mom? What are you doing? I'm not a little kid anymore! I'm already sixteen!"

Whether out of embarrassment or simple surprise, Isanze flailed her arms in protest, looking endearingly awkward.

"I'm sorry, Isanze, for bringing you into this false world," Serie murmured.

Turning to Ivan, she added, "You win. This is the first time I've ever admitted defeat, but I do so wholeheartedly."

"Logically speaking, I had countless reasons not to have a child, but seeing her made me realize that some things can't be explained by reason alone."

As she spoke, Serie closed her eyes and gently stroked Isanze's silky hair, exuding a maternal warmth so intense it could almost be felt tangibly.

This display of emotion extended even beyond the space they were in, leaving Flamme puzzled in the outside world.

What's happening? Why does the teacher suddenly look so affectionate?

In reality, Serie, who had been meditating in her chair behind an anti-radiation barrier, stood up. She extended her right hand, allowing intricate magic circles to spread across the illusionary space.

Crash. Crash. Crash.

The sound of shattering glass echoed repeatedly. Each time it did, Serie's complexion grew paler.

Ending the magic forcefully while extracting Isanze from the illusion came at a great cost.

Finally, the illusion completely collapsed with a resounding crack, and three glowing orbs emerged, which Serie carefully guided out.

The golden orb fused back into her, the black one returned to Ivan, and the gray one was enveloped in layers of protective magic.

This was the daughter Serie had borne within the illusionary world—Isanze.

Or, one could say, the child conceived after a profound, long-distance union of souls.

◇

In the ancient tree of elves, Ivan slowly woke, feeling as if he'd emerged from an incredibly long and vivid dream. The line between dream and reality blurred for a moment.

"So, what's the outcome?"

Looking at the curious brunette before him, Ivan took a moment to recall.

Oh, right. It was Flamme.

"The result? It's a super jackpot," Ivan said with a grin, even reaching out to pat her head.

Flamme deftly avoided his gesture, rolling her eyes in exasperation.

Unwilling to let the matter rest, she tried to deliver her own head-pat counterattack but missed.

Beside them, Frieren, observing this exchange, mistook it for some new game and eagerly wanted to join in.

"Ahem!"

Suddenly, Serie appeared on her throne, putting an end to their childish antics.

"Let me announce the results," she declared. "The winner of this competition is Ivan. As agreed, I will grant you one request. However, keep in mind that an illusion is an illusion, and reality is reality. I hope you can distinguish between the two."

"Anything at all?" Ivan asked after a moment of contemplation.

"Yes," Serie nodded. "By the way, while I can defeat the Demon King, I can't kill him. So if you're thinking of using this wish for that, you'll be disappointed."

"The Demon King isn't worth wasting such a precious opportunity on," Ivan straightened his posture, meeting Serie's gaze without hesitation, his desire clear. "My wish is simple: make the illusion into reality."

Subtext: I want to remain your husband!

Serie lightly tapped the armrest of her chair with her finger. "Now that the illusion is over, the relationships within it should naturally end too. Understand?"

Subtext: Sign these divorce papers and stop looking at me like that. It's over between us, isn't it?

"Then I have no other requests for you," Ivan replied nonchalantly, showing no hint of disappointment. Instead, he seemed almost indulgent, as if allowing her to act capriciously. "Go ahead, cheat your way out of it if you want."

This reverse psychology was something Ivan had mastered over their years of living together. Serie, proud as she was, had no defense against such tactics.

"Unacceptable! You must make a request of me today!" Serie frowned, her tone sharp. "For instance, regarding Isanze—don't you care about her at all?!"

She seemed genuinely upset, so much so that her wounds from earlier were aggravated, causing blood to trickle from the corner of her mouth.

Flamme immediately rushed forward, but Ivan was faster, reaching Serie's side in a flash.

"Are you alright? Is it serious?" he asked, his concern palpable.

"I'll live," Serie instinctively used Ivan's sleeve to wipe away the blood. "It's just a minor injury; a century or two of rest will heal it completely. But… do you understand now, Ivan? I'm an elf, not the bookish Serie from the illusionary world."

She sighed softly, as if putting an entire world behind her. "Our time is different."