Two weeks passed since that day.

  If someone asked how I spent my time, the answer's embarrassing. I've been staring at faded papers until the words started feeling like old friends.

  Not fun friends. But friends I've met too often to ignore.

  And during those two weeks, I really pulled all-nighters. Not every night, because Mom would definitely get mad. But often enough to make thin dark circles start appearing under my eyes. The small mirror in my room never lies about things like this.

  Dad commented once with a joking tone, "Don't get sick, Sweetheart. Your mother will hang me if you fall ill."

  I just answered with a forced little laugh.

  Inside, I suspect Mom doesn't really believe I can read that book. Not because she underestimates me, but because from the outside, what she sees is just her little kid who suddenly got interested in a thick book full of heavy terms.

  Natural for her to think I'm just captivated by the heroic story alone, not its contents.

  And I never told her my reasons go deeper than that.

  And maybe, at first, she wasn't completely wrong.

  That night, as usual, I couldn't fall asleep right away.

  I sat on the bed with the history book in my lap, staring at pages I'd folded until they looked like a paper hedgehog. This book really drained my energy. Not just my brain, but also my eyes, which felt hot and sore.

  I wanted to give up.

  Honestly, my body had been begging me to stop since an hour ago. But curiosity's voice was still louder than fatigue.

  I had to know what happened next.

  I picked up the book again, sat cross-legged, and opened the next page with determination that came from who knows where.

  Okay. One more chapter. Just one. After that, I'll sleep.

  That's the false promise I always told myself.

  One chapter became two. Two became four. And before I realized it, the moon slowly sank and the sun slowly rose. The lights outside the window had gone out one by one, and the sky in the eastern corner turned pale gray.

  The world was starting to wake up, while I was just about to finish.

  I closed the book right when Mom knocked on my bedroom door. My heart almost jumped out of my chest.

  Damn. I got too absorbed in reading and lost track of time.

  "Sera."

  Not a question. Just my name. Said in a tone I knew too well. A tone that means I know you didn't sleep, and I'm giving you a chance to be honest.

  "Hnggg..." I deliberately made a hoarse sound typical of someone waking up. "I-I did, Ma. I... just woke up."

  I rubbed my eyes that felt sore, yawned wide until tears came out.

  Because of the overwhelming sleepiness, without realizing it, this small body reacted on its own. My right thumb slid into my mouth and I started sucking it gently. As soon as I realized what I was doing, I immediately pulled it back, face burning.

  "Ugh," I mumbled, annoyed at myself.

  This is ridiculous. In my previous life, I didn't have a thumb-sucking habit. Embarrassing. And this happens quite often.

  Brief silence behind the door.

  Not empty silence. Silence that's considering. I could imagine Mom standing there with folded arms, squinting at my bedroom door as if she could see through it if she focused enough.

  "Alright," she finally said. Two syllables that sounded like we'll talk about this later. "After this, shower. Don't take long."

  "Yes, Ma..." I answered weakly.

  After her footsteps moved away, I collapsed back down. My eyelids felt like they had iron weights hanging from them, and every time I blinked, it took effort to force them open again. My back was stiff, my neck made a small cracking sound when I tried to straighten my sitting position.

  But somehow... I smiled a little.

  Because that night, I got more than just an all-nighter.

  I exhaled slowly and forced myself to stand.

  Time to get up. Before Mom realizes I just lied to her.

  That day passed like going through fog.

  I showered, ate, answered Mom's questions. But everything felt like it was done by another version of me, while my mind was still stuck on last night's pages.

  At the dining table, Mom asked if I was ready to study today. I nodded, but one second later, I didn't remember what I just nodded to. I took the glass of warm milk Mom provided with both hands, sipping it slowly while my eyes were still half-closed.

  When Mom invited me to play language cards that afternoon, I sat in front of her with cards in hand, and only realized it was my turn when Mom called me twice. She looked at me with an expression I couldn't read. Not angry, not worried, but something in between.

  I couldn't answer her honestly. So I just smiled thinly and said, "Sorry, Ma. Sleepy."

  Mom didn't say anything back.

  And that silence was far heavier than any scolding I'd ever received from her. Because I know she knows, and she chose not to say anything.

  That guilt slowly settled in my chest all afternoon, like mud slowly hardening.

  I stood staring at Mom for a long time that night. My hand was already raised, ready to call her. But I finally lowered it again.

  I didn't know what to say. Sorry for lying this morning? Too small. Sorry for staying up? Too easy. And sorry for making you worry in silence, that's the closest, but also the hardest to say.

  So I went into my room, closed the door quietly, and let that guilt harden on its own in my chest.

  Night came without much warning.

  When the moon was already high and the house was already quiet, I opened my notebook. That guilt was still there, somewhere in my chest. But tonight, I chose not to think about it yet.

  I opened my notebook and started writing from the beginning. Everything I got from last night's all-nighter.

  But not about Allain this time. This time about the world itself.

  From the history book, I finally understood something the old man didn't explain clearly. The alliance formed after the meteor fell wasn't an equal alliance.

  Not at all.

  There were leaders. There were members. And the difference between the two wasn't just position. It was a deep chasm.

  My pen moved quickly across the paper, noting everything in two separate columns.

  Alliance leaders who have final say: Elves, Dwarves, and Land Devils.

  Alliance members: Humans, Monster Races, Merfolk, and several other races.

  Sounds official. Sounds orderly and organized. But the further I read my notes, the clearer it became that the word "member" here doesn't mean ally. The word "member" here means subordinate. Pawn. Resources that happen to be able to talk.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Let's take an example: Elves.

  In many people's imagination, they're the embodiment of purity. Creatures carved from light, graceful, embracing nature like a lover. This history book describes them in language that's almost worshipful. Tall, slender stature, delicately pointed ears, and eyes that supposedly can read every whisper of wind.

  Sounds like poetry, I thought while frowning.

  But I'm old enough to know that people described most beautifully are usually the most dangerous.

  And sure enough. The deeper I read, the clearer the scent of arrogance hidden behind those beautiful words.

  Elves believe they're the most special race. Feel they were created as the universe's "golden child," while other races are just accessories that don't mean much.

  I snorted quietly.

  In my previous life, I once worked under someone like that. The type who feels everyone in the room should be grateful for their presence. Annoying then, annoying now. No matter which world.

  Why is their ego that high? The reason's simple, yet deadly. They claim themselves as sole owners of pure magic. Fire, water, wind, earth. All bow in one grasp. A privilege that, according to them, no one under the sky possesses.

  And apparently that's enough to feel entitled to everything.

  I noted one interesting additional detail. Elves are divided into two branches. Regular Elves who are tall and graceful, and Fairy Elves whose size is much smaller but are actually experts in light element.

  The opposite of Devils who master dark element and fire.

  Like two sides of the same sharp coin. Black and white.

  I put down the pen for a moment and moved my fingers that were starting to stiffen.

  Outside my room, the house was completely quiet. No sound of my mom, no footsteps. Just a small hum from something like an AC in the corner of the room and the gentle rustle of pages when I turned them.

  Mom must be asleep already.

  I pulled the blanket over my lap, shifted my sitting position, and opened the next page.

  Then there are Dwarves.

  If Elves are arrogance wrapped in beauty, Dwarves are something completely different. And in my opinion, even more dangerous.

  They have no magic at all. But the book describes them as a race with extraordinary technical intelligence. Skilled at forging, designing, building things other races couldn't think of. Their bodies are strong from birth. Their brains work like calculating machines.

  I thought for a moment, *wow, sounds like a race that should be protagonists.*

  But then I kept reading.

  With all that intelligence, Dwarves found the most "efficient" way to meet their needs. I want to cross out that word 'efficient' and replace it with something more honest.

  Enslaving other races.

  Not because of hatred. Not because of fear. But because it makes sense by calculation. Why build labor from scratch when there are already other races that can be used? Why bother negotiating when physical strength and technology are enough to not need permission?

  I put down the pen for a moment.

  Elf arrogance is annoying. But at least arrogance still has emotion in it. Can still be understood as a human weakness that grew too big.

  This is different.

  This isn't emotion. This is calculation. And precisely because there's no hatred in it, that's what makes it far more terrifying.

  Without realizing it, my eyes heated up. I blinked several times, confused at myself. Then forced myself to continue.

  My notebook page was already full, so I moved to the next page.

  Member races, including humans, basically had no choice to refuse the alliance made by Elves. Join or die. There was no third option. That's one-sided coercion, not alliance. This is just conquest given a more polite name.

  And after joining? They're sent to the front lines. Made into shields. Made into first explorers in dangerous territories, while other races enjoy the results.

  Cannon fodder, the old man said back then.

  And it turns out that's completely true. It's just that humans are obedient cannon fodder on the surface. The history book mentions it in gentler language, but the meaning's the same.

  I realize why people back then seemed to dislike the Elf race. Isn't that considered a disgrace? Especially seeing humans now apparently already very advanced. That irony feels biting.

  I stood up.

  Not because there's a goal. Just because my back had been protesting for a while and my legs were starting to go numb from sitting cross-legged too long.

  I walked two steps toward the window, peeked briefly outside. Dark streets. Neighbor's house lights all already off. Sky still pitch black. No signs of morning yet.

  Still have time.

  I returned to the bed, sat in a slightly different position, and picked up the pen again.

  My pen started moving again, noting important points.

  But when I reached the part about Merfolk, my fingers stopped on their own above the paper.

  Not because I'm bored. Not because I'm sleepy. There's something different about this history book page. Something I could already feel even before really reading it.

  Maybe from how this text is arranged, which is denser than previous chapters, as if the writer wanted to finish it quickly. Or maybe from the small illustration in the upper corner of the page. A silhouette half-submerged, with hands reaching toward a surface that can't be reached.

  I closed the history book for a moment.

  I don't know why. I just needed one second to... prepare myself. Like someone taking a breath before opening a door, already knowing there's something unpleasant behind it.

  From Elves, I learned about arrogance.

  From Dwarves, I learned what cruelty that doesn't need a reason means.

  And if this pattern continues to Merfolk...

  I didn't finish that sentence in my head. I reopened the history book, took a slow breath, and forced these eyes down to the first line.

  Just continue.

  Among all member races of the alliance, there's one race whose suffering far exceeds the others. Exceeds even the suffering of the human race.

  The Mermaid Race. Or what's called Merfolk in the book.

  I stopped quite a while at this part. I even read it several times to make sure I wasn't misreading. And it turns out it's correct.

  This is worse than I imagined. Not because the language is difficult, but because the language is too easy.

  But before I continued, something bothered me. Coming from the discomfort that's been piling up.

  If this is this cruel... why is it written so calmly? Why isn't it censored? Why is the language on this page... not a historical record?

  Who wrote this book? For whom?

  And why is this section here? Written in such plain language, almost like a report, not like censored history? In my old life, textbooks always simplified things. Calling it "violence" or "labor exploitation" rather than saying what actually happened. But this book doesn't censor anything.

  This book's honesty actually feels suspicious.

  Or... and this is the most uncomfortable thing to think about... there's a party that deliberately let this cruelty be recorded. Because they don't feel the need to be ashamed.

  I swallowed. That question has no answer tonight. So I'll put it in the corner of my head for now, and return to my notebook.

  Merfolk.

  I wrote it slowly. My hand paused slightly, because what I'm about to write is too heavy. Not in the sense of hard to understand, but heavy in another sense.

  Heavy because it's vile. The next words feel like poison that must be recorded so it won't be forgotten.

  Merfolk, a race half-human half-fish, were once a peaceful race. Since the world sank, they isolated themselves, living in deep waters, far from land, and almost never interacting with other races. Until Elves and Dwarves started expanding their territorial power to the sea.

  What happened next is written coldly in that history book:

  'Merfolk do not have significant combat power compared to Elves or Dwarves. Their magic ability is limited to small water manipulation and underwater communication. However, their bodies have high economic value. Their scales can be processed into protective material, their flesh is rich in nutrients and can heal wounds, and certain organs are useful for magic potions.'

  I stopped writing.

  The room felt quieter than usual. Or maybe I just noticed it now. My small study lamp made a circle of light on the desk, and outside that circle, everything was dark. I could hear my own breathing. Could hear my heartbeat that suddenly felt too loud for a night this quiet.

  I glanced toward the closed bedroom door.

  Behind it, Mom's asleep. Doesn't know I'm still awake. Doesn't know I'm sitting here reading things that shouldn't be read by a kid my age at a time like this.

  My notebook page was already full.

  I moved to the next page.

  What I wrote there was worse.

  My pen stopped, my hand unconsciously pressing it until it almost broke.

  Extraction.

  Not murder, not massacre, but extraction. As if they're talking about mining results, not breathing creatures.

  And Dwarves are no better.

  Merfolk were used as underwater cannon fodder to detect the presence of monsters in the depths. Sent to places that can't be reached by land races. Basically, treated like autonomous submarines. Their existence only counted as far as their usefulness.

  Then there's the third part.

  The third part is the worst.

  Because Merfolk are an entirely female race!

  There are no males among them. And because their population is small due to capture by Elves, Dwarves decided that "efficiency" requires them to increase Merfolk population by force.

  Nausea rose suddenly.

  I grabbed the dolphin plushie on the side of the bed and buried my face in its fabric. The smell of cotton and faint detergent. A smell that's usually enough.

  This time, it takes a few seconds longer.

  I hugged it tighter.

  In my previous life, I would never do this. What adult man hugs a plushie when sad?

  But this small body, this body reacts in its own way.

  My tiny hands squeeze the plushie's fur. My face, still chubby, seeks comfort in the most natural way for this age.

  Sometimes I forget. even if my brain can think like an adult, this body's instincts are still a small child's instincts.

  A small girl's instincts.

  I let myself sink into the plushie's softness a bit longer.

  It's okay.

  Here, no one's watching.

  Right.

  No one's watching.

  It should be okay.

  I didn't write anything after that sentence.

  My pen just stopped, and I let it stop.

  I closed that history book.

  Took a deep breath.

  Exhaled slowly.

  I know the world is harsh. I know history is full of cruelty. In my old life too, humans had proven many times how terrible things they could do to each other.

  But reading it still makes my stomach uncomfortable.

  There's a difference between knowing abstractly and reading the details one by one in cold and efficient language.

  And again.

  That question appeared again in my head.

  Is this really what happened?

  I can't confirm it from just one book.

  But this time, there's no old man giving another version. No source for comparison.

  Just these pages.

  So for now, I'll just write what's here. While still remembering that books can also lie.

  Like adults who like to say, "This is for your own good." But sometimes they're actually lying.

  And Merfolk ended up like that.

  The history book calls them by a sad title.

  "Living corpses."

  Because they, from birth, only carry out tasks and die.

  Living not for themselves.

  Living only as tools and to satisfy other races' lust.

  Their fate is truly pitiful.

  I opened my notebook and wrote one sentence under the name Merfolk:

  The race that suffered most. Don't forget.

  I don't know why I wrote that.

  But it feels important to note.

  Done.

  I stretched my body.

  And unplanned, a small, high-pitched yawn escaped from my mouth.

  I immediately covered my mouth with the back of my hand, a bit startled.

  That sound.

  My own voice still sounds strange sometimes.

  So cute.

  But I don't want to sleep yet.

  There's still one more thing I haven't finished reading.