It seems like I’ve been unconscious for quite a while.

When I opened my eyes, an unfamiliar ceiling stretched before me.

It was an old wooden ceiling. There were small holes in it, as if it had been gnawed at in several places, and cobwebs filled the corners of the room.

This wasn’t… a hospital.

If I had really collapsed from a stroke, the situation would be far more severe, and naturally, I would have been taken by ambulance to a hospital capable of treating such an emergency.

And a hospital with that kind of equipment would obviously be quite large, and a large hospital would never be this poorly maintained.

No, actually, it would be harder to find a wooden house like this in the middle of Seoul.

I blinked a few times and then slowly sat up.

Creak. The bed I was lying on groaned eerily.

My body felt light.

In fact... it felt excessively light.

The neck disc I had developed from staring at a cheap monitor with an ugly green screen that couldn’t even adjust its height was gone. The chronic back pain from bad posture was also absent.

I stretched both arms upward, and there was no stiffness in my shoulders. My vision was clear, even without glasses.

...Yeah, my body felt light. As if I had become 25 years younger.

The problem was, if I were 25 years younger, that would make me about five years old.

My line of sight was incredibly low. My body was thin and frail, and my limbs were short—far too short for an adult.

My hair was long, hanging down to my waist. When I reached out to grab a handful, it was shiny and black, looking completely out of place in this environment.

The hand I saw wasn’t that of a man who had just entered his thirties, someone on the cusp of middle age. It was a small, delicate, pale hand.

"Ah, ah."

I made a sound, just to check.

It was hard to tell if it was the voice of a young girl or a boy since it was so high-pitched, but at least it wasn’t the raspy voice of someone who smoked and drank heavily.

When I turned my gaze, I saw a group of children gathered around my bed.

Their faces were dirty, and they were all thin and malnourished. They were wearing oversized, ragged shirts that looked like they could be dresses, their mouths hanging open as they stared at me.

"......"

"......"

We all stared blankly at each other for a while. None of us knew what to say.

“Who are you?”

Finally, the tallest boy, who looked like the leader of the group surrounding me, spoke up.

The language that came out of his mouth sounded like English.

The words were simple enough for me to understand, but somehow, it didn’t feel like the English I was used to hearing.

No, was it even English?

Something about it felt slightly off.

"......"

Whether I understood him or not didn’t matter—I had no idea what to say anyway.

At first, I thought I had somehow ended up in industrial-revolution-era England.

You know those alternate history stories where someone collapses, then wakes up in the body of someone from a different era? I’m no history buff, but I’ve read enough of those kinds of novels to have a vague idea of what to expect. Reading web novels was my go-to way of passing the time during my commute.

I didn’t really have a specific genre preference, so I read all kinds of stories from various websites. Whether it was subscription-based or pay-per-chapter, if I enjoyed the free chapters, I would usually keep reading. So, while I didn’t have a proper understanding of historical knowledge, I could at least make some educated guesses about the time period based on certain cues.

From the people’s clothes and the grim atmosphere of the back alleys, I thought I had landed in the Victorian era, the time when Jack the Ripper roamed the streets.

...That assumption was completely shattered two days after I woke up in this world when I saw a flying warship passing over the alley.

It looked like a ship that had been plucked from the ocean and suspended upside down in the sky.

A strange airship, belching out black smoke as its steam-powered propellers whirred. Below the massive airship, a warship’s bridge and cannons were mounted upside down, giving the impression of a ship seen from above. The deck was made of wood, making it seem as though someone had simply hoisted a sea vessel into the sky.

In reality, the warship was looking down at us from above.

In the real world, this would be impossible. No matter how much hydrogen or helium you filled the airship with, it couldn’t lift such a heavy load. Even if it managed to get airborne, there’s no way the cannons could be used. The moment they fired, the recoil would shift the center of gravity, sending the whole thing crashing down.

Yet, the warship was soaring majestically through the sky, flanked by biplanes flying in formation as its escorts. It felt like watching a fleet parade through the sky.

When I saw that warship flying outside the window, I realized exactly what kind of world I had ended up in.

This wasn’t some web novel I had read. Not that it mattered anyway—I never even left a comment on those stories.

This was a world inside a video game.

A JRPG series I had been playing consistently for the past seven years.

Inspired by England’s Industrial Revolution, combined with steampunk and the unique touch of Japanese subculture, this game had a fanatical following among a certain subset of otaku.

I was definitely in one of the games from Millennium Corporation’s Azernian Chronicle series.

Millennium Corporation is a small company based in Osaka, Japan, with around 40 employees. As a result, the games often suffer from subpar graphics and optimization issues, leading users to complain that the visuals looked like they belonged to consoles from two generations ago.

They do make progress, but it’s slow. In comparison to other Japanese game companies from the same era, the graphics from Millennium are objectively below average.

But that’s something only non-players care about.

The fans of the series are just grateful that a new game gets released every year. In fact, the sales aren’t even that impressive—just five years ago, they didn’t even release a Korean version.

The series has a history spanning about 20 years. Initially released for PC, it suffered major losses due to piracy, which led them to move the games to handheld consoles. Eventually, they returned to home consoles, and now the games are available on PC again.

They’ve also been re-releasing older titles on modern consoles or as PC versions, consistently attracting new players despite the technical shortcomings. The distinct atmosphere continues to draw in fans.

I was roped into it by a friend about seven years ago and have bought every new release since.

And, true to the rule that the one who starts later falls harder, I became more obsessed than my friend, ordering limited edition game guides from Japanese online shops, playing the Japanese version before the Korean one was released, and even writing game walkthroughs on my blog. By the time I realized it, I had fallen deep into the game.

The series has been going for 20 years, but the lore varies. Games 1 to 5, 6 to 8, 9 to 13, and everything from 14 onward each exist in their own separate universes. Think of it as a periodic reboot, keeping the core system while changing the world each time. This allows the series to continue for 20 years without becoming too difficult for newcomers to jump into.

Experiencing the grand finale of each universe in real-time is always deeply moving.

That’s probably why I fell in love with the series seven years ago.

“......”

Anyway, that’s beside the point.

The real question is: how did a non-Japanese person like me end up in the middle of a Japanese game?

I’ve written blog posts criticizing the game’s weak cutscenes or repetitive events and dialogue. Once, I mocked a plot inconsistency, only to find out later that it was a deliberate plot device, prompting me to delete the post. I’ve even stirred up trouble on online forums when a particular character didn’t appeal to me.

...Not that I feel entirely guilt-free about it, but there’s no way a Japanese game company would have been monitoring my posts. Especially not for an imported game.

...Well, it doesn’t really matter now.

The most important thing is: what role do I play in this world, and why did I end up reincarnated as a girl?

In this world, orphanages aren’t exactly safe places, but as long as I’m not in the same place as the original heroine, I might be able to get by. If I’m lucky, I could even be adopted by a childless bourgeois family.

“Sylvia!”

I was staring up at the now-distant warship when a sharp voice interrupted my thoughts.

A gaunt old woman was approaching me. She held a crudely carved wooden cane, and though her back was hunched, the malice on her face radiated so strongly that it almost made her look energetic.

For reference, Sylvia was the name I had been given upon arriving in this world. My surname was Black.

I wasn’t originally part of this orphanage, but two days ago, I suddenly appeared, and my name was found on the roster.

When the head of the orphanage had asked where I had been hiding, I wanted to retort that maybe she just hadn’t checked the list carefully, but I kept quiet after seeing another child get beaten with that cane.

If I had the strength of a thirty-something-year-old, I could’ve easily overpowered this old woman, but now I was just a five-year-old child.

“Yes,” I answered obediently and turned toward her.

“There’s a new child. You’ll take care of her.”

Excuse me? Me?

I barely managed to keep from voicing my protest.

My natural dislike for children didn’t matter here—after all, I was a child myself.

Normally, the oldest child in the orphanage would have taken on this responsibility, but yesterday evening, a kind-looking couple had adopted that child.

"See? I’m better than all of you beggars!"

The child had taunted us with a sneer as they left, and now, I had taken their place.

“You’re the oldest one here now. And since you’ve been sneaking around unnoticed for so long, you should be able to manage something.”

That was the logic.

I nodded quietly, not wanting to argue with the old woman, who always reeked of alcohol, for fear of being hit.

I followed her down to the first-floor parlor, where a filthy child, covered in grime like the other orphans, was standing.

Despite the dirt, it was immediately obvious who the child was. Her pale skin and thick blue hair, reminiscent of the ocean, gave her away.

“This is Claire. She’ll be living here with us from now on. Take care of her.”

Or else you’ll be beaten.

That was the implication.

The child, Claire, who had been shyly looking up at me, awkwardly smiled when our eyes met.

...And in that moment, I was stunned.

Claire Fangriffon.

Both her appearance and name were exactly the same as the Claire Fangriffon in my mind.

Of course, she didn’t carry the Fangriffon surname yet.

...And she was definitely not someone I wanted to meet in an orphanage.