In this era, reincarnation was nothing out of the ordinary—just an average high schooler getting hit by a dump truck on the street. Some might wake up in romantic, fascinating worlds to live fulfilling lives, while others would plunge into realms of sorrow and despair.
But still—becoming a woman? That was taking it too far.
Gender-swapping wasn’t exactly rare these days; if anything, it was a popular trope. Yet when it happened to you? It stung.
Why?
Because he’d died a virgin.
Never having tasted the joys of manhood, was he now forced to experience womanhood first? How tragic. After nearly thirty years of life… not once had he indulged in pleasure with a woman.
Life was so unfair. Looking back, his struggles felt like a joke. Always waiting to buy a house and car before gaining the confidence to date—only to be crushed by a dump truck out of nowhere.
Too tragic.
Far too tragic.
Yet standing before the floor-to-ceiling window, gazing at the silver-haired, crimson-eyed girl in the mirror, she felt… maybe it wasn’t such a bad deal.
Gem-like eyes. Flawless skin. A face too pretty for words. As an utterly ordinary man in his past life, he’d never had the vocabulary to describe such beauty. But "gorgeous" certainly fit.
So this was the "body-snatcher" type of transmigration.
As a modern soul, he knew the tropes: rebirth as a newborn, as a bullied sixteen-year-old, or—like him—into a five- or six-year-old child.
But why was a mere child this adorable?
A satisfied smile spread across her face. Seeing that same smile reflected in the mirror made her heart skip. *Oh no—I’m going to die from my own cuteness.*
It took effort to tear herself away from the mirror. As she did, fragmented memories surfaced—sparse, yet clear enough.
*Lilithia.*
That was her name.
A surname? Only nobles had those. The moment she’d seen her silver hair, she’d suspected it: this was a world of magic.
Nobles and commoners. Mages. Sages and Heroes. Sword Saints and Holy Maidens—all the fantasies of legend likely existed here.
Though… maybe it was just a child’s storybook? No, magic was real. Proof?
A faint crimson glow flickered at her fingertips.
The most basic fire spell—barely even "beginner" level. A harmless little flame any street kid could conjure.
The sensation was uncanny. Merely *thinking* of raising her hand made it rise. Wishing for flame birthed flame.
*Lilithia.*
Once the novelty faded, harsh realities set in.
As a girl. As a commoner. Even a fool could guess her fate. Novels he’d read flashed in his mind: protagonists who lazed through their new lives until disaster struck, revealing their helplessness. But being reborn as a child held one advantage—adult discipline applied to a child’s journey.
She could stay steps ahead. Talent or luck might let others catch up eventually, but during these formative years, she’d shape herself deliberately. No regrets.
She had no intention of marrying.
At six years old, she knew girls here married at sixteen. With looks like hers? Some noble would likely snatch her up as a "non-decorative" maid for… certain duties. Becoming a proper wife? Impossible.
Truth was, she had zero desire to submit to any man. Yet every glance at her silver-haired, crimson-eyed reflection sparked an urge to *tease* that girl—even though it was herself.
*If I feel that way… others will too.*
Her memories held no clues about the transmigration itself.
*I am Lilithia!*
She drilled the name into her mind. At least she’d respond when called. She had no idea how this world viewed body-snatchers—would the Church hunt her for exorcism? Rebirth was a protagonist’s privilege. With hard work and training, she could still become the strongest.
*Please… let this world not be too cruel.*
When she finally felt ready, she pushed open the door. Following fragmented memories, she glanced back at the tiny wooden hut she’d left. Poor? Not exactly. Just… ordinary.
This start wasn’t so bad. No blood feuds or national tragedies—her average heart was grateful. Though vigilance remained key. Trouble could strike anytime.
There was no going back. Unlike some transmigrators in stories, she had no desperate reason to return.
Only her parents lingered in her thoughts. But… she doubted she had the grit to become the world’s strongest. Or the luck to find a way home.
*Still… there must be a reason I came here.*
Holding that thought, she entered a steam-filled room.
Heat blasted her face the moment she opened the door. Lilithia stumbled back, barely avoiding scalding vapor. Only when the steam cleared did she step inside.
"Lilithia!" A gruff voice called out. A burly man stood by a cooling trough, tweezers gripping a blackened iron block. He set it down, startled. "What are you doing here? You hate this place."
Her father in this life. A humble blacksmith. He forged the village’s plows, tools, trinkets—even practice swords for students.
"I… want to learn."
She mimicked a child’s tone, guilt twisting inside. She’d stolen this girl’s body. Whatever happened to the real Lilithia, she was gone.
Calling him "Father" felt impossible. *Pathetic. Almost thirty, and still this immature.*
The man blinked. "But you’ve always hated it! Lilithia, you’re a *girl*!"
"Can’t… girls… learn smithing?"
"Well… no, I suppose not. I’ve heard of master craftswomen—women excel at forging magic weapons, their touch is so precise… Blast it, why am I telling you this?"
He studied her face, searching for childish whimsy. But her expression was calm. Too calm.
That stillness chilled him. This child understood what being a blacksmith meant. She knew her future.
Unbelievable. In his daughter’s eyes, he saw not a naive girl—but an adult’s resolve.
"It’ll be hard work, Lilithia."
She shook her head. To avoid a mediocre life, she needed a skill. Even one as ordinary as this.
It would keep her alive.
For adults, dreams were luxuries. Survival came first. Here, she couldn’t even fend for herself.
"I’m not afraid."
"You’ll get dirty and grimy. Won’t be cute anymore~"
Lilithia froze. Bitterness flickered across her face. "*Cute*…?" What good was cuteness?
It only made her prey. Countless stories proved it: beautiful girls without power waited for heroes to save them—and paid with their bodies and souls.
She refused.
Seeing that resolve, the man’s sternness melted. Any parent would swell with pride when their child embraced their craft.
He threw his head back and laughed. "Then watch closely, Lilithia! Memorize my movements! Memorize my words! This won’t be easy!"
Lilithia nodded.
This was Day One for Lilithia the transmigrator. Her new life began not with destiny’s fanfare, but in a nameless village’s smithy.
What changes would this world see because of her?
