Chapter Text
Arc 1: The Forgotten Blue Shrine Maiden
Chapter 1: The Girl Left in the Temple
The first thing I noticed after reincarnating was that books still existed. The second thing I noticed was that I could not reach them. For a girl who had once lived surrounded by towering shelves and endless digital archives, this was nothing short of a tragedy of the highest order.
The temple’s small reading room was quiet at this hour, filled with the faint scent of polished wood and old parchment. Morning light filtered through the tall arched windows, casting soft gold across the stone floor and illuminating the rows of shelves that lined the walls. Each shelf had been crafted from smooth, dark wood and carved with elegant patterns of vines and flowers—beautiful, yes, but also infuriatingly tall. They were designed for adults, not for five‑year‑old children who had been reincarnated with the soul of a university student and the height of a decorative table ornament.
Balancing on the tips of my tiny toes, I braced one hand against the cool wooden shelf and stretched the other toward a leather‑bound volume resting just beyond my reach. The book’s spine gleamed faintly in the morning light, taunting me with its proximity. My fingers brushed the leather—only brushed it—and the book remained stubbornly in place, unmoved by my desperate attempts.
I glared at it with all the indignation a five‑year‑old body could muster. In my previous life, books had been everywhere: libraries with endless aisles, bookstores overflowing with new releases, classrooms stacked with reference texts, offices cluttered with manuals, and homes filled with novels in every format imaginable. Hardback, paperback, digital, illustrated, annotated—so many formats that one could easily die beneath an avalanche of them.
Which, incidentally, was exactly what happened to me.
Urano Motosu. University student. Aspiring librarian. Devoted bookworm. Victim of literature. If one had to die, being crushed by books was at least thematically appropriate.
But reincarnation had not placed me somewhere convenient. There were books in this world, yes—beautiful books, handmade books, books filled with stories of gods and magic and nobles in blue robes. Yet there were no public libraries, no bookstores, no online ordering, no digital archives, and no searchable databases overflowing with more reading material than a person could finish in a lifetime. There were only shelves. High shelves. Shelves designed by adults, for adults, and therefore deeply unfair.
I stretched again. The book did not budge.
Balancing on the very tips of my feet, I leaned just a little farther. My fingers caught the edge of the book's spine, and for one glorious heartbeat I believed victory was mine.
Instead, the world tilted.
My heel slipped against the polished floor, and I landed rather ungracefully on the stone with a soft thump. It wasn't painful—more embarrassing than anything—but the sudden exertion left me breathing harder than it should have. My chest tightened faintly, and a familiar warmth stirred beneath my ribs before fading almost as quickly as it had come.
I remained seated for a moment, glaring up at the shelf as though it had personally conspired against me.
"This," I informed the offending furniture in my most dignified voice as I stood back up to reach again, "is an unfair advantage."
The shelf, possessing all the compassion one might expect from carved wood, offered no apology.
“My lady.”
I froze. Slowly, very slowly, I lowered my arm as though I had not been attempting anything suspicious. The soft rustle of robes accompanied the voice, and when I turned, a gray‑robed temple attendant stood in the doorway. Her expression was gentle, faintly amused, and entirely too knowing for my liking. The morning light caught the silver threads woven into her sleeves, marking her as one of the attendants assigned to care for blue shrine maidens.
“Please ask next time,” she said as she crossed the room. Her steps were quiet on the polished stone floor, practiced and graceful in the way all temple attendants seemed to move. With effortless adult superiority, she reached over my head and retrieved the book I had been struggling to reach.
I accepted it with both hands and hugged it to my chest, feeling the familiar thrill of holding a book settle warmly beneath my ribs. “Thank you.”
She blinked, then smiled—a small, warm smile I still didn’t fully understand. Whenever I thanked my attendants, they reacted as though I had handed them treasure. At first I wondered if my pronunciation was strange. Then I wondered if noble children simply didn’t thank people.
That second possibility seemed increasingly likely.
Nobles, I had learned, were often very stupid. Not all nobles, perhaps—my sample size was limited—but the ones I had observed owned books and failed to appreciate them properly. Unforgivable.
“My lady, will you be reading in the garden again?”
“Yes.”
“I will prepare tea.”
“Thank you.”
There it was again—that softening of the eyes, that pleased little smile. She seemed genuinely delighted by my gratitude, though I could not imagine why. I tucked the book under my arm and followed her through the temple halls.
As we stepped into the corridor, another attendant passed us—Jenny, her arms full of folded linens. She offered me a bright smile, the kind that made her eyes crinkle at the corners. Jenny always seemed to be carrying something or hurrying somewhere, yet she never failed to greet me as though I were the most important part of her morning. I didn’t understand why she bothered, but her presence made the halls feel a little less empty.
The corridors were wide and bright, lined with tall windows that spilled sunlight across the polished floors. The white stone walls gleamed faintly, reflecting the morning light in soft hues. The air carried the faint scent of incense from the distant prayer halls, mingling with the earthy fragrance of the gardens beyond. Even the simplest objects in the temple carried traces of mana. The lamps that lit the halls glowed without flame, fed by small stones set into their bases. The priests used wands carved from ivory and crystal during ceremonies, each one humming faintly with power when lifted. I had watched them from afar, fascinated by the way light gathered around their hands. Magic existed here as naturally as breath, yet I possessed only the vaguest understanding of how it worked. No one explained such things to unbaptized children. As we walked, the quiet rhythm of temple life surrounded us: distant footsteps, the soft murmur of attendants beginning their duties, and the gentle toll of a bell marking the hour.
This temple was my entire world now—beautiful, quiet, and lonely. And as I followed the attendant toward the garden, clutching my precious book, I could not help but wonder how long it would take before I could reach the shelves on my own.
The temple was my entire world. Its white stone walls rose high above me, smooth and cool beneath my fingertips whenever I dared to touch them. Wide corridors stretched in every direction, their polished floors reflecting the golden light that spilled through tall arched windows. The windows themselves were works of art, framed in carved stone and positioned so the sun illuminated the halls from dawn until dusk. Courtyards lay beyond them, filled with carefully tended flowers whose colors shifted with the seasons. The air carried the faint fragrance of incense from distant prayer halls, mingling with the earthy scent of soil and blooming petals.
Statues of the gods stood in alcoves throughout the temple, each carved with reverence and precision. Their expressions were serene, their hands raised in blessing or guidance. I had memorized their names far faster than anyone expected, partly because the attendants taught me, and partly because I had nothing else to do. Bells rang at regular intervals, dividing the day into orderly pieces: morning prayer, midday meal, afternoon lessons, evening quiet. Their tones echoed through the stone corridors, marking time with a rhythm that became as familiar as my own heartbeat.
It was beautiful. It was quiet. It was lonely.
I had arrived here when I was very small—too small to understand anything beyond fever, crying, and unfamiliar hands lifting me from one place to another. Later, when my memories as Urano returned clearly, I pieced together what I could. I had been born a noble. Only nobles wore blue in the temple. Only those with mana mattered here. And I had enough mana that the adults treated my health with caution even while treating my existence as an inconvenience. Sometimes, when I grew too excited or too upset, a strange warmth gathered beneath my ribs—small at first, then stronger, pulsing like a heartbeat that didn’t belong to me. The attendants always noticed before I did. Their eyes sharpened, their hands stilled, and they spoke in gentle tones meant to calm me. I didn’t understand why such a small sensation caused such alarm, but their reactions made me suspect that my mana was not merely present. It was something they watched carefully.
But I did not live with nobles.
The bells did more than mark the hours. They signaled the movements of people I rarely saw. Somewhere beyond the public halls were rooms reserved for the High Bishop and the High Priest—figures spoken of with reverence and caution in equal measure. Their decisions shaped temple life, though I had never glimpsed either of them. I only knew their titles, their authority, and the way attendants straightened unconsciously whenever those names were mentioned. Even without seeing them, I understood they were part of the world I would eventually have to navigate.
No father visited me. No mother held me. No siblings came to play. No letters arrived with seasonal greetings or affectionate scolding. No gifts appeared on my birthday. No one came.
Whenever I asked why, the answers were careful and incomplete.
“Your mother arranged for you to live here.”
“It is safer this way.”
“You need not concern yourself with matters beyond your age.”
Adults loved saying that. They said it when they didn’t want to answer. They said it when the answer was ugly. Children noticed more than adults believed. I noticed the way attendants lowered their eyes when my mother was mentioned. I noticed that temple funds arrived for me—just enough for necessities, never more. I noticed that no one spoke of my father at all.
At first, I waited. Surely someone would come. Surely there had been a mistake. Surely my family would remember me. Then I turned four. Then five. Hope slowly transformed into foolishness. There were still days when hope crept back despite my better judgment.
Whenever footsteps echoed outside my rooms, I found myself glancing toward the doorway before I could stop myself. During Spring Prayer preparations, when unfamiliar nobles occasionally passed through the temple, I caught myself wondering if one of them might ask for me. Even the arrival of new deliveries sometimes sent my eyes toward the entrance, searching for a face I had never truly known.
I invented excuses for my parents with the desperation of a child who did not yet understand how absence becomes its own answer. Perhaps Mother had been ill. Perhaps Father had been away. Perhaps they simply had not been allowed to visit.
The excuses grew thinner each year.
Five years was a very long time. Long enough to write a letter. Long enough to send a servant. Long enough to ask whether one's daughter still lived. Eventually, I stopped inventing reasons on their behalf. Hope was comforting, but it was also exhausting, and I found it easier to believe I had simply been forgotten than to spend every day waiting for footsteps that never came. I had not been placed in the temple temporarily. I had been left here. Paid for, but not loved.
The thought no longer stabbed sharply. Sharp pain faded. Dull pain lingered, settling into the walls, the floors, the body. It became part of the temple’s silence, woven into the quiet spaces between bells and footsteps.
In my previous life, I had not been abandoned. My mother had loved me—scolded me, worried for me, fed me when I forgot to eat because of books. I remembered her hands: tying my hair before school, setting food beside my textbooks, pushing open my door to complain that I would turn into a book if I kept living that way. I remembered her voice, her warmth, her presence. I had thought those moments ordinary. I had thought there would always be another morning.
There had not been.
Now I lived in another world, with another name, in another body, and the woman who raised Urano existed only in memory. Perhaps that was why the temple’s silence hurt so much. I had already lost one family. Being unwanted by another felt cruel.
The garden was quiet when I arrived, wrapped in the gentle stillness that always settled over the temple grounds in the late morning. Sunlight filtered through the broad leaves of my favorite tree, casting dappled patterns across the pale stone path and the soft grass beneath it. The tree itself was tall and sturdy, its smooth trunk warm beneath my palm and its canopy wide enough to shield even the most fragile book from the sun. Someone had planted it long before I came to the temple, and I often wondered who had chosen such a perfect reading tree.
The attendant accompanying me placed a cushion beneath the shade before I could sit. She smoothed the fabric with practiced care, ensuring not a wrinkle remained.
“My lady, please mind your posture.”
I straightened immediately. “Of course.”
She offered a small approving smile before turning toward the nearby walkway. Her gray robes swayed gently as she left to prepare tea, disappearing behind a hedge of flowering shrubs that filled the air with a faint, sweet fragrance.
I opened the book resting in my lap. The pages were rough beneath my fingertips, each sheet uneven in thickness and texture. The ink had been applied by hand, leaving faint variations in color where the scribe’s brush had paused or pressed too firmly. The binding creaked softly when I shifted the book’s weight. Every book here was handmade, and therefore precious enough to make my hands tremble whenever I touched one.
There were only twenty‑three books available to me.
Twenty‑three.
I had counted. Twice.
Several were religious texts meant for young blue priests and shrine maidens. Others were hymn collections, etiquette manuals, and simple histories of the temple and its rituals. Valuable, yes. Beautiful, yes. But twenty‑three books did not make a library. It was barely a shelf.
In my old world, I had carried more books in a single electronic device than existed in this entire section of the temple. E‑books, search functions, online catalogs, digital bookmarks, and the ability to buy a novel without leaving bed—those conveniences had been so ordinary that I never imagined losing them. Now they felt like luxuries from a dream.
Paradise, lost.
I placed a hand over the page and whispered a silent apology to every library I had taken for granted. A memory surfaced—fluorescent lights humming above rows of neatly labeled shelves, the quiet shuffle of students searching for reference books, the soft thud of a librarian stamping due dates. I remembered the weight of my backpack, stuffed with borrowed novels and textbooks, and the familiar comfort of knowing I could return anytime I wished. That world had been overflowing with stories. This one held only twenty‑three books, each one guarded like treasure. The contrast made my chest tighten.
The book before me described the gods. I had read it six times already. This would be the seventh. A book read seven times was still a book, and I would read it seven more if necessary. As I read, my thoughts drifted. Books required money.
In my previous life, money had mattered only in relation to books—could I afford a new release, should I buy used, was a special edition worth sacrificing meals? Usually yes. Always yes.
But here, money was larger than that. Money determined warmth in winter. Money determined clothing quality. Money determined food. Money determined whether a child lived comfortably—or not at all.
The temple provided for me at the minimum standard. My rooms were clean but sparsely furnished. The carpets were worn at the edges. The polished furniture was old, its shine maintained through careful effort rather than newness. The attendants were capable, but there were too few of them. The meals were balanced, but plain.
No one starved. No one flourished. If I wanted more books, I needed money. If I wanted a better life, I needed money. If I wanted my attendants to live comfortably, I needed money. And if there were people worse off than us…
I stopped reading. The thought lodged itself in my chest, heavy and unwelcome.
Worse off than us.
There were parts of the temple I was not allowed to enter. I was unbaptized, too young, too sheltered, too easy to ignore. But being ignored could be useful. Adults underestimated children. Nobles underestimated servants. Everyone underestimated quiet people. That meant there was room to move. Carefully.
One courtyard in particular drew my curiosity. I had seen it only from a distance—a cluster of small buildings tucked behind the main chapel, connected by narrow walkways and shaded by tall stone walls. Attendants avoided speaking of it, and whenever I asked, they redirected the conversation with practiced ease. Their silence made the place feel heavier, as though it held stories no one wished to tell. I did not yet know what lay beyond those walls, only that it belonged to the temple and that I was not meant to see it.
In my old world, if I wanted something, I searched online, compared options, read reviews, and purchased. If I needed information, I went to a library. If I needed materials, I went to a store.
Here, everything had to be made. Everything required craftsmen. Everything required money. Everything required connections.
I had status, technically. Money, barely. Connections, none.
Which meant I needed merchants.
The thought opened a flood of memories—shopping streets lined with colorful signs, department stores filled with neatly arranged displays, convenience stores glowing at night, bookstores with shelves organized by genre and author, stationery shops overflowing with notebooks and pens and paper so smooth it made my heart ache.
Paper.
Real paper. Cheap paper. Disposable paper.
This world treated paper like treasure. My old world treated it like trash.
If I could make paper…
No. Too complicated. Too many steps. Too many tools. Too much labor. Also, I was five. Deeply inconvenient. The thought lingered just long enough for me to begin absentmindedly tracing circles across the edge of the page with one fingertip.
"My lady."
The attendant's voice drifted across the garden before I noticed she had returned. I looked up to find her watching me with quiet concern.
"You have been staring at the same page for several minutes."
"I have?"
"You have not turned it once."
I blinked down at the open book. She was right. My eyes had been fixed on the text while my thoughts wandered somewhere between paper mills, printing presses, and libraries that would not exist for centuries.
"My apologies," I admitted.
"There is no need to apologize," she replied gently, smoothing an invisible wrinkle from my sleeve. "I simply wished to ensure you had not tired yourself." The concern in her voice caught me off guard. Someone was paying attention. Not because I was useful. Not because I possessed mana. Simply because they worried. The realization settled quietly somewhere inside my heart before I returned my attention to the book. But not all ideas were impossible.
A noble girl did not need to invent paper first. A noble girl needed income. Trends created income. Fashion created income. Food created income. Small improvements created leverage.
I looked at my small hands resting atop the open book. Soft, useless for labor, but not useless for thinking. Thinking was my greatest weapon. That, and an unreasonable obsession with books.
“My lady?”
I looked up from my book. Rosina stood on the garden path, framed by the soft greenery of the temple courtyard. She carried a tea tray balanced effortlessly between her hands, moving with such practiced grace that not a single cup rattled. Sunlight caught the pale blue ribbon woven through her hair, and for a moment she looked like one of the goddesses depicted in the temple murals—elegant, serene, and impossibly composed. Rosina, my musical instructor, possessed the kind of refinement that made me feel like a messy stack of notes beside a perfectly bound volume.
“Good morning, Rosina.”
“Good morning, Lady Rozemyne.”
She knelt beside me and began pouring tea with the same precision she used when tuning her harspiel. The liquid flowed in a smooth arc, filling the cup without a single drop spilling. Watching her reminded me that beauty existed in this world—not the clean symmetry of printed fonts or the crisp lines of digital text, but living beauty. It was in the angle of her wrist, the fall of her sleeve, the quiet confidence of repetition learned through years of practice.
“Were you reading scripture again?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“For the seventh time?”
I stared at her, unsure whether I should be offended or impressed by her accuracy.
She smiled faintly. “You count your books, my lady. It seemed likely you also count how many times you read them.”
“That is confidential information.”
“My apologies.”
Her voice was solemn, but her eyes laughed. Rosina had begun teasing me lately—gently, carefully, as though unsure whether a blue shrine maiden could be teased without committing a grave offense. I liked it. It made her feel less like a servant and more like an older sister.
The thought startled me. Older sister. Dangerous territory. Families could be lost. Families could abandon you. Families could die before you said what needed saying.
“My lady?” Rosina asked softly. “Is something wrong?”
“No.” It was not a lie, but not the whole truth either. Just old pain resurfacing, quiet and persistent.
She hesitated, then set a small plate beside my tea. Two little sweets rested atop it, shaped like tiny flowers and dusted with sugar.
My eyes widened. “Sweets?”
“Jenny said you looked tired this morning.”
Of course she had. Jenny noticed everything.
“I was not tired.”
“You were reading before breakfast.”
“That is normal.”
“My lady, most children do not read before breakfast.”
“Most children waste valuable time.”
Rosina covered her mouth, shoulders trembling with suppressed laughter.
“Rosina.”
“My apologies.”
“You are laughing.”
“Only a little.”
“That is still laughing.”
“Yes.”
Despite myself, I smiled. She smiled back. Warmth spread through my chest—small, fragile, unwanted, but real. I ate one of the sweets. It was simple compared to the desserts of my old world, but sweet enough to make my eyes close for a moment. And Jenny had thought of me. That made it better.
“Rosina,” I said, “do you think Jenny would be offended if I asked how these were made?”
“Do you wish to learn cooking?”
“No. I wish to improve sweets.”
She paused, blinking slowly as though processing a statement that made no sense.
“My lady,” she said gently, “you are five.”
“So everyone keeps telling me.”
“Five‑year‑old girls do not usually improve sweets.”
“That seems inefficient.”
This time she laughed openly, a soft, musical sound that drifted through the garden like a breeze. I stared at her, startled by how freely she laughed now. She quickly composed herself. “My apologies.”
“No,” I said quickly. “Please laugh.”
She blinked, surprised by my earnestness. Heat rose in my cheeks. “I mean… it is pleasant.”
Her expression softened. “As you wish, my lady.”
The ache returned—quiet, persistent, familiar. It settled beneath my ribs like a small stone, one I had carried for so long that its weight felt almost natural. I looked toward the city beyond the temple walls, letting my gaze drift past the manicured hedges and the pale stone archways that framed the courtyard. The rooftops of Ehrenfest rose in the distance, their shapes softened by the morning haze. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, and the faint hum of distant life reached the garden in muted whispers. Somewhere out there were merchants with bustling shops, craftsmen shaping wood and metal, and storerooms filled with materials and tools I had never seen. Somewhere out there were the first steps toward building a future.
I could not wait for a family that never came. I could not rely on adults who dismissed me with gentle smiles and incomplete answers. I could not spend my life rereading twenty‑three books and pretending it was enough. If this world would not give me a library, then I would make one. Eventually.
If I wanted a library of my own someday, I would need to begin at the very bottom. First came money—enough to lift myself above the temple’s bare minimum. With money would come connections, and with connections the chance to create small goods that could be sold beyond these walls. Those goods could grow into workshops, and workshops into something larger. From there, perhaps I could learn to make paper, and once paper existed, printing would not be far behind. And with printing… books. Many books. Enough to fill shelves I could not reach even as an adult. The ambition burned bright enough to eclipse my loneliness. Almost.
“Rosina,” I said, turning toward her, “how does one contact a merchant?”
Silence followed. A very long silence. Rosina stared at me as though I had announced my intention to negotiate directly with the gods. Her hands stilled over the tea tray, and the soft breeze rustling the leaves above us seemed suddenly louder.
“My lady,” she said slowly, “why do you wish to contact a merchant?”
“To make money.”
Her expression went blank, the kind of blankness that suggested her mind had momentarily stopped processing information. The garden remained still around us, sunlight filtering through the leaves in warm patches, but Rosina looked as though the world had tilted beneath her feet.
Her face went blank. Perhaps too direct.
I folded my hands neatly, imitating perfect etiquette. “The temple provides for me at the minimum standard,” I explained. “If I wish for more books, better materials, and a more comfortable life for those around me, I require independent income. I also possess several ideas for goods that may sell well. Since I cannot leave the temple, I require a merchant intermediary.”
Rosina stared. A bird chirped somewhere in the branches above us. She pressed a hand to her forehead.
“My lady… you are five.”
“So I have been informed.”
“Five‑year‑old children do not discuss independent income.”
“That seems inefficient.”
Her mouth opened, closed, opened again. Finally, she sat beside me—unusual enough to make me blink. For several long moments, Rosina said nothing.
She lowered her gaze to the tea resting untouched between us, fingers tightening almost imperceptibly around the edge of the tray.
"My lady..." she began carefully. "Even if I wished to help, merchants do not simply enter the temple because someone asks. Blue shrine maidens rarely concern themselves with commerce, and an unbaptized child..." She hesitated, choosing her words with obvious care. "Many people would dismiss your ideas before allowing you to finish speaking."
"I know."
"You do?"
I nodded.
"They will think I am a child."
"...You are."
"Exactly."
The corner of her mouth twitched despite herself.
"They will assume I know nothing."
"They probably will."
"Then I shall simply have to prove them wrong."
Rosina studied me in silence.
There was no childish excitement in my voice, no fleeting whim that would disappear by tomorrow morning. Whatever she saw in my expression caused her own to soften little by little, concern gradually giving way to reluctant admiration.
"I cannot promise success," she said at last. "Nor can I promise that anyone will agree to meet with you."
"I understand."
"But..." She smiled, small and warm. "I can ask discreetly whether there is a trustworthy merchant willing to listen."
Only then did my excitement finally escape me. "Truly?"
She laughed softly. "Yes, my lady. Truly." She paused momentarily, then said softly, “Lady Rozemyne, where did you learn such things?”
From another world. From modern commerce. From dying once and waking in a world without enough books. But I could not say that. “I thought about it,” I said simply.
She searched my face, expecting mischief or childish fantasy. Whatever she found instead made her expression soften. “You truly wish to do this?”
“Yes.”
“For books?”
I looked at the scripture in my lap. Books were the beginning, but not the whole of it.
“For books,” I said. “And for us.”
Rosina inhaled sharply. I had not meant the words to be powerful. They simply slipped out. But they were true. I wanted books. But I also wanted Jenny to bring sweets without worrying about cost. I wanted Rosina to have proper instruments. I wanted Wilma to have paints and brushes worthy of her talent. I wanted my attendants to rest. I wanted warm rooms, full shelves, better food, and enough money that being forgotten no longer meant being helpless. Rosina lowered her eyes. Then she smiled—quiet, real.
“I do not know much about merchants,” she said. “But I can ask.”
My heart leapt. “Truly?”
“Yes. Carefully.”
“Thank you, Rosina.”
Her smile trembled. “You are welcome, Lady Rozemyne.”
I hugged the book to my chest. For the first time in a long while, the temple did not feel like the place where I had been left. It felt like the place where something might begin. Perhaps I had been abandoned. Perhaps no noble family would ever come. Perhaps I would never know why. But I had books. I had memories. I had ideas. And, without realizing it, I had people who smiled when I thanked them, worried when I looked tired, brought me sweets, corrected my posture, and laughed beside me in the garden. Maybe that was not family. Not yet. But it was something precious. Something worth protecting.
I looked toward the city and smiled. Somewhere out there were merchants. Somewhere out there were materials. Somewhere out there was the first step toward building my library. And if the gods had been foolish enough to place a book‑obsessed reincarnated girl in a world without enough books… they would simply have to endure the consequences. Thus began my first attempt to improve life in the temple.