Wait, What You Mean I Got Reincarnated As A Heroine In Another World? Chapter 146 - 123 - Realm

And as usual, when I fell asleep...

There’s nothing. Not even a flicker of a dream. No floating castles, no sudden plot twists, not even the courtesy of a boring train ride in dreamland. Just... void.

"So this is... what it feels like to live without your real body."

Right now, it’s as if I’m stuck in so collapsed dinsion where ti doesn’t bother ticking. I’m sitting alone in a dimly lit room — the kind where the shadows feel heavy enough to press against your skin.

And yes, I can’t see anything, yet I can feel the outline of the space, as if my fingertips could trace the air itself. Or maybe I’m "seeing" with my inner eye — whatever that ans.

But sothing feels... off. Not the usual quiet emptiness. It’s like the stillness has a heartbeat.

Could it be that sothing’s nagging at ?

Like soone’s been rifling through my personal treasures. The thought irritates , but also... worries . If Selene wanted to, she could just—

No.

I don’t exactly believe in God, but if He was real, I’m convinced He’s the kind who likes to prank people at the worst possible mont.

"...Wait. Could it be that drawing she opened?"

My favorite drawing — the one I’ve never sent to my favorite mangaka because, well... there’s only so much second-hand embarrassnt my soul can survive.

And yes, it’s a doujin. The jewel of my private collection. I’ve made stacks of manga fanart over the years, bound into neat little books.

The rest? Just waiting to be published. Sotis I rope in my classmates to promote them. If money cos in, I give it to them. Honestly, it’s never been about the cash. For , it’s always been about the craft, the rush, the experience.

But if she saw it? That would be catastrophic. That’s my best work — the crown jewel of my secret vault.

Even my mom doesn’t know. I’ve been drawing doujin like that since I was twelve, and not once have I slipped up.

That’s why, earlier, when I caught Helena paneling her scenes so effortlessly, I recognized the spark instantly. She’s the type who could lose herself in manga creation for days without noticing the sun has moved.

If I told her, we could probably collaborate. But... if Selene saw it?

Yikes.

She can’t draw to save her life — I’ve seen her grimoires. The notes look like they were attacked by caffeinated spiders. Compared to Helena, and I say this with zero malice, Selene’s skills are... well, she’s on a different mountain entirely, and not the art one.

Full-ti doujin artist, part-ti doctor. Heh.

So I once read online floats through my head, and I can’t help but smile.

...Actually, speaking of drawing, could I do it here?

I close my eyes, summon the image of the object I want, and translate the thought into Nordic. The air shifts, a faint hum fills the space, and then—

Oh. This is... a stationery set?

But—

Hm. It’s still in soul form. Like the ghost of a pencil and paper, shimring faintly, as if it’s been plucked out of reality and dragged here into this stubbornly dreamless place.

Right now, I’m sitting on a cloud. Or sothing that’s trying really hard to be a cloud — soft enough to cradle , but with a strange, weightless tension beneath the fluff. Honestly, it’s the best bed in the world. Too bad I’m not sleepy in the slightest.

This is the place where I hide things. Where I keep the parts of I’m not ready to share — even with myself.

"Best bed in the world" might be overselling it... but still.

I reach for the soul-pencil. My fingers pass through it like it’s made of warm mist, but the mont I grip it with intent, it solidifies.

Oh, it works.

The texture is like cotton spun into graphite, soft yet firm, gliding across the "sky ceiling" in clean, deliberate strokes. The line doesn’t fade; it glows faintly, as if my thoughts are burning into the fabric of this place.

I call on my Visualization subversion again, the world around holding its breath.

But now cos the hard part — the question I’m almost afraid to answer.

What’s the perfect thing to draw?

Honestly, I’ve got no idea what to draw, but maybe I could at least do sothing useful for now. Sitting here in this strange, weightless nowhere, my mind is just throwing shapes and symbols at like an impatient child demanding attention.

So, I start simple.

First, I draw an arrow. Then I give it a destination — a line pointing sowhere. A circle cos next, perfectly smooth, and without even thinking about it, I begin connecting each point together with crisp, deliberate strokes.

The mont the last line ets, my chest tightens.

"...Wait. Isn’t this...?"

Kabbalah.

The Tree of Life.

I never planned to draw it — it just ca to , like a whisper too quick to catch. But now that it’s here, glowing faintly against the "sky ceiling," the sight is... unsettling. The proportions, the alignnt, the interwoven lines — they’re too precise, almost unnervingly faithful to the real thing. I didn’t trace this, but it looks like I did.

I shut my eyes for a mont. "Okay, let’s do sothing else before I start summoning ancient problems."

The thought shifts, almost without my permission, to sothing I’ve been half-curious about ever since I got here: the "Witnesses of Primordials," or whatever they were called. I can’t help it. My mind nudges my hand forward.

I start drawing a person.

Just a person. That’s safe, right?

An oval for the head. A jawline sketched with gentle, angular curves. The slope of the shoulders. The basic skeleton of the body — hips, torso, legs. Then the clothing: long robes, the faint suggestion of intricate folds, and finally... a rectangle around the figure.

I lean back. Sothing about it feels... familiar.

A magician?

The word slips out before I can stop it.

No, it’s more than that. This isn’t just so fantasy wizard with a pointy hat — there’s weight in the stance, a strange authority in the way the figure holds themselves. I recognize the framing now.

It’s a tarot card.

But it’s not just a tarot card. There’s a deeper layer to it, sothing that brushes the back of my mind like an old mory I never actually had.

Archetypes.

I rember now — Carl Jung’s theories, the ones about universal symbols and the collective unconscious. I don’t pretend to be an expert, but the idea has always fascinated .

One of my colleagues in psychology was obsessed with it. Every ti a conversation even brushed up against personality theory, she’d take off like a rocket, passionately unpacking the symbolism behind everything from fairy tales to corporate logos.

And now here I am, floating in a cloud-bed in so strange dinsion, accidentally reproducing two of the most symbolically loaded images in human history without aning to.

Which... probably says sothing about . Sothing I’m not sure I want to think too hard about.