Starting the Strategy from Frieren

Within the ancient elven tree, Flamme noticed that Serie, who had been eloquently recounting events, suddenly fell silent. Unlike Ivan, who had completely lost consciousness, Serie's formidable mental strength made her akin to an enterprise-grade multicore server, effortlessly multitasking across different bodies.

She seamlessly managed the discrepancies in time flow between individuals, recounting their battle with precision—even though only half an hour had passed in the ancient elven tree while ten years had elapsed elsewhere.

However, just as she began describing Ivan fishing, Serie's expression grew strangely complicated. Her narration abruptly stopped. Agitated, she shifted her posture frequently, her toes curling nervously as a blush slowly spread across her flawless face. Her lips pressed tightly together, as if she was fighting back some emotion or urge.

Eventually, her body relaxed, but her expression remained oddly conflicted.

Flamme, observing this, began to doubt his own imagination. Serie's current expression bore a disturbingly uncanny resemblance to Ivan's face when Flamme once accidentally witnessed him… pleasuring himself. It was a mixture of wistfulness and regret.

No, no, no! Flamme shook his head. Even as a fantasy, this was far too absurd. How could his teacher possibly…?

Time in the illusion continued to flow, and soon, Serie's belly swelled with life. Ten months later, she gave birth to a baby girl with no complications.

"Isanze. That shall be your name," Serie murmured, extending a finger toward the infant in her arms. The tiny hand grasped her finger tightly, as if content with the name.

"Isanze… It means 'scythe' in German?" Ivan asked, raising an eyebrow. "Well, I suppose it carries a certain symbolism."

Having spent hours deliberating over dozens of names, Ivan decided to accept Serie's quick choice and stopped overthinking it.

"So, how does it feel to be a mother?" he asked, wrapping his arms around Serie and inhaling the faint fragrance of her hair.

"Don't bother me while I'm nursing," Serie said curtly, pushing him away. She turned her full attention back to Isanze, her face softening into a faint smile.

But even then, her words were as stubborn as ever. "Mammalian females secrete hormones after childbirth that allow them to instinctively care for their offspring. That's all this is. If those hormones are absent or insufficient, it can lead to postpartum depression. So, my feelings toward her aren't anything special."

"That's not necessarily true," Ivan countered. "If maternal love is purely hormonal, then what about paternal love? I'm not secreting any strange hormones, yet I feel strongly for her."

Serie nodded slightly. "That's why I say maternal love is emotional, while paternal love is rational."

"Emotions and rationality aren't mutually exclusive," Ivan argued. "They're proportional. Maternal love might lean emotional, and paternal love might lean rational, but surely there's something more to it—unique feelings that can't be explained by biology alone."

Serie didn't reply. Lowering her gaze, she fell silent, her demeanor shifting into that of a stoic, emotionless nursing machine.

Little Isanze grew up healthy and cheerful, quickly reaching kindergarten age. Her personality was bright and lively.

One day, however, she returned home in low spirits. Serie was seated on the sofa, engrossed in a book. Without looking up, she asked casually, "What's wrong?"

"Mom!" Isanze cried, running into her arms. Her face was filled with hurt. "The kids at kindergarten are ignoring me. Even the teacher won't talk to me. Am I being bullied?"

Serie closed her book with a sigh. "As expected, it's starting to break down."

The illusion spell, after all, wasn't perfect. The tightly constructed world had begun showing cracks ever since Ivan realized it was an illusion. Now, with the birth of a new life outside the illusion's original ecosystem, the system had developed bugs. It had deteriorated to the point where the NPCs could no longer interact with Isanze.

"You don't need to worry about those people," Serie said matter-of-factly. "They're all fake. Apart from you, me, and Ivan, everything in this world is an illusion."

"Fake? Mom, what are you talking about?"

"It's hard to accept, I know. But it's the truth. Let me give you examples: Aunt May from the shop downstairs, April who always plays with you, Wednesday who loves snacks, even your kindergarten teacher—they're all illusions. They have no emotions, no sense of self. They're just tools to keep this world running."

"I… I don't understand. How can they be fake? I can see them, touch them, play with them. How could they possibly not be real?"

For a child, being told that everyone she knew was a virtual character was a devastating revelation.

But Serie had no choice. If she didn't tell Isanze the truth, the neglect from others would lead her to doubt herself, potentially causing a mental collapse. Better to redirect her doubts outward—toward her friends, her teachers, even her parents. As long as she didn't doubt herself, her mental state could endure.

"If you don't believe me, do an experiment," Serie suggested. "Go outside and try talking to or touching anyone you see. See if anyone responds. But be back before dinner."

Isanze hesitated but eventually left. She didn't return until six in the evening, her small shoulders slumped, looking like a drenched chick.

Serie felt an unfamiliar, sharp pain in her chest. It was as though something had taken a bite out of her heart.

From that day on, Isanze grew quieter, even as she continued to attend school. There, she became like a ghost—seen by none, acknowledged by none, yet undeniably present.

Time flowed relentlessly. As Isanze grew older, Serie and Ivan began to age.

For Serie, this was an entirely new experience. As an elf with an infinite lifespan, natural death was merely a concept. Feeling her body weaken, tasks that once came effortlessly now required significant effort. Even walking a few extra steps left her breathless.

Only now did Serie understand why humans clung so desperately to their youth, rushing to experience life. Their busy, fleeting lives were hurried—but they were also fulfilling.