Starting the Strategy from Frieren

"Isanze, happy birthday~! Here's your present from us."

"Thank you, Mom and Dad."

Sixteen-year-old Isanze accepted the gift box with a calm face but didn't bother opening it. It was just another fake thing, after all.

Her indifferent expression and downcast eyes, devoid of enthusiasm, were eerily reminiscent of Serie's past demeanor.

"Isanze, your hair's gotten so long. Aren't you going to cut it?" Ivan asked.

Perhaps due to inheriting Serie's genes, Isanze remained stubbornly short. Her hair, however, had grown all the way down to her hips, making it likely a hassle to maintain.

"No need, Dad. My hair is one of the few real things in my life. Please don't cut it."

"I'm sorry."

"Why apologize? You didn't do anything wrong, Dad," Isanze replied with a strained smile. "It's just… the helplessness of fate."

Serie watched the exchange in silence, taking a deep breath.

For years, Isanze's existence had weighed heavily on Serie. After all, the circumstances of her daughter's birth—and her struggles—were ultimately Serie's responsibility.

"By the way, why don't you open your gift?" Ivan interjected. "Your mom went through quite an ordeal to find it."

Obediently, Isanze opened the gift. She had expected something intricate or delicate but instead found a simple drawing—a family portrait she had drawn as a child, featuring herself, her mom, and her dad.

Even in this false world, there were still traces of truth.

"Thank you… This is such a wonderful birthday gift."

For the first time in a long while, Isanze's smile wasn't forced. Though tears glistened in her eyes, her expression carried a newfound sincerity.

"Isanze," Serie softly called, stepping forward to embrace her.

"Huh? Mom? What are you doing? I'm not a little kid anymore! I'm already sixteen!"

Whether out of embarrassment or surprise, Isanze flailed her arms awkwardly, trying to escape.

"I'm sorry, Isanze, for bringing you into this false world," Serie murmured.

Turning to Ivan, she added, "You win. This is the first time I've ever admitted defeat, but I do so wholeheartedly."

"Logically, I had countless reasons not to have a child. But after seeing her, I realized some things can't be explained by reason alone."

As she spoke, Serie closed her eyes, gently stroking Isanze's silky hair with a maternal warmth so strong it seemed almost tangible.

This overwhelming display of emotion extended even beyond their illusionary world, leaving Flamme puzzled in the real world.

What's happening? Why does the teacher suddenly look so… affectionate?

In reality, Serie—seated behind an anti-radiation barrier—suddenly stood, extending her right hand as intricate magic circles appeared around her.

Crash. Crash. Crash.

The sound of shattering glass echoed through the illusion. With every crash, Serie's complexion grew paler. Forcefully ending the magic while extracting Isanze came at a tremendous cost.

Finally, the illusion collapsed with a resounding crack, and three glowing orbs emerged. Serie carefully guided them out.

The golden orb fused back into her, the black one returned to Ivan, and the gray one was enveloped in layers of protective magic.

This was Isanze—the daughter Serie had borne within the illusionary world. Or perhaps more accurately, the child conceived from a profound, long-distance union of souls.

In the ancient elven tree, Ivan slowly awoke, feeling as if he'd emerged from an incredibly vivid and lengthy dream. For a moment, the line between dream and reality blurred.

"So, what's the result?"

The voice came from a curious brunette—Flamme.

Oh, right. It was Flamme.

"The result?" Ivan grinned, stretching. "It's a super jackpot."

He reached out to pat her head, but Flamme deftly dodged, rolling her eyes in exasperation.

Unwilling to let it go, she attempted a counterattack, aiming for his head, but missed.

Watching this exchange, Frieren, who had been observing silently, misinterpreted their antics as some new game and eagerly tried to join in.

"Ahem!"

Suddenly, Serie appeared on her throne, her commanding presence instantly silencing their childish behavior.

"Let me announce the results," she declared. "The winner of this competition is Ivan. As agreed, I will grant you one request. But keep in mind—an illusion is an illusion, and reality is reality. I hope you can distinguish between the two."

"Anything at all?" Ivan asked after a moment's thought.

"Yes," Serie nodded. "But I'll remind you—I can defeat the Demon King, but I can't kill him. If you're thinking of using this wish for that, you'll be disappointed."

"The Demon King isn't worth wasting such a precious opportunity," Ivan replied, straightening his posture. Meeting her gaze without hesitation, he voiced his request.

"My wish is simple: make the illusion into reality."

Subtext: I want to remain your husband!

Serie tapped the armrest of her chair lightly with her finger.

"Now that the illusion is over, the relationships within it should naturally end too. Understand?"

Subtext: Sign the divorce papers. It's over between us, isn't it?

"Then I have no other requests for you," Ivan said nonchalantly, showing no disappointment. Instead, he appeared almost indulgent, as if letting her act however she wanted.

"Go ahead, cheat your way out of it if you want."

This reverse psychology was something Ivan had perfected over their years together. Serie, proud as she was, had no defense against it.

"Unacceptable!" Serie snapped, her tone sharp. "You must make a request of me today! For instance, regarding Isanze—don't you care about her at all?!"

She seemed genuinely upset—so much so that her earlier injuries reopened, causing blood to trickle from the corner of her mouth.

Flamme rushed forward, but Ivan was faster, reaching Serie's side in an instant.

"Are you alright? Is it serious?" he asked, his concern evident.

"I'll live," Serie muttered, using Ivan's sleeve to wipe the blood. "It's just a minor injury. A century or two of rest will heal it completely. But… do you understand now, Ivan? I'm an elf, not the bookish Serie from the illusionary world."

She sighed softly, as if letting go of an entire world.

"Our time is different."