Ori's mind drifted as her body sank deeper into the water. Her chocolate skin paled, and her prominent lashes—nearly blending with her cream-colored hair that barely reached her shoulders—gave her an eerie, otherworldly but unique look.
*Where on earth am I? Is this the afterlife? Am I dead?* she wondered, her eyes squeezed shut.
Though she felt her life slipping away, she could still move. Forcing her eyes open, she revealed a pair of striking blue irises like the ocean itself. Suddenly, her vision blurred as water flooded her lungs, burning her from the inside like flames.
In that very moment she thought it was the end for her, she jolted awake—drenched in sweat, gasping for air as she game into a sudden realization that whatever she witnessed was a dream. Her simple but cozy room was dimly lit, shadows stretching like overgrown branches from the door to the desk where she managed her accounts making Ori feel like she was being surrounded by Never-Weres. The mirror beside it partially reflecting her panicked expression.
Just as she thought it was the end, she jolted awake—drenched in sweat, gasping for air. Her simple but cozy room was dimly lit, shadows stretching from the door to the desk where she managed her accounts. The mirror beside it reflected her panicked expression.
Her gaze flicked to the slightly open bathroom door, revealing only darkness.
Ori let out a shaky sigh, her mind racing. Was it just a dream? It had felt so real. But she couldn't dwell on it—work was calling.
Outside, rain poured, threatening to slow business, but she had to go. She had made a promise to her father, after all.
Before illness took both him and her mother, he had owned one of the finest bakeries in Kharvald. Now, all she had left was this house and the small bakery just steps away—her only legacy.
Shaking off that lingering unease she felt, Ori rose from her bed, her chemise clinging to her sweat-damp skin. She tugged it off, revealing her tight-fitting undergarments, before she pushed open the window that let in the icy wind and rain rush in, cooling her overheated body.
Stepping into the privy chamber, she prepared for the day—drawing a warm bath in the wooden tub. The water swirled with cleansing herbs, their soothing scent washing away not just the grime but the last traces of her nightmare. She sank in, exhaling slowly as the heat uncoiled the tension in her muscles.
By the time she was done, the storm had passed. Golden sunlight spilled over Kharvald, a city known for bright weathers, stirring the city back to life once again. Merchants hawked their wares—spices, trinkets, carved wooden toys for children—while inns and taverns buzzed with laughter and drunken chatter.
Beyond the market streets and busy shops, homes hummed with activity as wives cooked morning meals, their chimneys puffing white smoke into clear, blue sky. Standing at the city's heart loomed the citadel, home to some of the heroes that protected Kharvald from threats such as Never-Weres, it's towering walls visible for miles—a cold and silent guardian watching over the bustling life below.
Ori readied herself for the day, slipping into the finest outfit she owned—a modest and elegant garment bought with hard-earned coin. Though she preferred light clothes that usually covered less of her body, appearances mattered alot in Kharvald city.
Now seated before the mirror, her eyes dull and distant like her soul had left her, she dabbed light makeup onto her face, accentuating the striking beauty she'd carried since childhood. Yet when she finished, a hollow ache lingered in her mind.
Something was missing.
"Huh… I wonder what's wrong with me" she murmured, the first words she'd spoken all morning as she was a woman of little words.
She tilted her face side to side, studying her reflection in order to find what was wrong. Was it grief for her lost family? Or frustration over her dream—unfulfilled—of joining the heroes that resided in the citadel? No.. This emptiness craved something tangible, something more realer than her thoughts.
Then it struck her.
Her hands flew to the dressing table's drawer, pulling out a small, black box. A necklace was laid inside: a tiny sword embedded in a loop, like an ancient emblem. Ori's face lit up slightly as she forced a little smirk.
Her mother had gifted this to her years ago. Her father, ever the storyteller, claimed that it belonged to knights from another world—a realm beyond theirs. Ori had never believe in such fairytales, but in a city where Never-Weres lurked in shadows, perhaps anything like this was possible.
Here's your refined passage—now richer in atmosphere, emotion, and lyrical flow while keeping its haunting nostalgia.
Maybe like the knights, the Never-Weres were something from another world.
With a final glance at the mirror, Ori rose from her dressing table and stepped into the husk of the house. Downstairs, the kitchen waited—cold, quiet, a kingdom of absence. The pot on the stove held yesterday's meal, congealed and solitary.
A sigh escaped her.
Once, this kitchen had breathed. Her mother moved through it like a storm of spice and steam, conjuring breadsticks golden as dawn, vegetables glazed in honey-light, porridge so thick it could cradle a spoon upright. And the catfish—crisp at the edges, falling apart at the lightest touch, drenched in peppers that made her father cough theatrically.
"Slop!" he'd declare, even as her mother—queen of this domain—pressed another bite into his hands. Ori's laughter had been a thing then, bright and unburdened.
Now, the stove held only echoes.
The pot hissed as Ori lifted the lid. A wave of sour, clotted stench escaped, thick enough for her to taste it. Her nose wrinkled—rotten. She immediately slammed it shut, coughing into her palm, throat burning as she felt her insides itching.
"Shit," she cursed, knuckles whitening on the wooden counter. "Breadsticks again, then."
She didn't bother scraping the pot. The whole house reeked of damp wood and wasted effort anyway.
Stepping outside, Ori sucked in the cold air and the scent of rain like a first breath. Eyes closed, she stood still, letting the wind scour the stink she breathed in ages ago. For a heartbeat, she could pretend she wasn't drowning.
Here's your rewritten passage with enhanced clarity, richer descriptions, and improved flow—while staying true to the original meaning and without shortening any words:
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The scene before her was just as chaotic as she had expected. The streets were alive with the usual clamor of local commoners haggling over goods, trading everything from handcrafted trinkets to freshly prepared meals. Nearby, a drunkard lay sprawled on the ground, receiving a brutal beating—likely for foolishly crossing one of the city's many gangs.
Yet despite the disorder, the city thrived with the same relentless energy it had possessed since its founding centuries ago. It was a place where life, no matter how rough, never ceased to pulse through its cobbled streets.
Ori's gaze shifted toward her bakery, a modest but well-kept establishment standing just a short walk from her home. Her stern, composed expression softened slightly as she took in the familiar sight—the warm glow from the oven, the scent of freshly baked bread drifting through the air.
But as she lingered in the moment, a massive figure watched her from the crowd. His face was twisted into a scowl so menacing that the people around him instinctively gave him space. He was bald, his head gleaming under the sunlight, and flanked by two equally rough-looking men, their eyes wild with aggression.
"Boss, that's her," snarled the man on the right, his mohawk bristling as his face contorted in anger. "The bitch who made fools out of us."
The man on the left cracked his knuckles, his muscles tensing. "Let's teach her a lesson," he growled, taking a step forward—only to be yanked back by the boss's heavy hand gripping his shoulder.
Without a word, the boss strode past them, his massive frame cutting through the crowd as he advanced toward Ori. His intentions were unclear to the onlookers, but his two lackeys knew better—whatever he had planned, it wouldn't end well for the baker.
Meanwhile, Ori took a step toward her shop, ready to begin her day—until a towering shadow fell over her, halting her in her tracks. Her brows furrowed as she turned to face the source of the darkness.
Looming over her stood a man nearly two feet taller, his broad shoulders casting her in shade. His eyes burned with pure malice, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white.
Ori studied him from head to toe, her expression more puzzled than afraid. "Can I help you, sir?" she asked, her voice steady. She wasn't intimidated by his size—only curious. Was he a customer? Had he been waiting too long for his order?
When she didn't react with fear, his rage deepened. His jaw tightened, his nostrils flaring as his fists trembled with barely restrained violence. Sensing the shift, Ori took a subtle step back, shifting her weight into a defensive stance.
Around them, the marketplace fell into an uneasy silence. Commoners paused their bartering, their eyes darting between the hulking thug and the petite baker.
Everyone knew who she was—the owner of the finest bakery in Kharvald—and they also knew better than to underestimate her
Yet their fear wasn't for her safety—it was for what she might do to him.
With a sudden roar, the thug swung a meaty fist toward her face. But Ori moved like lightning, sidestepping the blow with effortless grace. Before he could react, she extended a single finger, pressing it lightly against his side in a precise, almost delicate motion.
To the stunned onlookers, it seemed like nothing—until the brute's eyes rolled back, his body collapsing to the ground like a felled tree. He lay there, paralyzed, his limbs useless.
This wasn't the first time the townsfolk had witnessed Ori's strange and deadly skills. Though she appeared fragile, she was anything but. Her dream of becoming a Never-Slayer wasn't just a fantasy—it was a burning ambition, one she pursued with relentless discipline.
She had trained for years—standing bare under freezing waterfalls, hardening her fists against unyielding wood. At sixteen, just two years after her parents' deaths, she had already taken charge of the bakery, proving she could handle both business and brawls.
Now, at the age of twenty, she had effortless dismantled a man twice her size—all because his cowardly underlings had dared to provoke her.
Placing one foot on the unconscious thug's head, she leaned down slightly, her soft yet powerful frame ensuring that even if he woke, escape would be impossible. The crowd held its breath, half-expecting her to crush his skull beneath her heel.
Though he was out cold, Ori knew his mind could still hear her. Her voice, thick with her native accent, dripped with icy finality as she spoke words that would sear into his memory forever:
"Any last words, mate?"