The Invisible One
Marion was sixteen and unremarkable.
Not in the sense of "ugly" or "weird" — he was simply… there. A face you forgot again after two seconds. When he walked past female classmates, no glance lingered, no conversation stuck. He existed without leaving traces.
School felt to him like a long corridor in which he constantly walked into invisible walls. Others talked, laughed, argued, secretly kissed in corners. He stood beside them, a lunchbox in his hand and the question of whether anyone would ever notice him.
In class, he was "the one back there." Not the class clown, not the overachiever, not the athletic one. Just the one who didn't stand out. If he was ever called on, he stammered something average, neither wrong nor special. A blank page no one read.
His daily life was routine:
Get up.
Sit on the train, listen to music, hope no one noticed his ill-fitting shoes.
Take his seat in class, wait for the day to pass.
And always that small, gnawing longing: Maybe today. Maybe she'll talk to me.
She — that could be any girl who happened to stand near him. Sometimes the athletic one with long hair, sometimes the quiet one who got good grades. He imagined what it would be like if she smiled at him. But in reality, their eyes flickered past him as if he were a chair.
Breaks were the worst.
There were little groups: the makeup girls, the gigglers, the cool kids with their branded jackets. And then him, standing beside the vending machine pretending to read messages on his phone. No one wrote to him. No one waited for a reply.
At home, it wasn't any different. His parents weren't mean or cruel — they were simply busy. Work, television, cooking. When he talked about school, they only nodded. No real listening, no amazement. He was average there too.
And yet there were those secret moments when he imagined being different. In the evenings, when he sat at his PC and immersed himself in game worlds. There he could be a hero, a warrior, a mage. Someone who was needed. But the moment he closed the laptop, he was just Marion again.
On that evening in spring, as unspectacular as any other, he bought himself a box of noodles with duck at a street stand. A trivial detail — but somehow it suited him: always the normal choice, the average dish, never something that left an impression.
He had no idea that this evening would be his last in his world.
A Death Without Glory
The evening dragged on like chewing gum. Marion had done no homework, received no messages, had no plans. Instead, as so often, he stood at the small Asian snack stand by the bus stop. Neon light flickered, and the vendor asked in a bored voice:
"With duck or chicken?"
"Duck," he muttered.
The plastic box was warm in his hands as he started home. The streetlights hummed, other teenagers laughed loudly and filmed each other, while he trudged alone through the streets. No glance fell on him. No one noticed that he was there at all.
At home, he placed the box on the kitchen table, tore it open, and ate hastily. Greasy, sweetish, slightly spicy — for him, a highlight, the most expensive meal of the week. Afterward, he let himself fall onto his bed, tired, full, and empty.
But in the night, the pain came.
At first just a pulling in his stomach, then cramps, then a burning stab that tore him upright.
"Shit…" he groaned and stumbled into the bathroom.
The hours that followed blurred into a feverish inferno. He hung bent over the toilet, sweat streaming in torrents. His body rebelled, vomited, convulsed until no strength remained. The world shrank to that room, the smell of bile and the cold tile pattern beneath his hands.
He still thought: So this is how I die?
Not heroically. Not dramatically. But because of a box of noodles.
There was no last conversation, no hand holding his. Only darkness.
And yet… somewhere behind the blackness there was something. No heaven, no hell — rather a diffuse flickering. Voices that spoke no words, and the feeling of sinking through water. He had no control anymore, only the thought: Maybe that was everything?
Then it became bright.
He opened his eyes — and the world was different.
Wooden walls, the smell of straw, the crackling of a fire. Above him leaned a woman with gentle features, stroking his forehead.
"Marion," she said. "You're awake."
A man stepped closer and laid a heavy, rough hand on his shoulder.
"Rest, son."
Son. Not theirs — and yet he felt that he now belonged to them.
He lifted his hands, small, soft, childlike. No longer a teenager. A child, barely six years old.
"So… this is probably an isekai," he thought dazedly.
And somewhere, despite everything, a spark of hope stirred.
Here is the full, faithful translation of your next section, keeping tone, structure, and weight intact:
Years of Disillusionment
The farmhouse smelled of straw and firewood. Marion grew up there, between the rough hands of his new father and the tired eyes of his new mother. They were kind, yes — but not remarkable. Farmers, exactly as one would imagine them.
At first, at six years old, he still carried that strange certainty within him: This time I will be something special.
A second chance, another world. Here, he had to be able to shine.
But the years passed — and the shine faded.
At eight, he stood in the yard for the first time with a wooden sword. The other village children laughed as he flailed it wildly. An older boy took the sword from him, made two elegant strikes, and Marion was already lying in the dust.
"You're too slow," the boy mocked as the others walked away giggling.
Marion pushed himself up, his knees bloody, and swore to himself: Next time I'll win. But there never came a next time in which he did not end up in the dust again.
At nine, he tried to help in his mother's household. He chopped vegetables, wanting to show that he was skilled. But the knife slipped, a deep cut into his finger, blood splashing onto the table. His mother didn't scold him — she merely sighed, wrapped the finger, and said, "Better leave it, Marion." No praise, no pride. Just a sigh.
At ten, he stood in the fields. He was supposed to wield the scythe like the men. The grass fell unevenly, his arms trembled, sweat ran down his body after only a few minutes. The other farmers watched, shaking their heads. One muttered under his breath, "Useless brat." Marion heard it — and it burned deeper than any wound.
And yet he did not give up.
At eleven, he tried to sing. At the village festival, he stood hesitantly beside other children who sang songs about the heroes of the realm. His voice trembled, cracked, the melody sounded wrong. The others snickered, a woman covered her ears. In the end, no one applauded for him. He swore never to sing in public again.
At twelve, he tried cooking. His mother let him stir the stew. He wanted to season it, wanted to make it special. In the end, everything tasted bland, like hot water and burnt herbs. His father silently pushed the bowl aside, reached for dry bread — and Marion felt smaller than ever before.
At thirteen, he was a scrawny boy, too tall for children's clothes and too unremarkable to catch the girls' eyes. When he walked along the marketplace, no one noticed him. Other boys pushed forward, flexed muscles, or spoke of heroic dreams. But he stood at the edge, a silhouette that never stepped into the light.
In the evenings, he often lay on his straw mattress, staring into the darkness and thinking of his old world. Of the classroom. Of the phone in his pocket. Of the feeling of being overlooked.
And he had to admit to himself: Even here… I am nothing more than a nobody.
Everyday Life in the Village
The village lay like a gray stain amid wide fields. The houses were simple, made of wood and clay, the streets full of dust and manure. For the people, it was a place of normality — for others, a place of chains.
At the well, women drew water, children played with stones, farmers hauled hay carts. And beside them, bound by collars, lived the beastfolk. Wolves with shaggy fur, cats with tired eyes, bear-folk with broken shoulders.
For the humans, it was everyday life.
A man struck his dog-man with a whip because he stacked the wood too slowly.
No one intervened.
A woman made her fox-woman slave carry heavy water — the jug shattered, the girl sank trembling to her knees. The mistress grabbed her by the ear and slapped her across the face. And the bystanders looked away as if nothing had happened.
"They're not human," an old farmer once said to Marion when he stared at the scene for too long. "They have no names. Only desire and instinct. If you don't suppress them, they'll eat you."
Marion nodded, because he couldn't argue — but doubt gnawed at him.
He saw the eyes of those creatures. Sad, tired, full of pain. Were they really just animals?
Sometimes they disappeared. No one asked where.
One day, Marion saw two men throw a body onto a cart. A wolf-boy, motionless, with sunken cheeks.
"To the fire pit with him," one muttered.
It was like disposing of trash.
That night, Marion lay awake. He thought of his old world, of all the indifference he had already felt there — only here it was more brutal, more open. So this is what normality looks like in this world, he thought. People laugh while others suffer.
And still: he did nothing.
He was as always — quiet, unremarkable, a boy who observed but did not act.
But the next day brought unrest. Bells rang, dogs barked. A caravan passed through the village. Traders, with heavy wagons and clanking chains. Cages full of beastfolk, crammed tightly together, emaciated. Some whimpered, some merely stared emptily through the bars.
The traders drove them like cattle through the village. Whips cracked, sticks struck. "Fresh blood!" one shouted. People gathered to stare, to laugh, to haggle.
Marion stood at the edge, pushing through the crowd.
And then he saw her.
A girl, barely older than he was, with gray ears drooping limply from her head. Her skin was flushed with fever, her lips dry. She coughed, blood splattering onto her hands.
"Just ballast," a trader mocked, jamming his stick into her side. "She'll die anyway."
Here is the faithful, full translation of your next section, keeping tone, rhythm, and emotional weight intact:
Hesitation in the Dust
Marion stood among the villagers, feeling like a shadow beneath their curious faces.
His gaze clung to her — the wolf-girl.
Her eyes, burning with fever, darted restlessly over the crowd as if searching for an escape that did not exist. Every fit of coughing brought blood to her lips, and the people around her wrinkled their noses in disgust.
"Throw her away!" someone shouted.
"Finish it already — she's not worth anything anymore!" another called.
The trader only laughed. "Maybe someone wants her as a toy. Won't last long anyway." He jabbed the stick into her back, and she fell forward, coughing, choking, half lying in the dirt.
Marion felt his stomach tighten. He wanted to look away. He wanted to tell himself it wasn't his business. But he couldn't. His feet seemed glued to the ground, his gaze burning in place.
If I do nothing now… then I'm just the Invisible One again. The one nobody needs. But if I step in?
His hands trembled. He thought of all the times he had failed in this world: with the sword, with cooking, in the fields. A nobody, as always. What could he possibly change?
The villagers whispered.
"Who would take something like that? Just ballast."
"Not even fit to be a slave. Too weak."
And yet… there was that spark. That quiet, gnawing feeling he barely understood. Maybe… maybe she needs me. Maybe she sees me.
He imagined her recovering, imagined her looking at him with gratitude. Imagined her smiling — just for him. The thought warmed him, small and pitiful as he was.
"Three copper coins and she's yours!" the trader shouted mockingly. "Won't get cheaper than that!"
No one stepped forward. The people laughed, shook their heads. A man spat into the dust.
"Take her to the fire pit. That's where she belongs."
Marion felt his heart race. The words echoed inside him: fire pit. With the dead beastfolk. Like garbage.
No… not her. Not again.
He clenched his fists, stepped forward — and yet stopped.
His breathing was shallow, his knees trembling. What if she laughs at me too? What if she hates me, like everyone else?
The wolf-girl lifted her head and coughed again. For a moment, their eyes met. Just the blink of an eye, yet it felt as though she looked straight into him. Weak, dull — and yet alive.
Marion swallowed. His heart pounded so loudly he thought the entire crowd must hear it.
Still he stood in the dust, trapped between retreat and decision.
The Purchase
"Three copper coins!" The trader shouted it again, louder this time, and roughly yanked the girl up by the arm as if she were a sick animal. No one answered. Only laughter. Only dismissive gestures.
Marion felt as if his heart would burst. His knees trembled, his breath caught.
Now. If I don't do it now, I never will.
He stepped forward. At first hesitantly, then more firmly, until he stood in the middle of the square.
"I… I'll take her."
The crowd fell silent for a moment — then erupted into roaring laughter.
"What did he say?"
"The boy wants to buy her!"
"The good-for-nothing with the scythe? He's bringing a sick one home?"
The wolf-girl blinked weakly, too exhausted to look up.
The trader looked Marion over as though he were a fool. "You? Do you even have money, boy?"
Marion reached into his pocket. Three copper coins, no more. It was everything he had secretly saved over the past weeks. He had meant to buy a knife with it. Or maybe shoes.
He opened his fist; the coins gleamed in the sunlight. "That's enough, right?"
The trader laughed dryly, but he grabbed the money. "For three copper, you can have the trash. She'll die on you anyway."
He shoved her roughly toward Marion. She stumbled and would have fallen, but he caught her awkwardly.
For a moment, he felt her weight. Light — far too light. Her skin burned with fever, her breath coming in uneven bursts.
"Have fun with your ballast!" someone from the crowd called. "Maybe she'll eat you at night."
Laughter surged again, but Marion barely heard it. He only stared at the girl in his arms.
"Come," he murmured and held her as firmly as he could. Slowly, step by step, he led her away from the square.
The stares burned into his back. Mockery, scorn, disbelief — and yet at the same time he felt something new. A warmth, as faint as a candle in the wind.
For the first time in this life, he had acted. He had not only stared. Not only remained silent.
At home in the farmhouse, he laid her on his straw bed. His mother stared at him in horror.
"What… what are you dragging in here?"
"She needs help," he answered hastily. "Just some water, maybe soup… I can take care of her."
His father growled, "We have no room for livestock."
"She's not livestock!" Marion shouted — startled by the volume of his own voice. He had never spoken like that before.
His parents exchanged glances, but in the end they said nothing more. Perhaps because they saw it was pointless to try to talk him out of it.
Marion brought water, dabbed her forehead, held the cup to her lips. She drank tremblingly, a few drops running down her chin. Her eyes opened weakly. A whisper, barely audible:
"Why…?"
He had no answer. But he smiled awkwardly. "Because… because I couldn't let you die."
For a moment, he thought she had smiled. Maybe it was only his imagination. But it was enough to make him feel stronger than he had ever been before.
Care & Hope
The wolf-girl lay on the straw bedding, whimpering, coughing up blood. Her breathing was shallow; sometimes Marion thought she would die beneath his hands.
He ran back and forth with water jugs, placed cold cloths on her forehead, fed her thin soup. His hands were clumsy — he knew nothing of healing — but he did what he could. Again and again he whispered, "Stay with me… please."
His parents watched in silence. His father sometimes growled, "She's only costing us food." But he was too tired to truly interfere. His mother sighed, at least bringing a cloth or some broth now and then. It was clear: they let him do as he wished, but it was his matter, not theirs.
As the days passed, life slowly returned to the girl. Her skin was no longer quite so hot, the coughing fits less frequent. One morning she pushed herself halfway upright, her gray ears twitching.
"Water?" she breathed.
Marion almost stumbled in his joy as he handed her the cup. She drank slowly, each swallow a victory. When she gave the cup back, their eyes met — yellowish, clearer than before.
For the first time, he saw not only sickness in them.
He saw… gratitude.
His heart beat faster. He told himself that was what it was. That she was truly looking at him, truly noticing him.
In the days that followed, he helped her stand. He guided her to the well, supported her when she wavered. He brought her bread, which she chewed hesitantly, and laughed nervously when she made a face because it was too hard.
Sometimes, when they sat by the fire, he would glance at her furtively. Her fur had regained its shine, her figure seemed stronger. She even smiled a few times.
And each of those smiles struck him like a blow to the heart.
Maybe… maybe she is what I've been waiting for.
The children whispered when he walked with her. "Look, he's got himself a bitch."
The adults looked on with a mixture of mockery and suspicion. "That boy's wasting time and food. Just look at him walking around with her."
Marion tried not to hear it. He clung to her moments of closeness, to every faint smile, to every quiet word of thanks.
One evening they sat alone by the fire. She stared into the flames, shadows dancing across her face.
"Why… did you buy me?" she asked softly.
He startled, searching for words. "Because… I couldn't let you die."
She remained silent, still looking into the flames. Then, barely audible: "Humans don't do that."
Marion smiled awkwardly. "Maybe I'm different."
For a moment, she truly seemed to smile. It was faint, but real.
And within him, something began to grow that he had never felt before:
Hope.
Hope that in this world, he might yet become someone after all.