Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

One day, a woman with crimson hair disappears and is found dead, leaving behind the people who loved her so, and a husband and a son.

"Cale Henituse."

Cale slowly lifts his head, and the guard sneers at his appearance; ratty, long hair coated in enough dirt to make it seem maroon, eyes that spoke a story of despair, and a body slumped in exhaustion, only held up by chains. It was the appearance of a prisoner, not of a noble.

"Look at how the trash has fallen," he taunts, "I heard that your family agreed to it. Guess they got tired of you."

When Cale does not respond, the guard clicks his tongue and unlocks his cell, soon clearing his throat to speak again.

"Under orders of Duke Choi Han and his Highness Alberu Crossman, I am here to bring you to your execution."

A house shrouded in darkness, a father who no longer works, servants who begin to gossip, and a child who's left to survive on his own. 

A woman who comes along and reignites the spark in his father's eyes. A woman who makes him pick up the broken pieces, something that not even his son could accomplish. 

A child of this woman, doted on by his father the moment they met, a child oh so polite and perfect, and a jealousy that burns bright throughout his body.

Cale Henituse doesn't walk with shame. Rather, he walks with the air of a noble. Every step is with poise, his head high in the air as if nothing could defeat him. 

(As if to say not even death could strip him of his pride)

...A child who looks at this new family, laughing and smiling as if there were no care in this world, and realizes; there is no 'him' in this family. 

There was no 'him' after his mother died.

There are jeers when he walks into the open. Thousands of people crowd around the tree where the rope lies, some whispering amongst themselves, others attempting to throw rotten tomatoes.

A child who realizes that he must protect this family, no matter what.

There are four who look away, regret and conflict a permanent stain on their skin. 

There are two who look at the crowd emotionlessly.

An opportunity. Cousins who think of this little boy as easy pickings mock and bully him, all for not sharing the blood of the Henituse count.

They were a bunch of thugs looking for someone to fight. And he'd give them a fight, protect this little boy, make sure that the world knows that he's to be protected and, no matter what, is a part of that family. He'd scream it to the world if needed.

And when they call him trash, he thinks that such a title fits well. He realizes that if he were to be so trashy that no one would dare to complain about that boy...

A child who thinks the best way to protect that family is to become human trash, and that is what he becomes.

"It figures that he'd be the traitor," one whispers. 

"Poor Count Deruth, losing both his wife and son," another one mutters. 

"I'll be glad that damned man is gone. He'd always cause too much of a ruckus in my tavern."

"He deserves it. Complete and utter trash, that man is!"

Alberu raised his hand, and all conversations silent.

As he ages, his reputation grows. 

'Trash,' they would whisper, and he'd perk up, delighting at the disgust in their voices. 

The whispers about that little boy change to praise, all thinking that he's to become the next count when the eldest is scum. 

But despite this, despite everything, that woman refuses to rename that little boy as the future count. 

He tries harder.

 He drinks alcohol as if it were water, trashes taverns, and threatens gangsters until everybody's doors are closed to him. 

"Cale Henituse. Under proof of treason, Duke Choi Han and His Highness Alberu Crossman have sentenced you to death by hanging," a man recites. 

While the man speaks, Cale makes eye contact with Choi Han, and can't help but laugh at the contempt in his eyes.

Even from the very start, his eyes never lost that familiar hatred.

It was the anniversary of his mother's death when he first met Choi Han. He had been drinking all day, drowning in an all too familiar ache.

So, when this scraggly man approaches him, saying that the people of Harris Village had been massacred and that he needed help...

Perhaps it was the alcohol that made him react that way. Maybe it was the memories of his mother, but either way, he snapped at the man, asking why he should care about some worthless insects. 

He gets beaten up until he's on the brink of death, and that man becomes the lost son of the duke in the North.

He never pressed for any compensation. 

Cale's neck is wrapped around the noose, tightened enough to where the rope digs into his skin.

Their family goes into debt when Cale turns 19. For what, he no longer remembers. All he remembers is desperation, a hand that reached out, and how naively he took it. 

Then, there is only an endless cycle of pain working for this man, doing unspeakable things to protect them.

"Any last words?" The executioner asks.

Cale looks at the crowd, some already shielding their children, others calling for his death, some betting for how long it would take for him to die.

He looks at the family he protected, the count, the countess, and their two children that will do great things. They look at him with sadness and guilt, but Cale only tilts his head. 

When he finally gets his money, the White Star threatens to kill his family if he does not continue. 

He couldn't do anything but agree. After all, his limbs and mind were only a pawn to be used, kept in check by threats of killing that family if he were to betray them or die, no matter if it were accidental or with purpose.

He realizes how trapped he is when a letter arrives from Duke Choi Han, saying that he’ll rid that family of their debts in exchange for a husband or wife. 

He sees the letter on the discard pile, and a reply written, yet not sent, and feels a spark of something akin to hope.

He burns the reply and convinces the count to send him. 

(And yet, he is unable to escape his grasp, and becomes a damned pawn yet again.

It is then that he realizes that the only way out is death.)

Cale grins, wide and deranged, and laughs; it is a laugh that sounds like a man who has finally snapped, a man who has reached his limits and is finally free.

"I'll see you all in hell!"

They shouldn't feel sad because-

He becomes the informant. Despite being hated by the people, (and Cale had tried to be hated, tried to ensure that no one would share anything with him.) he was the duke’s husband, and that meant he had access to information servants had no privy to. 

He was a coward. He shared documents, too afraid of what would happen to that family if he refused. He never reached out, never tried to stop him because-

-Because Cale Henituse is trash and a coward.

The noose tightens, and the platform is taken away, leaving his airways cut off and his body to dangle.

No one would listen. The White Star watches his every move, and he is nothing but a mere doll, a doll with a reputation in shambles.

And on the night of the coup, he knows that this will be his last night alive, knows that the White Star will, no, has to be defeated, and relishes in the jolt of joy that courses through his body at the thought.

He closes his eyes and embraces the feeling of his mind inching toward death.

The White Star escapes that night, and Cale is imprisoned, awaiting a death he'd been waiting for since-

(Five minutes later, Cale Henituse is declared dead.)

There is a garden of flowers, all seemingly planted at random. However, if one were to look from a balcony, one would see a shape something akin to a diary. 

And in this garden, a woman sits with a child in her lap, her hand threading gently through it as she hums a simple tune. 

"Cale."

Cale grunts slightly in response, and Jour tugs on his hair.

"Cale. You can't stay here," she said.

It's only then that his head shoots up, a look of indignant disbelief on his face. Before he can speak, Jour shushes him with a simple lift of her finger.

"It's not your time to die, my dear. Wrongs were made that need to be righted, and you deserve so many things that the afterlife cannot give you." Jour cups his face, brushing a stray piece of hair from his face. 

"But I have you," he said, "nothing else matters."

Cale's grip on his mom's dress tightens when he sees his body begin to fade. 

"You need to be more selfish this time, Cale. Don’t settle for less. Let yourself grow old and have a natural death... no, even if you die young, all I hope for is your happiness in this life."

Cale looks up from his fading body and slowly lies on his mom's lap, staring intently at her face. Jour starts to thread her hand in his hair, that familiar tune beginning again.

“Mom, if I’m happy, and live a long, full, life, will I get to be with you again?”

“Of course.”

A comfortable silence fills the air, until all that’s left of Cale is his neck and shoulders. 

"...Will you be waiting for me while I’m gone?" He asks.

Jour smiles, all soft and full of a love he could only remember as a child, and pulls him into a tight hug.

"I'll always be waiting," Jour said firmly.

Cale closes his eyes and lets his body disappear. 

He awakes with his entire body in flames, his lungs heaving and body shaking as he takes in large gulps of air, notenough, can'tbreathe- 

Cale breathes in, out, in, and out again, until there's only a slight ache left, and he has enough senses to check his surroundings. 

A carriage with only him in it, the interior design one he remembered when he was being married off to...

"Fuck."

Cale scoffs. Of course, he'd come back during the most shitty time of his life, not when he was young and everything had yet to start. 

"Hah... I need wine."

He pulls out a box of wine from under the seat, opens it with an elegance one wouldn't expect, and chugs it with little care if it spilled. In a few minutes, the wine is gone, yet somehow Cale's eyes turn sharp and clear. However, there remains a persistent haze around them.

Currently, Cale’s biggest concern is the White Star. A pitiful and miserable existence at the Duke’s residence meant nothing if he could kill that bastard. Everything bad began with him, and therefore it must end with him. 

Thoughts like that have constantly plagued him, however, the previous him could not fight back, lacking both power and hope. 

All he could do was take solace in these thoughts, and dream that someone would come and kill the White Star.

This time, though, Cale has the advantage. He knows the future. He knows, therefore, he can predict and fight back much more efficiently than he had before. Cale will kill, no, torture him until he can’t speak, and imprison the bastard until he wilts from old age. Then, he'll slack off and live his best life. 

He leans back on his seat, satisfied, and lets his eyes stray to the window, where he pauses at the sight of Ron and Beacrox, both setting up camp. He lets out a scoff at the sight. After all, who would think two assassins would be doing such domestic things?

Cale began to think. Those two would leave soon under orders from Choi Han and go without a word to anyone. Why they left is something that Cale doesn’t know (he does) nor does he care about, but he needed them to stay this time. 

Only seeing them during the invasion would mean following the exact timeline, something Cale would prefer to avoid. It was also the day he figured out his butler and chef were skilled assassins, feared within the underworld until the White Star had taken them down.

He couldn't bring himself to feel any fear. It's not as if they'd kill or hurt him, especially since he's, blood-wise, the son of Count Deruth. Ron may pretend to be a stupid, benign man who only knows how to follow his master's orders, but he is the farthest person from that. Beacrox... well, he wouldn't do anything to Cale unless his father ordered it.

Besides, fear causes behavioral changes. It would be suspicious if Cale began to act differently. However, acting completely the same would lead to Ron leaving again. 

So, he'll become someone who knows about his secret, hint at it, make sure that Ron will become suspicious and interested, and reveal his secret. Then, he'll help him get a standing in the underworld again, make him his limbs, eyes, and ears. 

Satisfied, he closes his eyes, a sudden weariness taking over his mind and body. It felt as if bricks were pushing on his shoulders, and as if his head were being stuffed with cotton. Perhaps coming back in time was harder on him than he thought, he idly thinks. 

"Young Master."

Cale's eyes fly open, only to see Ron with that usual benign smile of his, holding what he knows is a cup of lemonade. 

...He was too tired to deal with this old man. 

"What do you want?" He snaps. 

Ron's benign smile widened, and Cale couldn't help but feel vicious satisfaction at his reaction. Maybe he should annoy Ron more. A part of him even thinks it would be worth it even if he had to drink lemonade every day. 

"This old man is here to tell the Young Master that camp is set up-" Ron said. 

Cale perks up and doesn't bother to spare Ron another glance as he jumps out. He was too tired to trust his acting skills, or his ability to deal with annoying figures. 

He may want Ron on his side, but it didn’t make him any less annoying to deal with. 

Cale heads straight to the fanciest tent he sees, cursing under his breath when he feels his consciousness begin to slip. Cale walks faster, uncaring if his stride seems odd to others,  and only letting sleep overtake him the moment he knew he'd land on the cot.

Ron looks at the puppy young master who collapsed onto the bed, already asleep, then at his unzipped tent. He clicks his tongue, sets down the cup of lemonade, and moves to zip it himself. He makes sure that it's secure before he goes back.

“Ah, Ron, you’re such an angel, hic, being so nice to that trash of a young master,” one of the guards said.

Ron’s eyebrow twitches slightly when he sees the beer bottle in the guard’s hand and the flush on his skin. However, he only widens his benign smile, one he’d perfected over the years, and walks away. As he walks, he sees many more in the same scenario, only one or two who remain sober.

‘Aigoo, these guards are so negligent.’

Ron didn’t particularly care what happened to Cale. For all he cared, he could go fight with the wrong person and get killed. However, Cale is still the son of a Count. Letting him die or get injured under their watch would lead to unnecessary trouble for Ron and Beacrox. After all, death and injury happen when people are negligent. 

(Isn’t that why their household and family fell to those bastards?)

Ron opens the carriage doors with more strength than he attended, clicking his tongue when he sees the casket of wine in the open. A bottle is rolling on the ground, clearly empty. He ignores it in favor of grabbing a blanket, one that should be sufficient to keep anyone warm, and the cup of lemonade. Ron makes a note to give some to Cale later.

Instead of heading straight back, he goes to where his son is, cleaning up from dinner. He silently hands him the cup and picks up a dish to clean. Beacrox pauses but does not question why.

“We’ll have to be on guard tonight,” Ron said, as if he were talking about the weather. 

Beacrox doesn’t pause in his motions this time, only giving a small nod in response. Ron’s benign smile drops into something more genuine before his mask slips back in place, just as easily as he had let it go, and he stalks away. 

When he reaches the tent, he is unprepared for the sight of this trash of a young master to be thrashing around, hands on his neck as he mumbles unintelligibly. Or, that is until he catches words; disconnected as if his dream is nonlinear. 

“No... mom... don’t wanna... can’t breat-”

Ron drops the blanket and threads his hand through Cale’s hair, which he notes is, even while in travel, well-taken care of. Eventually, Cale’s body settles, his breathing even, and Ron removes his hand. 

Nightmares about the countess were common after her death, and Ron suddenly remembers a six-year-old Cale asking him to stop the bad dreams, eyes wide with bags and a hopelessness a child should never have-

At the sound of a tree branch cracking, Ron stirs and picks up the blanket. He stares at Cale for a few seconds, unaware that a frown is on his face, before putting the blanket on him and leaving without a peep. 

(As he leaves, he thinks of how Cale’s eyes had changed over-night. Today, his eyes seemed to hold an untouchable abyss of despair, and wonders how he could’ve missed the look in his eyes when he’d carried it himself, seen it in his prey

And he wonders just how much Cale Henituse is hiding, wonders how well he truly knows this boy he’d watched grow up.

But most of all, he questions why a noble like him would have such a look.)

Ron's gaze hardened. Perhaps he’d need to keep a better eye on his puppy young master, after all.

Cale woke up feeling like he had a hangover... no, he woke up feeling like absolute shit. His head pounded with the ferocity of a typhoon, his body ached everywhere, and even a simple step rendered him useless. 

And Ron, that damn bastard, he can feel him laughing in his face for having to be carried to the carriage. Cale feels another flare of irritation when he thinks about Ron’s amusement. He wants to punch him. However, Cale could only silently drink his bottle of wine as the man himself was sitting there, watching the world pass by. 

Cale may not be scared of the old man, but that didn’t mean he would risk fighting him.

“Ron. Were you laughing at me?” 

However, that didn’t mean that he had any qualms about verbalizing his discontent. 

Ron’s benign smile widens. 

“Hoho, whatever gave Young Master Cale that idea? This old man would never laugh at you.”

Cale’s eyes narrow. 

“Hmm. Ron, has anybody ever told you that you’re quite capable of speaking bullshit?” 

Ron opens his mouth to speak, but Cale puts his hand up, making sure to take a long swig of his drink before he addresses him. 

“Nevermind. I don’t want to know where a commoner like you learned how to lie to a noble’s face. It’s probably a boring story, anyways.”

He turns to the window, a clear end to the conversation, and didn’t notice the narrowing of Ron’s eyes, nor the thoughtful look on his face.

It stays silent the rest of the way to Choi Han’s residence.

“Young Master Cale, we’ve arrived,” Ron said.

Cale gave out a noncommittal hum, opening the curtains to look at the residence that was never a home.

The residence hadn’t changed. That’s the first thing that Cale thought when he saw it. It still had the same large, imposing building, with a beautiful garden peeking out slightly from behind. It was a sight that would cause someone to gape in awe, however... he’d seen this building thousands of times, so he couldn’t bring himself to feel anything.

The second thing is a bolt of... something that sent his heart racing, his palms clamming up as he clenched them into fists. 

Cale had made sure that he was hated the moment the White Star named him as an informant. He wrecked vases and furniture, doing everything in his power to push the people away. 

He was expecting hatred. However, it was at this place that he realized how much the Count had protected him from petty revenge. 

His food came in cold, his baths freezing, and stuff would constantly go missing. It became the servants’ goal to inconvenience him, knowing well that they would be trusted, and Cale would not.

The White Star found out, and it was then he learned that any form of rebellion would lead to nothing good.

(A scar on his brother’s neck, he soon learns, a knife lucky enough to not hit the artery-)

Cale scoffed to himself, and let his nails dig into his skin until he drew blood. It hurt, but it kept the memories at bay. The last thing he needed is to remember, and a lost composure that naturally came with it. 

He sticks his bleeding hand into his pocket, raising an eyebrow at Ron as if to say ‘hurry up and open the door.’

Ron does so quickly, and Cale takes a step out, only to be met with Choi Han, who’s standing rather close to the carriage door with a hand stretched out.

“Ah,” Choi Han mumbles.

Cale stands there for a few seconds before taking the hand and using it to help him jump down from the carriage. 

As soon as his feet reach the ground, the hand retracts, and he notes the way that Choi Han’s eyes remain guarded and held slight hints of hatred, the way his body language is tense and ready to leave at any moment.

Even if it had been only a year, it seems Choi Han was still inexperienced in hiding his emotions, a trait necessary to survive in nobility. Although, Cale wouldn’t be the one teaching him how. It’s beneficial to read others’ expressions, and teaching him would be counterproductive. 

“Welcome to the Choi residence,” Choi Han said politely. 

Cale looks around, making sure that his feelings of being unimpressed show completely on his face, and turns back to Choi Han. 

He wasn’t looking for a good relationship with Choi Han. After all, when Ron establishes himself in the underworld, he’ll be the one reporting to Choi Han. There was no need for them to interact or act nice to each other. 

All Cale cared about was defeating the White Star and protecting that family, and ties with Choi Han were not in the plan. 

However, that didn’t mean that he would pass up the chance to mess with him. This is the man who beat him up, and Cale is petty. 

“It’s not very impressive,” he said, just to watch his face twitch. 

When Choi Han looks like he’s going to respond, he gets an odd look on his face, his eyes going to his hand in the pocket. 

‘Hmm? Can this bastard smell blood or something?’ 

Choi Han’s gaze don’t stay on his pocket for long, instead snapping to where Ron is. It’s then that he truly does tense, and Cale sees hints of the same wildness present at their first meeting.

Cale decides to act oblivious to Choi Han’s apprehension and steps aside to clap his hand on Ron’s shoulder.

“This is Ron, my servant. He’s old and a fool, but he does his job well enough.”

‘He’s nothing special, so don’t steal him this time.’

“...Is that so?” Choi Han eyes Ron warily, while Ron continues to smile, although there seemed to be a slight coldness to his eyes.

Cale retracts his hand, watching as their stares held a silent conversation, seemingly unpleasant because both eyes now contain a hardness to them.

Were they going to fight in front of the entrance, he wondered?

“Father-”

Beacrox had perfect timing, Cale privately thought as he cut him off. His voice had already diverted Ron’s attention away from Choi Han.

“Ron, if you’re done being friendly, hurry up and get my stuff.”

Ron glances back to Choi Han before slinking off, and Choi Han has that same disgusted look. Cale had long ago deciphered that this meant that he wanted to say something but was holding back. 

Cale wasn’t interested in initiating conversation, instead taking the chance to look at the servants. 

There were five spies here, all working different jobs that involved interacting with other servants or their masters. People were the best information givers, although some may be inaccurate. 

He spots one that's helping one of the guards with the extra luggage, talking up a storm with him, most likely dirt on the new young master. Blackmail is, although he loathes to admit it, effective at getting a person to keep their mouth shut. 

Cale is a risk for them. If not kept in check, he could become a flame that will burn everything. And that’s why he needs them gone. There’s little he can do with their annoying heads popping up to keep him caged, especially when they never let him be alone with anybody, not even a second. 

(This worsened when Ron left, and a spy took his place. Then, Cale truly was trapped.)

As soon as Ron comes back with his luggage, he gives a curt nod to Choi Han and walks away with Ron behind his heels.

It’s different now, he reminds himself. There’s a pocket of hope, so many things he can do to rid the world of the White Star and protect that family. 

There is hope where there used to lie a black hole of despair, and Cale will do anything to not get consumed again, and continue to hold onto a hope that only death could only take away.

This is his rebirth, and Cale will not throw it away carelessly. 

Chapter Text

The moment Cale walks through the entrance, there are eyes upon him. Eyes from servants to the guards, all regarding him with a quiet wariness. 

However, despite their caution, they all bow with such precision that not even Cale could find a single flaw, despite being known for having an uncanny ability to find things to complain about.

Cale could only wish that their impeccable etiquette extended to their personalities.  

With no external flaws he could exploit, Cale decides to go with the next best course of action; to act like an arrogant ass.

He lifts his head and fixes his face into a sneer; as if to say that it's only natural that servants should bow down to him.

(As if to say they're below in every aspect.)

He lingers in this position, sweeping his gaze across the crowd. For others, this may think it's him enjoying this moment, but it is anything but. 

Cale only looks for the servants and guards who betrayed the duchy.

Servants, when faced with the right incentive, could easily betray. Before shit hit the fan and his death, the White Star used his spies to coax unsatisfied servants into his control. He offered them elevated status and riches they could only dream of, taking advantage of their wavering mental or physical states. 

Of course, servants with despicable personalities joined for the promise of violence. Those are the ones Cale needs to get rid of before they can make it to the White Star. Either through death or imprisonment, Cale isn't picky. 

After all, the servants were the main reason the Choi duchy almost fell during the White Star's invasion. 

For Choi Han, who had good relations with his servants, killing them... well, it took a few hours before he could bring himself to do it.

His expression was blank as he killed them. 

Cale couldn't help but observe that, although it was blank, it wasn't the same as his usual facade. 

The change was subtle, but Cale, who spent years pretending and hours in Choi Han's presence, could easily spot the difference. 

This one was a wall to cover up the emotions that poisoned his heart; however, it did little to stop the conflict and hate in his eyes.

It didn't stop the insanity from brewing within his mind.

Cale, who had felt a hint of sympathy, thought that such an expression was more pitiful than Choi Han crying out in anger or anguish could ever be. 

Cale shakes away the memory, mentally berating himself for getting lost in his head. 

Now is not the time to daydream about useless memories. Now is the time to observe and prepare.

He takes a moment to scan the crowd again, ignoring their trembling legs and annoyed gazes in favor of finding threats.

'Hmm?'  

It pays off, Cale gleefully thinks, when he realizes there's a familiar man in the crowd. He's in the back, obscured by other servants, but Cale would recognize that face anywhere. 

Mock, the one with enough hunger for power that Cale often referred to him as a pig.

Mock, the power-hungry pig, and the man he will target first. 

During his past life, it was clear that he was only in it for fame and status. After all, someone appointing you to spy is a great honor, and Mock never lets anybody forget it.

He's also a man with little backbone, a rat who would betray his master if he could gain more power and stay alive for another day.  

A man without a backbone is easy to manipulate once he is captured. And when that happens, Cale will ensure he gives every ounce of information he knows, ensure that he can't run back to the White Star, then somehow convince Choi Han to let Mock act as a spy. 

Cale needs information. When everything begins to change from his actions and the unknown seeps in, Cale must counter it. To do that, he needs Mock to act as his eyes and ears, similar to what Ron will act as.

"Your grace," Ron said suddenly.

Cale looks behind him, expecting to see Choi Han, but there is only Ron and a closed door.

He looks back, wondering if he went a different way and is on the staircase, but there is nothing but servants with trembling legs and desperate eyes.

Ah. Cale hadn't realized that he'd stayed there for so long that the servants had begun to struggle. 

...He can't bring himself to feel bad.

The servants were petty and hateful in his past life and Cale will never let go of an opportunity for revenge, even if he feels phantom pain in his back from watching them.

He had experienced the same in the past. On the rare occasions that he met the White Star, almost always through a communication device, he was forced to bow for an ungodly amount of time. Something about showing loyalty or some bullshit like that. 

He never listened to the why. All he remembers is thinking that he'd never walk straight again from how much his back ached.

Cale watches them for a few more seconds, wondering if he should let them rise, but then he remembers, and that thought disappears. 

A few more seconds, he thinks. Then he'll let them rise. 

Cale doesn't. 

Or rather, he never gets the opportunity to. 

"You can stop bowing," A firm but not unkind voice calls out, and yet Cale feels chills crawl up his spine. 

He looks up. 

A woman with crimson hair- 

A woman with hair that appears as if it’s on fire. A woman whose red eyes regard him as one would with a common thug, however, turns warm when facing the servants. 

Rosalyn, the mage who rejected her future position as queen to work with Choi Han.

(If someone were to ask Cale, he'd say that it's an idiotic decision.)

She's also someone who, if let into his room and becomes aware of the magic devices, his or others put in involuntarily by Arm, will get that family killed. It doesn't necessarily make Rosalyn an enemy, no, but rather someone to be wary of.

After all, she's a mage who could easily get him caught.

Perhaps that's why. 

Why Cale's limbs tense, almost instinctively, and his face twists into something resembling a thug preparing for a fight. 

...God, he wished he had alcohol.

He watches as the servants scatter, hoping that one would stop her and get Rosalyn to leave, but they only give her a respectful nod and dodge so her path isn't blocked.

And in no time at all, Rosalyn is in front of him, and Cale feels the claws of paranoia trying to pull him under. 

Cale, in a practiced motion, pushes down the feeling, until one would have to be in a silent room to hear it.

One doesn't live in a duchy full of enemies and come out without irrational fears, nor never learn how to push such fears away. 

"Your grace," Rosalyn said without warmth or hatred. 

Cale startles, briefly wondering if Choi Han came in, before he remembers Ron's previous words.

Your grace. 

Cale couldn't help it. He lets out a snort, quiet and short, but causes Rosalyn to look at him with an analytic gaze.

The irony of such words isn't lost on him. 

A duke is supposed to protect his lands and his people, to make sure they're content and happy, and set a good example. 

Cale? Well, Cale hadn't done any of those. In fact, he'd done the opposite. 

He betrayed the duchy, helped the White Star destroy the lands and people, and continued to act as trash. 

He's no duke. He's not a young master, hadn't been since the day Basen arrived, and trash could not accurately describe who he is. 

Perhaps it would be more exact to say that, in essence, Cale is merely a person who wears mask after mask, title after title. He is an actor; a pretender. He pretends to be someone else, acting as them until that role is over. Then he begins again, this time in a different role. 

A different mask. 

To the people of the Henituse territory, he is a child who lost his mom, and grief gave way to anger when Countess Violan wed Count Deruth.

For others, he is merely a bratty, trashy child of the count who was never disciplined. An annoyance. 

But despite every different mask and impression he imposed on others, this is what he knows; although he may hold the title of 'your grace,' he has betrayed and broken precious things, and he is a terrible person.

A terrible, reckless person. 

"What is a princess doing here?" Cale asked. 

Rosalyn's smile becomes practiced and methodical.

"Your grace, I am no longer a princess. Please refer to me as a mage," Rosalyn said. 

Dissatisfied with her answer, Cale clicks his tongue. 

"Hey, you didn't answer my question," he said. 

Now, Cale wasn't trying to provoke her.  It's only that he's curious about why Rosalyn, a princess and someone known for her aptitude in magic, decided to work for Choi Han. 

If he'd learned anything, it's that power and money are one of the best tools one could ever wield. He couldn't understand why Rosalyn would give that up.

He knows that if he were the one blessed with such powers, Cale wouldn't spend his life working under someone. 

Her smile becomes more genuine, and her eyes light up with something akin to a spark.

"I'm paying back a favor," Rosalyn said. 

'A favor... did Choi Han blackmail her?' 

Cale entertains the idea for a little, even when he knows it's a ludicrous idea. 

The face in front of him is one of amusement, as if remembering a joke only she's privy to, not one of resignation and hate. 

She doesn't wear the same face he’s donned since the tender age of 19.

Cale shoots her an annoyed look.

"Has anyone ever told you that you're useless at giving good answers?" Cale asked. 

The amused look on her face disappears, and when it looks as if she's going to respond, Cale waves his hand in dismissal. 

"I'm not interested in what bullshit you can spew. Just hurry up and show me to my room," he said. 

Rosalyn's smile turns colder, and no longer can Cale see what little emotions she let leak through. It's almost as if a steel wall has been put between them. Her body language is closed off, and her eyes only show faux politeness.

However, Cale could easily tell what she was thinking.

'Cale Henituse really is trash.'

It's a look he's gotten many times from people who thought the rumors surrounding him were exaggerating. However, when they meet him, they turn around and often say the rumors are underestimating how terrible Cale is. 

He started getting a kick out of it when his reputation spread far and wide. They made the most amusing faces, and Cale would be a fool to not take advantage of it. 

It helped that when he met such people, they would reignite the rumors, and his reputation would spread. It was only another plus that Cale could witness people's faces switch from wary politeness, to complete shock and disbelief in a matter of seconds.

Cale isn't getting a kick out of Rosalyn's reaction.

It's terrifying to have someone watch you so closely without a single clue as to what they're thinking.

After a moment of such scrutinization, Rosalyn walks away, and with slight hesitation, Cale follows. 

As they walk, he lets his eyes wander over the paintings and decorations he'd walked past millions of times. 

It's odd, he thinks. It feels as if he's walking through the past, a ghost haunting what used to be. 

Cale's fingers twitch, and suddenly, he feels the urge to reach out and brush his fingertips across the paintings, the curtains, the decorative armor, anything he could touch to see if it would all dissipate. 

If it would reveal the ending state of the duchy.

The White Star was never interested in keeping the house. 

So, he burned it to the ground. Hundreds of servants and guards alike died from the fire that day, and even now he could hear their terrible screams.

Begging for help, their family, for forgiveness.

In the end, there was nothing left but ashes and rubble.

Nothing left but a man who laughed in joy, while the other laughed in crazed despair. 

He never saw what their fight was like. All he knows is he fainted and woke up to his own arrest and the sight of the White Star running away.

"Your grace?" Rosalyn's voice is hesitant. 

Cale blinks, glancing around until he takes in enough of his surroundings to realize they've made it to their destination. 

He wonders when they got to his room so fast. 

'Aigoo, I was too lost in thought.' 

Cale clears his throat and turns to Ron. 

"Ron, go get my luggage and alcohol," Cale ordered. 

He needs to write out his plans for the future. He can't do that with Ron hovering over his shoulder. 

"Ah, your grace, your luggage is in your room," Rosalyn interjected, “We have very diligent servants.”

Cale only spares a glance at her before focusing back on Ron.

"Just bring the alcohol," Cale said.

With that order, Cale goes to open the door, only to unexpectedly stop at the last moment.

"...Ms. Rosalyn. Mages only believe in their five senses, right?" 

Rosalyn doesn't respond immediately, and Cale, being faced away from her, cannot see why. 

But when she does, Cale can't help but note that her voice is kinder than before. 

"Yes, that is correct," Rosalyn replied.  

Cale nods as if reaffirming something to himself. 

"Then, if you begin to look and listen closer, I believe you'll find plenty of interesting things. Things that you'll have to believe," Cale said. 

Without another word, he opens the door and disappears. 

Cale isn't sure why he said it.

Perhaps it's because he remembers all too well the devastation and tragedy of his past life. Maybe it's because he feels pity for them: people with no clue of what's to come, and, even with Cale, there's no chance of it ending without pain. 

Either way, Rosalyn has been given the choice to open her eyes or stay ignorant for a little longer.

Only for a little. Cale cannot afford forever ignorance from either Rosalyn or Choi Han. 

But it wouldn't be him who'd open their eyes. Cale has no wishes to be directly involved with them. One may ask why, but, to put it bluntly, he doesn't trust them. 

He doesn't trust them to not get him caught, nor to cooperate if it's him telling them that there are spies, and a madman trying to take over the world.

He doesn't trust them, no, nor would they trust Cale. 

But they would trust an informer who only gives them accurate, detailed information, and Mock is instrumental in trust being built. 

A few days before he frames Mock, he'll give Choi Han a letter. It'll detail everything about the future robbery, with the exception of his and Mock's identity.

From there on, Cale is hoping that, with that event, Choi Han will be keener to trust future letters if he continues offering accurate information. 

Ron will be his body in the underworld. 

Mock will be his body on the inside until he can rid himself of all the spies. 

Choi Han and Rosalyn will be his body on the outside; for the public to see and think they're the ones defending the people and defeating enemies. They'll be the perfect definition of heroes. 

Cale will be in the shadows, coordinating everything and ensuring that nothing could go extremely wrong. 

He glances at his desk. Its mahogany wood looks less worn, Cale absentmindedly thinks, most likely from not having been subjected to his aggressive late-night writings yet. 

During his past life, Cale often wrote in a diary in memory of his mom. She often wrote in one, almost was never seen without it. It got to where even Cale was curious about what she was writing in her journal.

Whenever he asked, all she would say was: "You're not old enough yet, my dear Cale. But when you're an adult, you can read it as much as you wish."

Then, she would pinch his cheek and go back to writing, and Cale would go somewhere to sulk, but never for long. No, Cale would never leave her for long.

(Perhaps somewhere deep in his mind, he knew that his mom wouldn't stay for long.)

Cale absentmindedly rubs his cheek, his face alternating between a fond smile and a frown, as it often did when thinking about his mom. 

But when those memories stop and he becomes aware of the bitter truth that his mom is no longer here, it always ends with a frown. It could be a frown of annoyance, grief, or anger. The only thing that stayed constant is memories of her always ending in a frown. 

Cale clicks his tongue, his frown one of annoyance. He's getting too side-tracked. 

He walks over to the desk, fingertips brushing the wood as he opens the drawer. During his previous life, the drawer was constantly filled to the brim with paper, even if it was a room that only he uses. 

And as he expected, the drawer is filled with enough paper to last someone a lifetime. 

He takes one out, uncaring if the neat stacks were to collapse, and grabs one of the pens. 

Before, he only used this desk to write his memories, regrets, and the schemes of the White Star.

He only wrote in a half-assed hope that perhaps, if someone were to find his diary, it would hinder the White Star and save his family.

There was no such salvation, as is a common theme in Cale's life. His diary burned in the fire that night with him as its only reader, and Cale was left to suffocate.

But now, he writes for a different purpose. Cale writes with a promise of survival and revenge.

He writes everything he remembers of his past life, beginning with major events and then going back to fill in the blanks.

It wouldn't do if he forgot something important while under stress.

So, Cale writes until his wrist begins to ache and his eyes swarm, till time becomes meaningless. 

He writes until a knock breaks him out of his head, and in a mixture of instinct and logic, he throws open the drawer and hides the paper under the rest, making sure to keep the stack neat. 

Cale only opens the door when he's satisfied that the papers and desk look completely untouched.

He expected Ron and alcohol. But what Cale got instead is a faceful of Mock. In his shock, Mock pushes into his room without resistance, and Cale frowns when he realizes that if Mock came, it must be nothing good. 

Out of all the spies, he was one of the less pleasant ones to deal with. 

“Long live the future king,” Mock said. 

‘Long live the future king.’ A phrase meant to identify allies from enemies. However, in Cale’s case, it’s a phrase that means this person is a spy, and therefore he needs to be on guard.

“...Long live the future king,” Cale muttered. 

Saying that damned phrase again makes him want to throw up. 

It’s as if a lock has been opened. Mock’s demeanor changes to one of spitting anger, a far cry from his meek servant persona, but Cale can’t bring himself to feel threatened or afraid. 

“You damn bastard!” He begins, “making me bow like that for so long!”

Cale is already zoning out, having been expecting a rant. He wonders when he can go to bed. They got here late in the evening, and he’s still feeling the after-effects of coming back to life. 

To put it bluntly, he's too tired to deal with his bullshit. 

"Is there anything else that you want or are you just going to ramble both of our heads off?" Cale snapped. 

Mock splutters, taken aback at the blatant resistance and hatred in his voice. 

Who in their right mind would disrespect the person who could ruin their life with just a single word? 

"Treat your superiors with respect. Don't you dare forget that I can get rid of you and your family ," Mock snarled. 

A warning and a reminder Cale was all too well aware of. However, it did not incite fear in him as it had before. Instead, he only felt annoyance towards Mock and thought, ‘is this the best you can come up with?’

Unless they have proof of being a traitor, the White Star will continue to use him as a pawn. He has access to much more things than servants do, after all. Someone would be a fool to carelessly get rid of such an advantage. 

"I know," Cale simply said.

"R-right! Then you should be more respectful to-" 

"Ah, you have my alcohol."

He takes the platter from Mock, pausing when he sees his diary sitting slightly away.

It's one of simple design: a brown cover without words or design, the only notable thing about it is that it seemed to have infinite pages. Even since having the diary at 9 years old, he has yet to fill out all the papers.

Cale puts the diary on the desk to grab the alcohol, watching as Mock's face begins to pale.

"Don't you know when to leave?" Cale snapped.

He takes a swig of his drink, smiling to himself when he hears flustered muttering and the slam of his door. 

Cale sets down the alcohol to pick up his diary, opening to the last entry he put in before he came to the Choi duchy. 

Only, the last entry wasn't before his arrival. No, Cale realizes with growing confusion, the last entry is before his diary burned. 

He stares, flipping back a page or three, recognizing each and every page from his time here. 

"...What the fuck?" He whispers. 

Then Cale laughed. He laughed until his sides began to cramp, till tears threatened to fall from his eyes. 

"The gods aren't useless after all!" 

For once, they've blessed Cale with something very precious. 

Something very precious, indeed, but dangerous. Cale tightens his grip as his eyes wander across the room, wondering where he could place it. 

It would be too noticeable in the drawer. Behind the curtains is too generic and easily found. Under furniture would be found by the servants who clean. 

Cale's eyes shift to the bed. For a temporary spot, it would work perfectly. But within the following days, he had to find a permanent hiding spot. With his decision made, he sets it on the bed and prepares for the night. 

Tonight would be an eventful one, and Cale needs as much sleep as he can get.

(However, sometime later, when he's lying in bed trying to sleep, he remembers that this Ron does not know where the kitchen or alcohol is, and any traces of sleep disappear.)

 It's midnight when the first clash of weapons meets in the dark of night, soon followed by many more.

"Ho, young people are so vicious these days," Ron said. 

A dagger is in his hand, his gaze nothing but a tundra of ice as he deflects another blow from Choi Han's sword. 

Choi Han only grits his teeth and dodges one of his daggers. 

The young duke is skilled. His blows are precise and smooth, and his defense is nearly impossible to break. 

However, Choi Han's fighting style reminds Ron of a man desperate for survival. It's messy and goes for the kill without regard to the user. It's a style only those who had to survive on their own could learn.

For a duke to have learned such a style... Ron was curious. There was nothing about his life before appearing as the lost son of the previous duke. Had he learned it before his time here?

But those questions could be asked later, he decides.

"Why are you attacking an innocent old man?" He asked, perhaps to taunt and satisfy his own curiosity. 

"You're dangerous." 

Ron lets out a bark of laughter, dark amusement lighting up his eyes. 

"Is that so?" 

"Why are you a servant?" Choi Han comes at him again.

Ron sidesteps the sweep of his sword. 

"Why don't you stop fighting, and I'll tell you?" 

Choi Han falters and stops, watching him with wary eyes before sheathing his sword. Ron put his daggers back in his uniform. 

"Have you seen an organization with a black outfit with five white stars and one red star on the chest?" Ron bluntly asked.

Choi Han blinks before realization crosses his face. And suddenly, his expression turns into something murderous.  Killing intent begins to pour out with such an intensity that even Ron felt chills on his neck.

He eyes him warily before continuing with a bitter voice. 

“Those bastards took our home and family. I’ve spent the last 13 years hiding with my son."

There’s a contemplative silence as Choi Han digests his story and his killing intent slowly fades.

“...They killed Harris Village,” He said after a while.

Choi Han's body is shaking now, but his hands only curl into tight fists. They're the only part of his body to stay steady.

Ron regards him with hidden emotions before looking up at the sky. 

"Promise me," Choi Han suddenly said, "that if you even get a glimpse of those bastards, you'll tell me." 

Ron scoffs. 

"They'll be dead before anything else," Ron said. 

He walks away with an underlying promise to those words. 

However, instead of going to his quarters, Ron approaches Cale's with the memory his nightmare last night.

He opens the door slightly, enough so his sight can reach the bed, but sees nothing but an empty room and bed. 

Ron opens the door wider and walks in, looking closer this time, but the scenery does not change.

And it leaves one irreversible truth: Cale Henituse has disappeared from the duchy.

Ron’s gaze focuses on an open book. Without thinking much of it, he picks it up and skims over the page.

'Secret organization… calls themselves Arm… promised to pay off our debt… bad feeling.’

The book, no, the diary crumples under his grip. Ron flips the pages with increasing speed. 

Somewhere deep in his mind, a quiet horror is beginning to bloom.

'I gave money to help expand their base. More people have been coming to our territory for help…' 

'I'm getting married to the man who beat me. The White Star found out. He must have spies there, too. I’ll never be free...'

'I got important documents today...' 

'Ron and Beacrox left. I shouldn't have been surprised…'

'The White Star is planning his invasion. It's close…' 

'I'm not sure if I'll survive. I hope not this diary does…' 

'I came back in time. Everything will be different now. It has to.' 

Ron's grip on the diary loosens and it falls, landing softly onto the sheets. 

And Ron remembers. 

The raggedness that appeared a few months after Cale’s 19th birthday. 

How closed off he became. The solemnity that shouldn’t have been on someone so young. 

How his drinking increased severely and his attitude worsened. 

His words to Rosalyn. 

He chuckles, low and dangerous, as a gleam appears in his eyes.

"...It looks like I need to have a chat with our puppy young master."

Chapter Text

The first time Cale had a nightmare, he was young and naive, a child who only knew of warmth and safety.

Of course, to someone like that, a nightmare was enough to break the fragile illusion of a safe world, which then caused him to wake up a tearful, blubbering mess.

(That night, he snuck into his parents’ room, spending the rest of the night watching the stars, and eventually the sunrise.)

It stuck on him like a parasite after that, always a slight whisper in his mind, waiting for another fear to latch on.

And when his mother died, it consumed his dreams, until Cale avoided the mere act of closing his eyes for even a second.

All there was for months were sleepless nights and a hazy recollection of time.

Eventually, like everything, the nightmares disappeared into a rare event, from time and Cale learning how to brush them off. 

(" Ron, I'm scared to sleep, please make them go away-" )

But then they began again the moment he finally comprehended what it meant to take the White Star's hand. 

During that time, Cale barely slept, too wrapped in his own head to relax, and spent that time watching the stars, and eventually the sunrise. 

However, this time, he had slept well for the past 2 days, and Cale could feel the hands of sleep trying to pull him under.

It felt like before; when he was someone who could sleep with no troubles, a person who was not a morning person and had the privilege to sleep in. 

And yet, always yet , this is not the past and his eyes remain wide open, his body restless. 

Cale shouldn't have expected this time to be different. His mind is too used to a nonexistent sleep schedule, and due to getting more rest than usual, his body could not even relax. 

He spends a few more seconds like this, until his gaze turns to the door, the balcony, and a sky that signals it's nearly midnight. 

A sigh escapes his lips. 

If he couldn't sleep, then Cale would spend it getting the materials he needs. 

With the decision made, he rips off the sheets as soon as he leaves the bed, wondering if he'd even have time to redo it. 

Cale decides to deal with that thought later. 

He begins to twist the bed sheets, all the while mentally repeating the steps to make a makeshift rope. 

The balcony is the best route to get out. Going for the door means guards, and guards, at this moment, equals getting caught. 

There's no way that Cale, someone not trained in stealth or his senses, could outrun or dodge the guards forever. 

It'll be much less time-consuming going through the balcony, he had concluded long ago. 

Cale tugs on the makeshift rope, satisfied when nothing comes loose. He stands up, stretching slightly to get the crick in his back out before walking to his drawer to grab a black cloak. 

Obscurity is necessary for this particular trip, and, well, it wouldn't hurt if he were to get spotted when sneaking out.

With the makeshift rope in his hand and the oversized cloak hiding his figure, Cale opens the balcony. 

The night breeze brushes against his skin now that there's nothing to block it, and Cale shivers. He had forgotten how cold it could get in the Northern kingdom. 

Cale was never one to let the cold deter him. He throws down the bedsheets, long enough to where he'd only have to make a small jump, and ties it to the pillars. 

Then, with a slight carelessness, he throws his legs over the barrier between him and the rope, pausing at the uneasy knowledge that if he let go now, there would be nothing to stop his fall. 

Cale clutches the makeshift rope, letting his body drop. However, before he slides further, he quickly sets his feet on the wall, allowing him to gain control of his descent. 

He lets out a sharp yet breathless laugh, ignoring the pain that's beginning to spread within his palms. 

Slowly, he lowers his foot, making sure that it's secure on the wall before he lets gravity take its course.

His foot sticks to it again.

He lets go, this time faster than before. He passes a window. 

His foot sticks. The motion becomes familiar to him, so Cale lets his mind wander.

Cale slides further down.

Stick. 

Climb lower.

Stick. 

Climb. 

Stick. 

Climb, but he goes quicker because there is a window that is open with voices ringing out.

Stick with a baited breath, tension mixed with a silent whisper of excitement as he awaits to hear a cry for guards. 

Climb. There is nothing but their laughter and the sound of mops and buckets. 

Stick. Cale glances down, blinking when he finds that he has reached the end. There's only a small jump left, now. 

He takes in a deep breath, letting the air coax his beating heart to rest, and lets go.

Cale's body falls at an alarming speed, to where there is only instinct and alertness, a body that hunches over in preparation, and a mind that runs high in adrenaline. 

In the short while that it lasted, the only thing that Cale could think was: ' It feels like flying.'

(Cale had often wished that he could fly.)

But humans were not blessed with wings or flight, and eventually they must return to the earth. 

His back hits the ground hard and Cale wheezes as the breath is knocked out of him. He lays there, then, unmoving. One could almost proclaim him dead if not for the struggling movement of his chest, or the mumbled, vulgar curses. 

A minute passes before he attempts to stand. It's then when the scrapes on his hands make itself known to him, and a pounding headache. 

Cale doesn't pause when he realizes the fall caused more than a winded chest. Instead, he walks away with long, quick strides, as if he weren't injured only a moment ago.

( And in the haze of pain and limited time, a makeshift rope sways in the breeze; forgotten and left for dark, tired eyes to gaze upon. 

Those eyes flick to the departing figure. 

Back at the hanging bed sheets. 

And then, their body moves, fast, fast, till they are a mere blur that no human eye can follow.) 

Of course, Cale is oblivious to this all. This was a noiseless action, after all; if not seen or heard, there was nothing but the user to destroy the unknown. 

Still, there's a prickling to his neck now, an instinct or 6th sense telling him that something is watching. 

Waiting . 

Cale walks faster.

His eyes are tracking the terrain now, alert and tense, but relaxes when he spots nothing but dirt and a few new-grown oak trees. 

No one could hide here. The tree leaves are few in between as autumn begins to set in, the oak too thin to hide a human body. 

Cale scoffs at himself. He's becoming like that woman who frequents the bar, always spouting nonsense about gods and something random about death in her intoxicated state. 

However, despite all of that, they had started to have a begrudging friendship of sorts, born out of seeing each other at the bar constantly. 

It wasn't until their first interaction that their friendship truly began to develop. 

Their first interaction and the beginning of their friendship begins like this: Cale bought her water and hangover medicine, as the throwing up was beginning to get in his way, awkwardly patted her back, and then she promised to ask the gods to protect and bless him as repayment…

And she threw up again, and Cale dismissed it as hangover talk and left her. 

Not even a person who serves the temple could talk to the gods, much less ask them to bless a person. 

Even so, as they began to interact more and more throughout the year, she kept on persisting, and every time their conversation went something like this —

( "Young Master Cale, the gods may be bastards who are useless, especially the one I serve, but-"

She throws up again, and Cale bites back a retort. 

"But if I annoy him enough, he might do something useful for once," she trailed off then muttered, "he might finally leave me alone too, that annoying bastard." 

Cale, this time, lets out a retort.  

"Well, we agree on one thing." Cale hands her water, while she looks up at him with a questioning look.

"The gods really are annoying bastards." 

She had grinned then, wide and sharp with an emotion he hadn't, still didn't, recognize, and slung her arm around his shoulder. 

"Haha! I knew you would agree, Young Master Cale! You truly are wise!" 

She stumbled, and Cale let out a curse. 

"Hey, are you so drunk that you can't even stand up properly? Tch, you're worse than a newborn." Cale clicked his tongue in annoyance. 

She continued to laugh and playfully poked at his cheek. He swatted her away with a glare. 

"My dongsaeng is so cute," she cooed. 

Cale's the one that stumbled this time, and doesn't move to pick up the dropped person whose name he didn't even know, yet called him dongsaeng. 

"Ha! The drinking must be making you go insane," Cale had said. 

The woman pouted when he walked past her without a glance or hesitation. 

As he walked away, Cale pretended to not hear her yell to call her noona.) 

On top of insisting on something impossible, she always wanted him to call her noona. Something about how she felt a deep friendship for someone who could hold a drink and share her views on the gods, so it was only appropriate. 

She never stopped, even when, a few months after Cale's 19th birthday, she said goodbye with a vicious yet saddened look.

Cale never did figure out where she left, nor her name. He had never asked, and she never told. 

Maybe Cale should've asked, should've told her to write, and maybe then, just maybe , the past wouldn't have been as lonely. 

But he didn't. Instead, he observed the look in her eyes, wished her well, and walked away. 

That was the last time he saw or heard of her. 

Cale wonders if when everything is over, he could track her down, get her name, and nurse a couple of drinks at a bar they'd get thrown out of for causing too much of a ruckus. 

His lips lift, but it doesn't stay for long, disappearing under a stoic mask and an intimidating frown when he finally approaches the gates to Bago city. 

Bago city. It's the capital of the Northern kingdom, and where most of the population resides. Naturally, with such a big population, it has a large underworld as well. 

Cale didn't know everything about it. All he knows is that dangerous, rare, and illegal items are sold here constantly, and that the White Star had taken control most of it years ago. 

He would've succeeded at consuming all of the underworld, too, if it hadn't been for Ron and Beacrox… or so he assumed. 

Anyways, no matter who it was, hearing about the White Star's anger was incredibly satisfying, and Cale was looking forward to hearing it again when Ron takes the underworld over. 

Cale pauses at the gates, wondering why there are no guards asking for identification, but in the end, decides to not test his luck and walks through. 

He adjusts his cloak as he does, making sure that his face can't be easily seen. He's a person with a notorious reputation, and Cale is not taking any more risks than necessary. 

He takes the moment to glance around the city, taking in the buildings and alleyways, anything to point him to the underworld. 

Cale had never been here before, much less tried to find the underworld. But now, he's regretting not doing prior visitation or research. 

"Hey, you dirty stray, get the hell away from my shop!" 

Cale continues to walk. It isn't his problem, and he doesn't have the time to interfere. 

...

(It's the sound of a body hitting the ground that makes him turn.)

A girl, with gray, unbrushed hair, dressed in ruined, dirty clothing lies on the ground, a man looming above her with a knife. 

"I keep tellin' you damn slum kids to keep away from my restaurant, but you all continue to be thievin' scoundrels," he snarled. 

Cale eyes the knife, his body subconsciously stepping forward. 

The man kicks her stomach, but the girl doesn't cry out. No, instead she curls into a fetus position, and glares at the man. 

"Ha! Still got energy in ya? That ain't going to last. I'm going to make sure that no slum kids come to my shop, startin' with-" 

A streak of red, and now a young boy stands between the man and girl, his arms thrown wide open, as if to protect her. 

"Ho-" 

"Leave noona alone!" 

The man sneers at the small, trembling figure, and takes a step forward.

He's stopped by a hand on his shoulder. It isn't strong, but rather firm and rough. 

The man turns around, only to be met with a fist coming straight at him with no time to dodge. 

The fist hits his face, sending him sprawling on the ground with a bloody nose and a moan of pain. 

Cale had never been more grateful for the fighting lessons he'd picked up over the years.  

"Hey, you damn bastard, what the hell are you doing, threatening children?" Cale asks in the most trashiest voice he could muster. 

The man only groans. Cale kicks him in the groin. 

"Aigoo, one punch and you're already done? Come on, at least put up a fight. You were looking for one, right ?" 

He kicks him in the stomach this time, harder than he did the groin, and spits on his face.

The man doesn't do anything but whimper. 

Cale clicks his tongue and turns to the children, who are hugging each other and watching with wide eyes. 

He takes in their appearance, and walks towards them. The gray-haired one hugs the boy tighter, her body shifting to shield him. 

"Hey," Cale takes out a bag of money, "do you want to help me find something? You'll get paid." 

The red-haired one - and Cale should probably learn their names or come up with better alternatives - looks up at the girl, who shakes her head. 

He shrugs, but still throws the money at them, which the girl seems to instinctively catch. 

"Keep it. It was extra funds, anyway." 

And then Cale walks away, from the man who had disappeared somewhere, and the children, whose eyes never stray from his receding figure. 

Or so he thought. 

There's a tug on his shirt, and Cale turns to see the little girl looking up at him with knowing eyes. 

"Mister, are you looking for the underworld?" 

He blinks.

"Yes. It's a part that sells rare items," Cale said. 

The girl nodded to herself before pointing further down the road. 

"There's a building that's supposed to be a bar further down, but it's an auction and illegal store at night. It's called the Drunken Bar," she said

He wonders why a little girl would have that information, but the possibilities of why isn't something he wants to delve into. 

So, Cale bowed slightly, gave them his thanks, and walked away…

And feels a tug on his shirt. This time, when he looks, it's the red-haired boy.

"Uhm, ahjussi, th-thank you…" 

' Ahjussi?' Cale echoes in his mind. 

He had never been called ahjussi before. It's always 'young master Cale!' or a slight variation of that with more colorful language. 

It felt… casual , even if it was a normal way to address older men among commoners, but not in a distasteful way. Rather, it brought a sliver of warmth to his chest.

"It was nothing," Cale said.

He gently pries the hand from his clothing and takes a step back, making sure that he wouldn't be stopped again before continuing. 

He makes a note to himself to organize better conditions for the slums later on. Children shouldn't be knowing stuff like this, much less be threatened because they had to survive. 

Ah, come to think of it, he should probably find that man some time and chat with him. 

It wouldn't be good if that man continues to think that it's okay to beat children. 

Cale stops, then, taking a moment to scan the buildings, only to abruptly stop at the sight of the bar. It looked to be run-down and small, with chipped paint and stains from god knows where. 

...If it were like this, then no wonder it gets overlooked. Cale takes a moment to readjust his cloak and brush his hair back, trying to force the tension that leaks into his posture and face back. 

He takes in a deep breath, forcing the air into his lungs, and slams the door open. 

There's a woman tending to the desk, but no one else, despite there being remnants of people that have yet to be erased. 

"Can I help you?" She politely asks. 

Cale straightens, so that he's taller, and walks toward the woman. 

"Yes. Show me where they're selling," Cale said. 

Her gaze turns colder despite her polite smile. 

"I'm sorry sir, I don't know what you're talking about. If you're talking about becoming a member, then you must pay 100 gold coins." 

Cale scoffs. Of course this place would demand an atrocious amount of money to even get in. 

"Fine," Cale said, already throwing a pouch of money at her. 

She shifts through it before looking up at him and smiling brightly. 

"Thank you, sir, for your contribution to this bar. If you will, please follow me." 

She walks to the stage, motioning for Cale to join her before pulling down a blown-out candle stuck to the wall. 

And then, the stage creaks, and slowly, begins to lower itself into the ground. 

It was a smart idea, Cale had to admit. No one would suspect illegal items being sold here, a place that looks small and broken down, especially if it were as close to the slums as he suspected. 

"Ah, right, I must warn you that our patrons are very… cheap , and there's a high chance that your items may be stolen." 

Before Cale could get a chance to react, the stage lands, and the woman disappears into the crowd. 

He scoffs, lips twisting into a wry smile as he observes the sellers and their items.

He only moves when he spots the items that he needs. However, it proved to be difficult, because although the walls were wide, there were too many people.

Cale pushes through, grimacing at the smell of sweat and grime that assaulted his nose. Did these people not know the definition of a bath? 

Still, he pushes forward, till he reaches the seller who had the exact items he needed. Only then does he book it to the side, hand already in his cloak.

He takes note of the curtains behind them. 

Before the seller can speak, he points at all of their devices, and pulls out the rest of his money. 

"All of those for 450 gold coins," Cale said. 

"830." the man quickly shot back.

"445."

"830. Don't even try to haggle." 

"440."

The man grit his teeth, a knife now in hand as he waves it at Cale. 

"Go away if you can't accept the price, or else I'll kill ya!" 

Cale looks at the knife. He was the only man who sold these types of items today, and Cale desperately needed them. 

"480." 

The man swings at him, but Cale ducks, using the man's momentum to push him further away. 

While the man tries to recover, Cale grabs his items, stuffs them into a nearby bag, and books it into the curtains, all the while throwing the money away.

It would only take up space, anyways.

Behind the curtains, there isn't anything but long, winding hallways, and white walls that seem to never stop. 

There isn't anything but yells to find him, but even then, Cale is leaving it all, everything fading away but the pounding of his own heart.

It was exhilarating, to steal something. Cale lets out a loud laugh, full and free, and wonders if he's finally snapped. 

( Maybe he had the day he died. )

He turns right, and runs straight into a wall, no, Cale wasn't close enough to the edge to run into it, and there's a pathway. 

No, Cale ran into a human. One, he notes, has scarily similar black hair and eyes to Choi Han…

Fuck .

Choi Han stares at him, still standing while Cale sits, with searching eyes. 

His only thought is: ' why in the hell is Choi Han here? ' 

"You betrayed the duchy," Choi Han said. 

Cale forces himself to not react. It could be taken as him betraying the duchy by going to the underworld, but…

He had a feeling that Choi Han was talking about something much, much different.

"...The White Star."

Cale flinches, and it's as if a spark has gone off in Choi Han's head. 

"You died. The White Star tried to take over the duchy, then the world…" 

By then, Cale is blatantly staring at Choi Han, who looks as if a headache is plaguing him. 

"You remember," Cale said.

"So it wasn't just a dream," Choi Han muttered before shaking his head at Cale's statement. 

"No, not everything. My memory is still foggy." 

Okay. Cale could deal with this. He wasn't planning on Choi Han's memories returning, or to interact with him much besides sending him anonymous letters, but now, he might have to revise-

"There's the thief!" 

...Damn it, nothing ever goes his way. 

He stands up, hand snatching Choi Han's, and runs .

It doesn't take long before his body is lifted, and Cale blinks when he realizes that he's being carried.

He shoots Choi Han a dubious look. 

"It will be faster this way," he says, and for some reason Cale finds himself feeling insulted. 

That feeling changes to surprise when, in a flash, fast, fast, his sword is pulled out, blocking a dagger. 

"Hold on," Choi Han warns.

Cale tightens his hold on Choi Han's neck, and suddenly, they're lifted into the air, an aura flowing through his sword, and then there is nothing else but the sound of a building collapsing. 

' Did this bastard just destroy a building?'

Cale looks around, stupefied, and lets out a laugh of disbelief. 

That crazy bastard really just did destroy a building. 

And wasn't even hurt, no, quite the opposite. His pace is faster than before, and Cale can't spot any cuts or abrasions. 

"Ah, that building must've been weaker than I thought," Choi Han simply states.

...Cale doesn't bother dignifying that with a response. 

For a while, it stays silent. Silent until they reach the forest in record time, and then Choi Han speaks.

"Young Master Cale… no, Cale, I need answers." 

Cale looks up at the sky, the sun now barely peeking out, and sighs. 

"I know. I'll answer almost anything tonight." 

The answer must satisfy him, because there is no speaking for the rest of the trip. Only the wind, and two humans breathing.

Ron knew that it wasn't moral to go through someone's private diary. But with Cale's disappearance, he considered it necessary at the time.

Ron was always trained to find possible clues, after all. 

But it isn't necessary now. He could've stopped reading it ages ago, but Ron found that he couldn't. 

Perhaps it was to punish himself. Punish himself by reading what the puppy young master had been through, stuff that had happened right under his nose, about things that could've been prevented if he had paid more attention. 

If everyone had paid more attention to a person they thought of a trashy young master who never learned empathy and humility, then…

Well, lots of things would be different. But to Ron, it wasn’t any use to ruminate on the past or regret. Ruminating meant what ifs, if only, and regret. What use is that when the past is over, and you are now living in the present?

It’s best to look forward and heal the woes of the past. That way, you can truly live with those who are dear to you. 

And yet, Ron looks back now, thinking, what if, if only.

Wondering if it’s too late to help someone who’s so used to going without help, so used to pain and hate that they’ve gone numb to it.

“Ha... our puppy young master really is a troublemaker,” Ron mumbles. 

Despite the phrase, there’s a fondness to Ron’s tone and a softness to his features, more pronounced in the rising sun. 

It all disappears when the door clicks open, and Cale walks in dusty and dazed, while Choi Han follows with spotless clothes and a determined expression. 

It was quite the odd scene, but it was ignored when Cale startles at the sight of him, and stills when he sees the diary in his hand. 

“Young master-nim, I think we need to have a chat,” Ron said.

Cale flinches, but sighs and uses both hands to point at Choi Han.

“I promised him a ‘chat,’ too.”

Ron glances at Choi Han, who has already found a place on the bed, and follows suit.

Cale only starts talking when all of them are sat. His posture is slouched, eyes tired yet thoughtful. 

It’s Ron who speaks first. 

“Start from the very beginning,” he said, “Tell us everything.”

Cale takes in a deep breath, a strangled laugh escaping his lips.

“Okay,” he agrees, “alright.”

Cale starts at his first meeting with the White Star. 

He tells the story of a young, desperate boy looking for salvation, but got one in exchange for eternal servitude. 

The story of a young boy who crumbled households, helped orchestrate the murder of their enemies, funded their organization, and helped keep their name out of the spotlight. 

All in the span of a year. 

It's at this point that the story becomes vague, things skipped and unsaid, and a brief period of awkwardness at the mention of Choi Han beating Cale.  

But in the end, when the sun is high and Cale's throat is dry from overuse, everything important has been said, simple words that can change the future significantly. 

Well, almost everything. When Ron has left and Choi Han stays, they speak about their first meeting. 

It goes something like this –

"Why did you say that about Harris Village?" 

Cale paused, but decides to tell the truth. 

"My mother's body was found there," he said bluntly, "and it was the anniversary of her death when we met. I just happened to be drunk, too." 

Choi Han takes on a thoughtful demeanor, but when he speaks, it's tainted with bitterness. 

"I don't think I can forgive you." 

Cale shakes his head slowly and looks straight at Choi Han as he says: "I don't want you to. I can't forgive you for beating me near death, either." 

Both observe the other for a few seconds, satisfied when they find an unspoken truce. 

Perhaps it wasn't forgiveness that they were seeking in the first place. No, it was closure . 

After all, you can forgive someone but still resent and hate and always think what if? 

But with closure, there's a sense of peace. You've come to terms with the situation, and then you can look forward to the future without extra weight on your shoulders. 

Perhaps the future will be just a bit brighter now.

Chapter Text

As the title says, I'm going to rewrite this. I'm not happy with my writing or my outline. I feel like I can do better, and it's making it hard to write when all I want to do is go back and redo everything. Plus, new ideas for this are coming in that don't fit but I would like to include

I'm probably going to delete this in a few days (most likely around Tuesday or Wednesday) and post the rewrite as soon as I'm done with my new outline and have written/edited the first few chapters

I'm terribly sorry for the inconvenience and short notice! But hopefully, the rewrite will be better 

(side note: there are going to be changes to this story that'll cause it to be slightly or very different - I haven't decided yet - in the rewrite, although the basis of the story will stay the same, so please be aware of that.)