Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The room was silent. Not an oppressive, solemn silence — just emptiness. No despair, no regret, no fear, as was often the case in this office. It was strange, but not uncomfortable.

Deon sat in front of a massive desk, feeling something invisible tighten around his chest. He was seated on a couch, facing a being that radiated an aura not of grim death, but of peace. Eternal peace.

“So,” a calm voice broke the stillness, “how does it feel to become the catastrophe of an entire world?”

Black eyes, dark as a starless sky, flickered toward the newly arrived soul — the one who had just departed from life.

Deon Hart. A white-haired young man with blood-red eyes, now dim as he gazed at the God before him. The God of Death, to be precise.

Yet the entity he faced didn’t look terrifying. If anything, he seemed... strangely ordinary. A knitted, light beige sweater, white—perhaps ashen — hair, and tanned skin. He didn’t glare at Deon with judgment or contempt, nor did he sneer. There was only a lazy curiosity in his expression.

“What does it matter?” Deon finally spoke, crossing his arms. “If it was the will of the world itself.”

“Perhaps. But you regretted it,” the God mused, shrugging as he leaned back against the couch, lounging comfortably within his own domain. “At least, at first.”

Deon remained silent.

“They used you. Betrayed you. Killed your brother.” The God of Death slowly lifted a hand, as if presenting something unseen in the air. “After that, you had nothing left. You were no more than a puppet, controlled by whoever pleased.”

Still, the white-haired young man said nothing. The only response was the heavy, painful silence between them.

“I won’t send you back,” the God continued. “You don’t want that, and I have no need for it.”

“Then why am I here?” Deon’s gaze sharpened, mild surprise flickering across his face.

He had hoped — no, feared — that he would be sent back. That he would be forced to relive those moments again and again, as penance for his sins.

“The world can still be saved. But not by you.” The God tilted his head slightly. “There is someone else who can rewrite history.”

“And you’d just hand that power over?” Deon scoffed, already pitying the poor soul who would take his place. Even imagining it made his face twist slightly, though he quickly masked it with his usual stoic, faintly furrowed expression.

“Of course not. I never do anything ‘just because.’” A hint of amusement crept into the God’s voice. “He will take your place. He will enter your body at the moment when things can still be changed. And you… you will become my assistant.”

Silence again.

Deon considered the proposition. He didn’t want to go back. But if this person took his place… If he could prevent what had happened before… If his loved ones could survive. Could live happily. Then—

“What’s his name?” he asked, resigned yet determined to know the name of the so-called ‘fortunate one’—the next Deon Hart.

“Cale,” the God of Death answered simply. “Don’t worry, he’s not like you. ...Almost.”

(Though, honestly, they might as well be copies. Confusion will be inevitable. Both weak, yet strong. And, of course, both of them coughing up blood. Heh.)

“…Fine. The deal is made.” Deon nodded, extending his hand.

“Then let’s begin, Deon Hart.” The God of Death smiled, clasping the offered hand. “You still have much to change.”

And with that, the deity clapped his hands, preparing for the immense expenditure of power required to rewind time for a single world —  transferring the soul of his chosen one into a new, waiting vessel.

°°°

Cale opened his eyes and immediately felt that something was wrong. The damp scent of fabric and sweat, the rough weight of a blanket over his body — sensations he hadn’t experienced in years since becoming Cale Henituse. And the faint hum of voices somewhere distant, muffled... but not by walls. By fabric?

He stared silently at the ceiling, realizing that his body felt foreign. Again.

There were no memories. Not a single one. He didn’t know who this person had been before him, but one thing was clear — this wasn’t his body. He had been thrown into another place. And judging by the surroundings, it wasn’t a comfortable, luxurious room this time. He was in a tent. A shared tent.

"Not red."

Lifting a hand, he touched his hair. Short. Unfamiliar, rough texture. No hint of his previous color, as if it had been bleached and cut.

His fingers curled into a fist. A child’s hand... Was he a child?

His body felt tired but not deathly weak. That meant whoever had been here before him wasn’t on the verge of dying. A good sign.

Slowly sitting up, he scanned the tent. Soldiers—judging by the cloaks and the tent itself—were sleeping, their faces tense even in rest. Scarred skin, heavy breathing. People accustomed to war. But since his movements hadn’t woken them, it suggested the war had only recently begun. A year at most.

Outside, beyond the thick fabric, he could hear footsteps. Night watchmen patrolling the camp. Somewhere, a fire crackled.

Thud.

Cale’s gaze shifted to a small book at his bedside, its cover dark. It gave off a faint, barely perceptible aura.

The energy of death.

He picked it up, and a cold shiver ran down his spine. An unfamiliar language, strange symbols—but the moment he opened the pages, everything began to make sense.

His Recording ability activated instantly, embedding the words into his memory, forming a clear picture. There was no chance of forgetting even a single letter now.

"Aigoo..."

The more he read, the more annoyed he became as the weight of the situation settled in. The world he had been thrown into. Another war, one that had only just begun. The fate of the person whose body he now inhabited.

Deon Hart.

A child thrown into the meat grinder of war. Someone destined to endure eight years of hell, become a "hero," a double agent for both sides, only to...

The book cut off at the final chapter. Torn-out pages, leaving no way to know what had been written. Only a single word remained on the last scrap of paper.

Catastrophe.

"...Damn you, God of Death."

Cale slowly closed the book. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he suppressed an irritated sigh.

Fantastic. The gods had dragged him into yet another catastrophe. Another war, another conflict that had nothing to do with him. And what would he get in return?

Once he found a way back... Oh, he’d show that bastard exactly what happens to those who try to use him without permission.

That God of Death better start preparing a worthy sum to compensate for this mess.

Someone passed by the tent outside, their footsteps loud against the packed earth. It was only then that Cale realized how noisy this world was. The rustling of weapons, the crackling of fire, the hushed conversations of patrolling soldiers. It all blended into one, creating the constant background hum of a war camp.

He knew that by morning, he’d have to pretend that everything was fine.

That he was Deon Hart — the boy forced into the heart of a bloody battlefield.

Well, playing a child wouldn’t be too difficult. It was definitely better than ending up in the body of someone in their twenties. That would have required far more effort to avoid suspicion.

"Damn you, GoD."

Cale laid back down, closing his eyes with a weary sigh. He needed to sleep while he still had the chance. Who knew when he’d get another moment of rest, given where he had ended up... and in what cursed time.

Chapter Text

— «Fourteen years...» — He thought, slowly sitting up on the cot. — «And this body still isn't used to any kind of strain.» —

Why was he complaining when he had been weak before? Because this wasn’t the same kind of weak. This body was even worse.

Before, he could at least manage something. But now, any stress would make him cough up blood—through his mouth, his nose, anywhere.

It was a problem, especially when he was doing everything he could to hide it.

Life around him was already in full swing. Soldiers hurried to get dressed, some swore over lost boots, others laughed while trying to wake their comrades. Deon sighed and reached for his uniform. He had gotten used to this routine over the past few days in this world, but every time, his body's sluggishness and its hypersensitivity—both to smells and light—irritated him. Especially the sun.

— «Kim Rok Soo, Cale Henituse, and now Deon Hart...» — He smirked bitterly to himself. — «How many more lives do I have to live?» —

He recalled the last thing he had seen before unexpectedly ending up in this body.

And it had been worse than anyone could have imagined.

After the death of the White Star, the Hunters appeared. One by one, his comrades began to fall. His family… No one survived except for him. And even then, as they lay dying, they still thought of him—of his useless life.

Live, young master.

Recalling his butler’s last words, the former red-haired commander pressed his lips together.

Ron, Lock, Rosalyn, Beacrox, Hans, Eruhaben, Alberu… and all the others. They were gone. His Henituse family had been hunted down one by one, and after their disappearance, they were never found. But he suspected they had met the same fate as the rest.

His children — the ones who clung to him on bitter nights, not wanting to part with him for even a minute. Hong, Raon, and On...

He missed them. Their smiles, their laughter. Their touch, their bright, sparkling eyes, the same eyes he had watched lose their light.

Lost in thought, he didn’t notice how time slipped by. The time for getting dressed was already over, and now everyone was heading to breakfast. Not wanting to lag behind and attract unnecessary trouble, Deon joined them.

On the way, his gaze fell on Milan, who stood by the entrance of the small mess hall, giving short orders or greeting familiar faces. Light brown hair, a scar on his cheek, a confident and slightly cocky look.

He was someone close to the original Deon and a member of the notorious High Knights.

But for now, at this moment, they were nothing to each other — just new acquaintances. Two people who would soon stand side by side in battle, fighting until they dropped. For the Empire, for survival, for themselves.

Right now, his future subordinate looked like someone who knew what he was doing, despite some inexperience. Deon noticed how Milan shot him a quick glance, filled with distrust and slight disdain.

— «A teenager…» — Milan was probably thinking, frowning and quietly scoffing to himself. — «According to the records, he’s the son of a count. Hah, obviously a spoiled brat who has no idea what he's getting into.» —

Deon didn’t pay it any mind. He was used to such looks — both as Kim Rok Soo, for his cold demeanor, and as the useless firstborn, Cale, the waste who only knew how to drink and fight with thugs.

Instead, he focused on his breakfast — a thick stew that looked more like warmed-up water with vegetable chunks. But he ate without grimacing, though the taste left much to be desired. It couldn’t compare to Beacrox’s cooking.

— «After eating grass and drinking rainwater in my past life, this is a luxury,» — he thought, scooping another spoonful, when a memory from long ago surfaced. Back before he got his first ability, when he had been trapped under rubble, unable to escape for half a month until help finally arrived.

Help… in the form of Lee Soo Hyuk, who found him, gave him water, and gave him a chance to survive in that damned apocalypse.

—"Hey, you..."—Milan, passing by, stopped, looking at him in surprise.—"You're not complaining?"—he asked, not bothering to hide his confusion. It was written all over his face, completely unmasked. Or maybe he just didn't know how to hide his expressions.

—"About what?"—Deon raised his eyes, meeting Milan’s gaze, and asked. He didn’t understand why this character from the novel was suddenly talking to him. Had he already done something? Or had this body caused trouble before he took over, just like the original Cale?

—"The food."—Milan gestured toward his bowl.—"I thought people like you were used to... something better."

At that, Deon simply gave a faint smile—though it wasn’t really a smile. Just a slight upward twitch of his lips, barely noticeable and far from joyful.

—"War doesn’t leave much choice,"—the albino said simply.—"And I don’t see the point in complaining about something that can’t be changed."

Milan opened his mouth, as if trying to figure out whether that response was genuine. He looked like he wanted to ask another question—or perhaps argue—but after a second, he closed his mouth and stayed silent, unsure of what to say.

But by the time he finished thinking, Deon had already stood up, returned his dishes, and headed for the training grounds, leaving his conversation partner standing there with his tray in hand.

—"Tch."—The brunette clicked his tongue, watching the teenager’s retreating figure. When Deon disappeared from view, Milan set down his tray to quickly eat his own meal.

Looking at his bowl, it was clear that his portion was much better—more filling and actually resembling a proper breakfast. Unlike what the albino had been given.

It seemed like someone in the squad had tried to mess with the noble’s son, hoping to stir up trouble and have a laugh. But things hadn’t gone as planned.

Even Milan hadn’t expected this outcome.

Remembering past instances where the recruits had pulled similar pranks, he could see the difference. This kid… was too calm, as if he was used to eating garbage.

"Not my problem," Milan told himself, digging into his meal.

°°°

Training was yet another trial. His body wouldn’t respond the way he was used to. Every strike with a weapon sent tremors through his hands, and every step required effort. Worse yet, he could barely lift a wooden sword without shaking like an autumn leaf!

And unfortunately, he would have to get used to the strain if he planned to avoid standing out due to his weakness. Here, he wasn’t a wealthy firstborn but someone who had to prove his worth through action. The ancient powers remained silent, and testing them in such a crowded place was completely illogical.

On the other hand, he needed to come up with a plan and prepare for the catastrophe that would strike in nine years.

(Assuming one year has passed since the Eight-Year War, after which Deon joined at the age of 14. Then, we add the remaining seven years of war, followed by two years of peace before the war against demons begins. That would make Deon 23 by then, right? Did I get that right?)

He had to train his body, especially his endurance, no matter how terrifying the thought was to him. Never would he have imagined that he would willingly start training...

The gods were to blame for everything.

He was sure of it. They had cursed him, denying him the peaceful, idle life he longed for..

Right after training and a brief briefing, the squad was assembled in the yard. Their commander, an older man with graying temples and a short beard, explained the mission. Deon listened carefully, though he already knew that such missions rarely ended well.

The problem was that enemy camps from the Kingdom of Sentvan had been spotted nearby—just eight kilometers away, beyond the dense forest. They hadn’t attacked yet, only fortified their position. Given that, it was likely they were waiting for reinforcements before launching an attack on their camp.

Sentvan wasn’t the strongest kingdom, but it was still prosperous. Especially when considering their level of military training compared to the Empire’s. They surpassed them in many ways—except for territory size and resource stockpiles.

So their plan made sense: attack and seize this camp as a first step toward securing supplies. Capture, plunder, showcase their strength, and boost their soldiers' morale.

"Reconnaissance in the Black Forest," the commander said, pointing at the map and marking the necessary areas. "Enemy troops have been sighted there. Your task is to gather information and return unseen. The strategy is simple: stay together, avoid direct confrontation, and don’t take unnecessary risks."

"Again with this caution," Milan, standing next to Deon, muttered under his breath with a scoff. "How long are we going to keep hiding?"

It was clear he had no intention of sitting idly by yet again. Over a week had passed since they first spotted enemy forces, but nothing had been done. It was frustrating, and it felt like the others were more afraid than actually trying to formulate a solid plan.

When the commander finished speaking, Milan stepped forward, visibly displeased.

"Sir," he started, trying to maintain a respectful tone, though irritation was evident in his voice. "This plan... it's too slow. We’re wasting time while the enemy strengthens their position. Why not strike first? We have a chance to catch them off guard."

"Watch your tongue, Sergeant." The commander frowned at the brunet’s outburst but let it slide, knowing Milan’s temperament. "Are you suggesting we risk the lives of our soldiers?"

"I’m suggesting we act instead of waiting for them to find us," Milan countered, his gaze hardening. "We can do this quickly and efficiently. I know how."

Deon listened carefully to the exchange but didn’t interfere. He had seen situations like this before—young, eager warriors itching for battle and experienced commanders who understood that reckless actions often led to disaster.

However, Milan had a point: they really were losing time.

Albino knew that if they did nothing, Sentvan would indeed attack within the next few days. They would be well-prepared, and if no precautions were taken, the casualties would be enormous.

He hesitated. Should he intervene? Support Milan? Or remain silent and let events unfold naturally?

"If I do nothing, history will play out as it was meant to. But if I interfere… can I actually change anything?"

His body wasn’t used to combat yet. Let’s be clear—he was weaker than he had been in past lives, far weaker than Cale’s body. Any reckless move could backfire on him.

But he still couldn’t just stand by.

"Commander," Deon stepped forward. "Perhaps we can find a compromise?"

Both men turned toward him. Milan frowned, clearly surprised that the newcomer was speaking up, while the commander raised an eyebrow, evaluating him.

"Speak," the older man permitted, clasping his hands behind his back.

"Milan is right that if we delay too long, things could end badly," Deon nodded toward the mentioned soldier. "But a direct attack is risky. We could stage a small diversion—not engage in battle, but make it seem like they’re surrounded. That might force the enemy to act prematurely and make a mistake."

"That’s better than just sitting and waiting," Milan agreed, pressing for a change in the plan.

"I’ll consider it." The commander, seeing the tension rise, waved a hand dismissively. He wasn’t particularly concerned about the discussion, trusting Milan to handle it and relying on their latest intelligence reports about the enemy camp. "For now, follow orders."

"Understood, sir." Milan nodded, satisfied that his suggestion would at least be reviewed. The soldiers bowed and dispersed to prepare for the mission. As Milan walked away, he cast another glance at Deon—this time, with less contempt. There was now curiosity in his eyes, along with a hint of intrigue.

Was that progress?

.

.

.

…And yet, the commander rejected the proposal.

Then again, what else could be expected from officers who preferred to sit in their chairs and issue commands?

And so, Milan decided to act as he saw fit. To do things his own way, disregarding orders and the established plan.

"We’re moving along the ravine," he announced to the squad, his voice firm as he changed their objective from simple reconnaissance to a full-on assault. "It’s faster, and we can catch them off guard. Follow me, and we’ll show them what we’re capable of!"

The soldiers, accustomed to his authority, murmured in agreement with little protest.

Deon, standing off to the side, felt a tightness in his chest. He knew this plan was doomed to fail. But what could he do? Openly opposing Milan now would undermine discipline within the squad. Besides, he had supported Milan earlier—backing out now wasn’t an option.

Deon held back a sigh. He knew arguing would be pointless now, and no one would listen to him.

Why did he even get involved in the first place?

°°°

The squad moved forward. The forest was dense, and the air was filled with the scent of dampness and decaying leaves. Deon walked in the middle of the group, his eyes constantly scanning the surroundings. Something felt off.

Milan, leading the way, seemed confident, but Deon noticed the nervous flicker in his gaze. He felt the tension too but chose not to show it, unwilling to kill the enthusiasm he had built up himself.

“We’re almost there,” the brunette whispered, glancing back at the squad. “Stay ready.”

But the moment they stepped into the clearing, everything went wrong.

First came the whistle of arrows. One of the soldiers collapsed, an arrow buried in his chest. Then another. Panic spread through the squad.

“Ambush!” someone shouted.

“Forward! Don’t retreat!” Milan yelled, but his voice wavered despite his attempts to suppress it. For a moment, he hesitated before trying to take control of the situation. It was difficult to focus amid the chaos—soldiers running, breaking formation, hindering each other more than helping.

The ground beneath them was quickly stained dark crimson. Arrows and small, nearly invisible traps were everywhere—hidden from ordinary eyes but not from the albino’s light-sensitive gaze.

Crouching behind a tree, Deon quickly assessed the situation. The enemy was better prepared, outnumbered them, and had taken the high ground. The squad was trapped.

“Milan!” he shouted, trying to be heard over the battle. “We need to retreat!”

“No!” Milan snapped, unwilling to accept the logic of a mere teenager. “We won’t retreat!”

But his words no longer mattered. Soldiers were falling one after another. The brunette was hit as well—an arrow lodged in his shoulder. He dropped to his knees, struggling to rise. The enemy was closing in, sword raised for the killing blow.

At that moment, everything slowed. Deon felt an ancient power pulse through him, striking his heart like a signal. He couldn’t stay idle any longer. If one of the novel’s key characters died, everything in the canon could turn upside down. That couldn’t happen.

“Vor…” he whispered, hoping to hear her voice—or perhaps a remark from the other ancient forces.

Nothing. No answer.

°°°

POV: Milan

Milan should have realized long ago that his impulsiveness would lead to his downfall. He just hadn’t expected it to be so soon.

But he wasn’t ready to give up. Not now. Not ever.

Tightening his grip on his sword, he raised his left hand—the only one still functional, though, unfortunately, not his dominant one.

Pain.

It was unbearable. Blood trickled down his right arm, mixing with the blood of others on the grass. Every movement caused the arrowhead to shift, cutting deeper into his flesh. It felt less like metal and more like a searing-hot needle, tearing through muscle as if through butter.

A strike.

A block.

Another strike.

The world spun around him, the sounds of battle muffled as if he were underwater. His vision darkened with every passing second.

Glancing around, he couldn’t see any familiar faces. Everyone dressed in pristine white uniforms with gold accents lay motionless on the ground, unable to move.

He had failed them. Every single one who had entrusted their lives to his hands—to his words.

And now, he was paying the price for his reckless decisions.

How fitting.

Even if he managed to fend off a few more enemies, he would be overwhelmed by sheer numbers.

A new opponent took the place of the last, striking him hard. Nausea hit him when the blow landed against his stomach. He doubled over but didn’t fall, bracing himself for one of two outcomes: death or capture—forced to spill information to the Sentvanians.

Like hell.

He would rather be trampled to death than betray his own.

But suddenly—

Everything changed.

Enemies fell one by one, barely comprehending what had happened before their eyes filled with shock. Deon moved like a white shadow—swift, relentless. But even he couldn’t avoid injury. A blade sliced across his thigh, making him flinch in pain.

When it was over, only the bodies of the enemies and a handful of surviving soldiers remained.

Breathing heavily, Milan stared at Deon, his eyes filled with shock and confusion. He collapsed to his knees, the last remnants of adrenaline fading from his body. Yet he didn’t look away.

“You…” he began, but the words wouldn’t come.

“We have to go,” Deon said, pressing a hand to his wound as he limped toward him. “Now.”

Snapping out of his daze, Milan stood and immediately caught the boy as he nearly collapsed. Throwing Deon’s arm over his shoulder, he helped the albino walk toward the remaining soldiers. Together, they made their way back.

By some miracle, they ran into reinforcements along the way. Within moments, they were loaded onto wagons and taken back to camp—a far better option than marching for hours on foot.

The sunset was visible in the distance. The gentle rocking of the transport was almost lulling, but Milan couldn’t sleep. Many would have taken this chance to rest, but not him.

His head throbbed from exhaustion, yet his thoughts refused to quiet.

He glanced at Deon, who sat across from him, leaning against the wooden wall of the wagon.

The blood, the dirt, the battle—all left behind. But the memories clung to Milan. And strangely, it wasn’t the brutal fight that lingered most in his mind.

It was the albino.

Deon was supposed to be weak. That’s what Milan had thought. That’s what everyone had said. That’s what the boy’s own body had shown during training, during the march to their destination.

And Milan had believed it—until he saw him in action.

It was difficult to make sense of. Deon didn’t behave like an aristocrat. Of course, there were some mannerisms, but that wasn’t the point. He didn’t throw around grand speeches about honor or glory. He didn’t hide behind others.

He simply acted.

Swiftly, coldly, without hesitation—like a damn seasoned soldier.

Milan looked at him again.

Deon’s expression was unreadable. Heavy-lidded eyes, unfocused yet not relaxed—more like distant. His lashes remained still, meaning he wasn’t asleep. Just staring at the wooden planks beneath him, lost in thought.

Was he just exhausted? Or did he not want to talk?

Milan pressed his lips into a thin line. Not long ago, he was certain he knew who Deon Hart was. But now… he wasn’t so sure.

And that uncertainty unsettled him.

What was he supposed to do now? How was he supposed to react to this boy, when everything he thought he knew had been turned upside down?

End of Milan’s POV.

Chapter Text

After the incident two weeks ago, only a few people survived—mainly Deon, Milan, and a couple of other fighters. Their squad was officially disbanded, and the survivors were reassigned to different units.

At first, the plan was to send regular soldiers to their previous post to strengthen the defense at the border with the Kingdom of Sentwan.

However, upon noticing Deon's talent, the Emperor ordered his transfer—along with his remaining fighters—to the 314th squad as reinforcements, as they happened to be in need of a few more soldiers to meet the standard troop count per section.

The task of defending that point was instead assigned to another unit.

The transition was far from easy. The military administration decided that the remnants of Deon's squad were too few to remain an independent unit, so they were incorporated into another division. Thus, Deon and his men received new insignia and were now officially part of the 314th.

During the time these decisions were being made and the transfer was being processed, Deon gained a reputation on the battlefield. He was nicknamed White Death for his ability to act swiftly, unseen, and mercilessly.

The Emperor had already been keeping an eye on his achievements, so the order for reassignment seemed like just another step upward. Or perhaps, for the blond ruler, this was nothing more than a game? Given what he had pulled off in the novel, the former red-haired commander wouldn't be surprised if his transfer had nothing to do with his accomplishments in open combat and reconnaissance over the past few weeks, but rather with the Emperor’s own boredom.

Sigh.

Deon didn’t think any of this would change much for him. After all, he had no intention of interfering with this world or altering its course. Yet it seemed that things were shifting on their own, without his input. Or… was this how it was meant to unfold?

There was no way to know the answer. The book barely mentioned this eight-year war—so little, in fact, that it didn’t span more than a couple of lines, and even then, it was told purely from the general’s perspective.

So all he could do was guess whether his actions resembled those of the original Deon.

°°°

As soon as Deon and his fighters crossed into the 314th squad’s camp, they found themselves under a barrage of curious stares. The soldiers here had already heard about the White Shadow—a warrior who, despite his young age and lack of experience, had not only survived but also led a squad into battle and even saved some from certain death.

Some looked at him with respect, others with skepticism, distrust, or envy. And among the crowd, a few individuals stood out.

The first to approach was a young man with messy light chestnut-orange hair and a smirk on his slightly tanned face. Something about his description felt familiar—ah, yes, another character from the future Deon’s faction.

“So, you’re the White Shadow?” he drawled with a grin, revealing sharp, almost shark-like teeth. “I thought you’d be taller. Or at least scarier. Heh-heh.”

Milan bristled immediately, but before he could say anything or react, the newcomer continued:

“Relax, I’m just messing with you. Name’s Sharky, by the way. Get used to it—around here, everyone makes life miserable for each other, especially in battle.” Sharky offered the comment with a hint of humor before adding, “If you’re not watching your enemies, you better be watching your own squad.”

“And how are you still alive?” Milan scoffed, dropping his bags onto an empty cot and gesturing for the others to do the same.

“Pure luck,” Sharky said, lacing his fingers behind his head and grinning even wider.

“Enough fooling around, Sharky.”

Standing beside him was a man with dark gray hair and a contemplative expression.

(Did he have a scar? The author couldn’t quite remember...)

“Let them at least settle in first.”

“Kletter, at your service,” the gray-haired man introduced himself. Sharky just snorted but stepped aside, leaning dramatically toward Deon’s ear as if whispering a secret—but speaking just loud enough for everyone to hear.

“He’s like our squad dad, watching over us like kids.”

A little ways off stood another soldier, tall—over two meters—with long, dark blue hair. He seemed unsure how to join the conversation, but upon noticing the attention on him, he gave a slight nod.

“Dargan,” he introduced himself briefly before shifting his focus elsewhere.

Deon gave a silent nod in response.

The squad’s atmosphere was a mix of cheerful chaos and brotherly camaraderie. They could bicker over the smallest things, but it was clear they had each other’s backs in battle. Deon immediately noticed the bond between them—it was strong, unspoken.

The 314th wasn’t just a group of soldiers. It had its own unique dynamic. In a way, it reminded him of his previous team—except here, everyone was human, of the same race, with similar backgrounds. Whereas his previous “family” had been made up of all kinds of beings, with different life experiences and ages.

And now… it turned out he was the youngest in the entire unit. Maybe even the youngest soldier in the entire section.

That wasn’t the only thing that set him apart.

Here, even Kletter, who at first seemed the most reasonable, was a total lunatic. Or rather, they would become lunatics in the future. But that didn’t mean they were any better now. Even at this stage, their personalities were already starting to take shape, bound to develop further over time.

Aigu… why is everyone here so hot-headed?

“I heard rumors that on the battlefield, you move so fast no one can keep up with you,” Sharky chimed in again, bringing Deon out of his thoughts.

Deon rolled his eyes. As always, rumors were exaggerated.

Though he couldn’t help but wonder—how had these foolish stories even spread to other units? There weren’t many survivors from their previous camp, no more than ten. So how did this happen?

“Well, how about we test that?” Sharky suggested with a broad grin, cracking his knuckles, completely unaware of the thoughts running through Deon’s head. “Come on, White Shadow, let’s have a sparring match!”

The 314th squad buzzed with excitement. Of course, Milan wasn’t about to miss the chance to stir the pot.

“Oh, yes! Deon, show them how you did it last time!” the brunet clapped a hand on Deon’s shoulder, clearly urging him not to hold back and to demonstrate his abilities.

The scarred young man still remembered those days—when Deon had been assigned as his sparring partner. The humiliation he had felt after only a few seconds into their match. Just a few seconds before he lost.

But of course, it wasn’t Deon’s choice. Milan had insisted on having him as a sparring partner. And thus, the whole mess had begun.

“Do you even hear yourself?” Deon shot Milan a disgruntled look, inwardly wondering if this guy was some kind of masochist. Milan, on the other hand, was simply determined to improve by sparring with him—and, at the same time, eager to see Deon wipe that cocky grin off Sharky’s face.

“What? Afraid I’ll win?”

“I just don’t want to waste my time on pointless duels.”

“Perfect!” Sharky cut him off, grinning even wider. “That means you won’t back out!”

.

.

.

The result?

Sharky and Milan got what they asked for and were now sitting on the ground, clutching their sore knees.

What happened?

After Sharky’s crushing defeat, Milan had decided that one opponent wasn’t enough for Deon and had jumped into the fight alongside the sharp-toothed soldier.

In the end, they both paid the price—collapsing after a blow that sent them crashing onto the hard stone ground, injuring their knees in the process.

°°°

A Year Later.

Despite not wanting to stand out, Deon had become far more well-known than before—to his great disappointment and, at the same time, to his satisfaction. (This was his plan, after all, one he was reluctantly bringing to life.) His talent for strategy and survival had quickly been noticed, and when the commander of the 314th unit was executed for treason, it was Deon who was appointed as the new commander.

The former commander's death was due to his plan to stage a rebellion against the Emperor—someone had exposed him. A public trial was held, and he was executed right in front of the army, serving as a clear warning that betrayal would not be forgiven. It was also something the duke clearly hadn't expected.

Why was Deon chosen?

His skills in combat and tactics made him the perfect candidate. Besides, the theory that Eduardo simply enjoyed watching his progress seemed to be confirmed after the news of his promotion.

The 314th unit had already begun to respect and obey him, even before he officially became their commander, ever since that sparring incident. His further actions and mere presence only strengthened this.

At this moment, fifteen-year-old Deon sat by the fire, repairing his blades—cleaning off the dirt and dried blood that had accumulated on them from recent missions.

Their assignments had been getting progressively more difficult. At first, they were given small scouting missions where no direct contact was needed—just gathering information on the terrain. Then came open confrontations, from which not everyone returned unscathed.

But ever since Deon's arrival, the unit seemed to have better luck, as if the teenager had become their talisman. In reality, though, the albino was simply well-prepared for every battle, analyzing every detail and predicting each enemy's move.

Ahem, we’ve strayed from the topic. Let’s get back to it.

It was night. Everyone was already asleep—everyone except Deon, the only one disturbing the quiet. The sentries passed by occasionally, greeting him and exchanging a few words before continuing their shifts.

His body shifted closer to the fire, seeking warmth in the cold night, while his mind was preoccupied with troubling thoughts—about his abilities, the ancient powers. He couldn't use them, except for the Sound of the Wind, as if they were no longer at his command.

Of course, they had a will of their own, but now it felt like they were... acting independently. As if they chose to unleash their power to help him, whether he wanted it or not. Yet, he couldn't hear their voices, and that was unsettling.

Should he summon them? Give them a reason to awaken? If the Wind had awakened because he needed speed, did the others operate on the same principle?

He needed to find out if his theory was correct. But using flashy, attention-grabbing powers in a place like this wasn’t the best idea. Not to mention, he had no idea how to trigger the "combat" ancient powers.

Except for the Power of the Heart.

It was supposed to heal his wounds, right? Yet back then, Crybaby hadn’t healed his thigh—or any other injuries he had sustained throughout the past year. That meant it only activated for more severe, life-threatening wounds.

Turning his focus back to his now-clean weapon, Deon had already devised a way to test it. The only issue was… the consequences of failure would be severe.

Taking a deep breath, the former commander pressed one of his blades against his arm and—

A sudden, firm grip halted his movement.

Deon hadn’t even heard the footsteps.

Nezimus, the future First Hero and current general, stood behind him, holding the blade tightly. His gaze was serious… and was that concern?

Looking down at his arm, the albino saw he had only managed to make a thin cut on his wrist. A drop of crimson blood trickled down to his elbow. There was no pain—or rather, he simply didn’t feel it.

"What are you doing?" Nezimus frowned, his tone heavy with expectation.

Ugh. What a hassle...

°°°

Before That.

"Repeat that."

Nemese lifted his gaze from the map, furrowing his brows.

"...A year ago, a fourteen-year-old boy, Deon Hart, was sent to the frontlines," the courier repeated, swallowing hard. His voice, though steadier this time, still lacked confidence.

Silence.

Nemese didn’t respond immediately. He was calmly processing the information. Hart…

He had heard of Count Hart before. Not a particularly outstanding figure, but one with a certain level of influence. Their family specialized in swordsmanship and had long supported the late crown prince.

The count had two sons, if Nemese remembered correctly. The elder, Cruel Hart, was a remarkable talent, known for his intelligence and skill in duels. The younger, a sickly boy, was born weak and unable to be exposed to sunlight. Little was known about the second son, but the reason for that was already clear.

But then why had the younger son been sent? Why would they do something like that?

"Who signed the order?"

At his question, the officers hesitated, averting their eyes and nervously fidgeting with documents.

"According to the paperwork… his family did," one of them answered cautiously.

A lie.

Nemese wasn’t one to throw words around carelessly, but he didn’t need to see the document to know something was wrong.

Count Hart would never have sent his own child to certain death. Someone had interfered. But who?

The Emperor? No. Even when the count had openly protested against Eduardo, declaring that the crown prince should have taken the throne and that Eduardo's actions had been... monstrous, the blond had done nothing in response, as if he saw no point in it—or perhaps, as if he agreed.

Then who…?

The general clenched his fist silently. He would find the answer. He would speak with those who had witnessed it firsthand and uncover the truth.

.

.

.

A Few Days Later.

The truth was filthy.

According to the Hart family—whom Nemese personally interrogated—it was supposed to be the count himself who was sent to the frontlines.

But the Imperial knights had taken Deon instead. Someone had orchestrated this.

Nemese lowered his gaze to the documents. The order was "legitimate"—or at least, that was how it appeared. Someone’s reach extended even into the palace’s information network, and that was a serious problem.

The general took a deep breath and looked back at the report.

He needed to see this boy for himself, just to be sure...

Who was he kidding?

He was deeply concerned about the unfortunate child who never should have been in a place like this.

°°°

In the Camp.

The ash-haired man dismounted his horse and made his way toward the camp. He was about to call out to the guard when he suddenly stopped.

The firelight illuminated the lonely figure of a boy. White hair, pale skin, and a mask covering his face—likely to shield him from the sun, though its owner seemed to have forgotten to take it off that night. Everything matched the rumors. Not about the White Shadow, but about the sickly boy of the Harta family.

Thin fingers tightly gripped the hilt of a sword. The blade gleamed in the firelight, reflecting the general’s widened eyes. The teenager placed the blade against his wrist, and something inside Nemesei clicked.

— What are you doing? — He was beside the boy in an instant, grabbing his hand and stopping him. Concern mixed with more turbulent emotions—ones he hadn't felt in a long time. The initial shock faded quickly, replaced by a frown and several unpleasant conclusions about why the albino had made such a desperate move.

Had the war affected him that badly?

The boy slowly turned his head, looking straight into his eyes. And that gaze… It was as if he was looking right through him.

Nemesei clenched his teeth, his frown deepening until his eyebrows nearly formed a "v".

— You… — Still holding onto the other’s weapon, the older man opened his mouth, demanding, — Answer me. What were you trying to do?

— I was just checking if I sharpened the blade properly. — Deon immediately came up with an excuse, unwilling to explain the real reason. What else could he say? The truth would sound even more unconvincing than this.

— You’re lying. — Nemesei’s fingers tightened around the blade, ignoring the blood seeping from his own hand. Then he tossed the sword aside, stepped around, and stood fully in front of the albino.

— General, don’t you think that’s a rather foolish way to die? — Deon asked bluntly, forgetting about respect and discipline—just as he always did.

— A fourteen-year-old boy, thrown onto the battlefield… And when I find him, he’s holding a blade to his wrist. What kind of impression do you think that gives? — The silver-haired man sighed. He hadn’t even noticed when he dropped the formal address.

But what could he do when that was his first thought? Anyone would think the same—there was no other explanation.

— You have an overactive imagination. — Silence followed. This time, though, it wasn’t suffocating but rather awkward and filled with mutual misunderstanding.

— …Fine. Let’s get to the point. — The older man relented, though he made a mental note to assign someone to keep an eye on the boy. — Do you know why you’re here?

— Because my father is too stingy to fight himself? — The teenager spoke more as a statement than a question.

In the book, there had been nothing about the war or the protagonist’s family relationships.

There had been only one thing—a glimpse from the protagonist’s own perspective, showing how he was alone and sick in the estate. Then, his mother crying at his bedside at night. But beyond that, the memory shifted to the real albino’s perception.

A sneer, mocking words of forgiveness as the countess begged for it.

Putting everything together, Cale could only assume that the protagonist’s family didn’t care for him.

(Yet another misunderstanding.)

— Because you took his place. It was illegal.

— And? — Nemesei blinked.

Most people didn’t react like this upon learning they had been used. Did he already know? Then why was he so calm about it?

— I’ll speak with the Emperor about this. — Nemesei turned to leave, but the boy’s next words stopped him in his tracks.

— Will they send me back? General, what will happen to my unit? — Cale couldn’t afford to ruin his own plan—he had to stay. He needed a reason to remain here.

— A new commander will be assigned. (The author is too tired to come up with actions after every line... Have mercy.)

— They won’t accept him.

— They’re soldiers. They don’t get to choose who leads them.

— And if I say I don’t want to leave?

— …Why?

— I survived. So did they. I’ve grown used to them, and they to me. — Deon latched onto the last remaining thread, trying to sound as believable as possible. — If I leave, many will die.

— That’s not your responsibility. — The general’s final words before he disappeared from sight, mounted his horse, and rode off into the night.

(Spoiler: Meanwhile, his unit had been eavesdropping on the entire conversation. Heh, the author is definitely going to hell for this…)

Chapter Text

Early in the morning, after the general's departure, Squad 314 discussed what they had heard.

Before their morning training, the soldiers had some free time and decided to make use of it. They gathered away from the camp, in a spot where no one could eavesdrop on their conversation. Though no one voiced it aloud, the tension in the air was palpable to everyone present.

“So you're saying our commander held a blade to his wrist?”

The silence was broken by a soldier with oak-colored hair, his gaze dark as he looked at his comrades, waiting for them to admit it was just a joke.

“I’m not saying it. I heard it,” another soldier shot back, resting his hands on his hips. “The general said it himself. I don’t think he’d say something like that without a reason.”

“But why would he do that?” a third soldier asked, frowning.

No answer followed. None of them could understand why their young commander—a person who always maintained a cold expression yet had a kindness he never admitted to—would even consider such a thing.

They had known the albino for a year. A year since they had all been together. A year of relative peace in their squad, ever since the teenager had arrived. A year without any major losses, as if Deon taking command had somehow set everything right, as if things had finally fallen into place.

“Maybe because they sent him here at such a young age?” Darghan suggested cautiously, blowing a strand of long hair from his face.

“Yeah, but he never looked like he hated his life. If anything…” one of the soldiers—nicknamed "Toothy" for his sharp grin—mused, uncharacteristically serious for once.

“Exactly,” Milan chimed in, his usual temper subdued for the moment. “We all heard him refuse to return. He practically said he was attached to us.”

“But he never outright said he was attached,” another knight remarked, scoffing in mild disbelief.

“He’s just... strange. Too secretive.”

“And yet, he cares about us,” a blond soldier added, yawning from the early hour.

Silence followed. Each of them recalled the little things Deon had done—small, seemingly insignificant actions that had meant the world to them. The casual words he tossed out without thinking, not realizing how deeply they resonated.

“To be honest, I can’t stop thinking about it,” one of them finally admitted. “If he really was considering... you know... what do we do?”

“We keep an eye on him,” Kletter declared firmly. “He’s only fifteen, no matter what he’s been through or done. And from what I heard, he ‘wasn’t supposed to be here’ in the first place. Now we find out his family doesn’t even care about him. If we’re the only ones he’s got, then we should at least…”

“…Make sure he doesn’t do anything reckless?” another soldier finished the thought, staring off into the distance.

Everyone nodded silently.

“Then it’s settled,” Milan concluded. “We’ll keep an eye on him.”

“And make sure he never feels like he’s unwanted,” Darghan added.

Thus, an unspoken pact was formed. Squad 314 would watch over their commander, even if he never realized it.

“Why are you all still here instead of heading to the mess hall?”

A familiar voice rang out in the distance—the very albino they had just been discussing.

“It’s nothing, Captain!” Milan immediately shifted into his usual eager expression, the kind he had developed after spending so much time under Deon’s command. It was obvious that the latter’s presence influenced him greatly.

And, as it turned out, not just him—because the others quickly followed suit, trailing behind the scarred teenager as if nothing had happened.

°°°

The rest of the day in the camp turned out to be surprisingly calm. After the morning training, the soldiers of the 314th unit were given some time to rest, and right around then, one of the officers began handing out letters and packages.

— Section 314! Mail has arrived!

The soldiers gathered in a small circle, watching with interest to see who would receive news from home.

— Oh, finally! — One of the soldiers grinned, catching a small package.

— No way, someone actually sends you stuff? — His comrade was surprised, considering that the first one didn’t have the best relationship with his father.

— Of course! Friends from the capital. They promised to send me something useful.

Others were also receiving letters and packages. Some unwrapped handmade gloves from their mothers, some read short letters about life back home, and some simply admired the familiar handwriting on the paper.

But amidst the general excitement, one of the soldiers discreetly glanced at Deon.

He received nothing.

No letter, no small package, not even a note—as if nothing existed for him beyond the camp. As if he had simply appeared here, never existing before, with no one and nothing to his name.

— ...Has he ever received mail? — one soldier whispered, exchanging glances with a comrade.

— Seems like he hasn’t.

— Damn, even I, an orphan, have people who write to me. — Milan muttered, accidentally crumpling the piece of paper in his hands before quickly smoothing it out again.

They silently watched their commander, who didn’t even seem to notice the mail distribution. It didn’t look like he was disappointed—rather, it seemed like he was simply used to receiving nothing.

(For those who haven't read the novel: Kim Rok Soo was an orphan with no friends, so receiving nothing was normal for him.)

— Wait a second... — At that moment, a thought crossed someone’s mind. — When’s his birthday?

.

.

.

A short silence followed.

— Do you know? — Sharky asked the one who had spent the most time with their commander.

— Nope. — Milan shook his head.

— Me neither. — Another soldier, one of the survivors from their first mission, answered.

They had spent an entire year with him, yet they had never heard anything about it. What a disgrace. And they called themselves worthy subordinates of the White Shadow?

— Hey, why don’t we find out? — Sharky suggested again, a small smile on his face.

— ...And how do you propose we do that? If we just ask, he’ll get suspicious. — The brown-haired soldier with a scar raised an eyebrow.

— Well, we could start a conversation about birthdays. Something like “when is everyone’s,” and he might mention his own.

— The commander isn’t stupid. He’ll notice if we all suddenly start talking about birthdays.

— Ugh... Then let just one person bring it up, like by accident. — Sharky grumbled quietly, crossing his arms and staring at Milan, waiting for him to agree with the idea. — We’ll make him a surprise.

— Are you serious?

— Completely. He’s our commander. And if he considers us family, then family should take care of each other. — But that wasn’t the only reason. Of course, it was the main one, but there was something else that drove the redhead’s insistence.

He wanted to see emotions on Deon’s face. Genuine, strong emotions—even if it was just simple surprise or a bit of happiness.

— Even if he won’t admit it himself? — Someone smirked, remembering the overheard words of the albino, where he said he couldn’t leave them, that he had grown attached, yet still avoided using the word “family.”

— Especially if he won’t admit it himself. — Sharky nodded in confirmation. And so, the operation to gather information was set in motion.

Meanwhile, their commander had no idea that a conspiracy was already brewing in the camp. His thoughts were elsewhere. He was thinking about his conversation with the general.

Or more precisely, about the fact that the general wanted permission to have Deon removed from this place. That could not be allowed—but it was already too late. Nemeseus had set out last night. Which meant that by now, he should have already arrived in the capital.

— "All that’s left is to hope." — Deon thought, resting his cheek on his palm, his elbow on his knee, as he sat watching the knights.

°°°

(A little clarification from the author: Kim Rok Soo doesn’t know the birthday of his current body, and neither does the author. That’s why Rok Soo gave his own date—November 8th, which also happens to be Cale’s birthday. He knew that aside from Deon's family, no one else would know, so he could easily lie about it.)

After Section 314 discovered that Deon’s birthday fell on November 8th, they quickly reached a unanimous decision—to throw a celebration for their commander.

But there was a problem.

“…Have we ever actually thrown a party before?” one of the soldiers asked, looking at his comrade. Even though some had relatives, most of the soldiers here were orphans or had lost their parents long ago. So when it came to something like birthday celebrations, they weren’t exactly experts.

“Nope,” the other replied easily, scratching the back of his head.

“And now we’re supposed to figure out how to do it?” a third soldier, a brunette, chimed in.

“Hah, you say that like we have a choice,” another snorted. They had to work with what was available. In the camp, getting a cake or presents was impossible, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t come up with something special. And they weren’t about to give up just because of a minor obstacle.

“Alright, we need something sweet.”

“Do we have any sugar?”

“Someone’s been hoarding sweets…” one of the soldiers muttered suspiciously, eyeing a comrade.

“You… You can’t prove anything!”

After some whispered negotiations and a bit of scuffling, they managed to strike a deal. One of them had been secretly collecting dried fruits and honey from their rations, while another had a stash of sugar. Together, they could put together something resembling a primitive sweet bread.

“Now, decorations.”

“Decorations? This is a military camp, not a ball in some fancy palace.”

“Well, at least something. We could string up some tent flags so it doesn’t look so dull.” A blond soldier huffed, glancing around and throwing out a suggestion—anything to make the place look somewhat presentable for their dear commander’s birthday.

“We could make a kind of banner…” One of the soldiers mused, thinking up ways to decorate. “If we use a piece of fabric and charcoal, we could write ‘Happy Birthday’ or something like that.”

“And where are you going to get fabric?”

“We have plenty of spare bandages. The commander doesn’t use them anyway.” The brunette grinned, reaching into a small bag and pulling out clean, white bandages. These were the very same bandages that Deon had set aside for wrapping around his body as protection against the sun. His mask didn’t fully shield every exposed area—especially around his eyes, ears, the back of his head, and parts of his arms—so he had planned to use these as extra coverage.

“…Are you serious?” one of the knights asked nervously. Was it really okay to use those?

“Yeah, but it’s a good idea!”

And so, little by little, their plan started coming together. They even managed to convince someone to procure candles from the cooks. In short, they were preparing as best they could, doing their best to replicate a proper birthday celebration despite the limitations.

Speaking of obstacles—one last hurdle stood in their way: a mission scheduled for the same day as their commander’s birthday.

This mission turned out to be far more difficult than expected. Their unit encountered elite enemy mercenaries—a group specializing in stealth and precise strikes. Unlike regular troops, they didn’t rely on numbers but instead used traps, silent takedowns, and sudden ambushes. To put it bluntly, the battle was hell.

Even the Sound of the Wind couldn’t completely save Cale from taking damage. The enemies were too fast, and one of their traps had been triggered successfully. The resulting explosion sent him tumbling, debris striking his head, before he crashed onto the ruins of what was once a grand city. Now, only remnants remained—a wasteland of crumbling buildings that had once belonged to one of the most prominent capitals of the Kingdom of Loutord.

“Commander! Are you alright?” As the battle ended, Section 314 rushed to surround their commander.

“I’m fine.” Cale got up, slightly unsteady. Blood trickled from a small cut on his forehead, while scrapes and bruises marked his cheeks and knuckles. But even so, the former redhead didn’t linger. No matter how bad his injuries were, they had to keep moving.

Besides, he had already checked—his Vitality of the Heart had activated after the general left, though the wounds were healing much slower than usual.

“Let me carry you on my back…” Milan offered hesitantly, having arrived later than the others.

Cale sighed but complied. After all, he was in a teenager’s body now—it wasn’t worth taking unnecessary risks by constantly relying on his ancient power.

{For the first time, he’s actually thinking rationally, guys!}

Huh? Was it just his imagination, or did he hear Glutton’s voice in his head?

…Must’ve been his imagination.

°°°

In the infirmary, Cale carefully treated the scratches on his face, not wanting them to leave scars. If there was one thing he had to do, it was to take care of this body and not let it get covered in scars like his previous one.

Humming in satisfaction, he examined his reflection in the mirror. His eyes lingered on the hand he had injured after the general left a few weeks ago. The wrist now bore terrible marks that wouldn’t fade away, even after the Crybaby’s regeneration.

“Damn it…” Lowering his hand and rolling up his sleeves a little more, the albino exited the infirmary.

“What th—?”

The moment he stepped out, a shower of confetti hit him.

Standing before him were his subordinates, holding what looked like a makeshift cake, and above them hung a rather tattered but painstakingly crafted banner.

“…What is this?”

“It’s your birthday, Commander!”

Cale blinked.

.

.

.

Silence.

“…Did you wait for me to walk out with my head bandaged just so you could hit me with confetti and a migraine?”

“Well, if we did it earlier, it wouldn’t have been as dramatic…” someone mumbled under their breath.

“Ahem.” Another soldier awkwardly cleared his throat. “Anyway, happy birthday!”

Cale looked at them, at the cake, at the handmade decorations.

These guys weren’t supposed to care about him this much.

And yet, they did.

Or rather, they cared about the real Deon. After all, they were his subordinates… not Cale’s. Not Kim Rok Soo’s.

This was all meant for another boy—one who probably needed it far more than he did.

He shouldn’t let himself have expectations. That would only make things hurt more.

For some reason, his cheeks felt warm. But when he raised his hands to his face, he felt moisture.

What?

Was he… crying?

No, that was impossible.

He hadn’t even cried at his hyungs’ funerals. He hadn’t cried when his team was slaughtered right before his eyes.

So this wasn’t possible.

He probably just forgot to wipe his face after washing up. Yes, that had to be it.

“I… Thank you… everyone. Thank you.”

His voice came out softer, not the same voice he used when issuing orders or arguing with other divisions about supplies, missions, and strategies.

No, this was a voice as genuine as his albino heart would allow.

And it sounded so… wonderful and unfamiliar to them that, at that moment, they knew—every effort had been worth it.

Chapter Text

Time flies fast—too fast.

Four years had passed almost unnoticed, leaving behind a trail of victories and defeats.

Squad 314 hadn’t just grown; they had become a legend on the battlefield. They were feared, hated, respected, and envied—just like those who had first met Deon. They played the role of madmen who thirsted for blood and reveled in chaos, but in truth, it was all just part of their game. After all, what could be more terrifying than an enemy who doesn’t fear death? What could be worse than falling into the hands of a lunatic determined to destroy you in the most painful way possible?

Spreading fear—that was their true goal. To make their enemies believe that their lives mattered, that they didn’t want to suffer a torturous death. To make them flee, to break their resolve, to show them that they were at a disadvantage.

Deon had changed as well. His hair had grown back to its usual length. He kept meaning to cut it, but something always got in the way of visiting an actual professional.

(Once, when he was seventeen, he made the mistake of trusting his team with the task, and his hair grew so long it started obstructing his vision… Never again.)

But some things hadn’t changed, even after all these years. The ugly scars on his wrists remained, a grim reminder of a past life where his body had been covered in the marks of battle—of surviving an apocalypse. A reminder that no matter how many wounds and scars he bore, he still kept losing the people he cared about. Losing them again and again, no matter how hard he tried. No matter how much he suffered, no matter how much he sacrificed.

He hid them beneath bandages and gloves, and whenever he was in the sun, he always wore a mask. No one suspected anything—his skin was sensitive to sunlight, after all, so covering any exposed areas was just part of his routine. At least, that’s what he told himself.

Ahem. We seem to have gone off-topic.

Four years had passed, and now the moment he had been waiting for—yet dreading—had finally come.

An order from the Emperor.

Not just another military mission, the kind he could complete relying on his knowledge of tactics and experience. No, this was a special order—the kind that would grant him a single wish upon completion. The very same mission that, in the original story, had set Deon on the path to revenge.

But he wasn’t doing this for revenge. He didn’t thirst for blood, nor did he wish to kill his current family, no matter how many hints the manga had dropped about their unresolved conflicts with the protagonist. He wanted only one thing—understanding.

This was the signal. The sign that his "rest" was over and the story had finally begun. And it had begun with the very mission that was meant to unite him with the Hero’s party.

But something had gone wrong.

The story began a few years earlier.

It was supposed to happen when he was twenty two, but here he was, getting an order at twenty.

Why?

What had he done wrong? Had he acted too soon? Had he changed the course of history? Where exactly had he made a mistake? Would his actions hurt people who were never meant to suffer? Was he ruining everything again?

But now wasn’t the time to panic. Worrying wouldn’t fix anything. The only solution was a plan—a plan that he had refined over the past four years.

It was simple. He had to prove his worth—prove that neither the Emperor nor the Demon King could afford to ignore him. That he wasn’t just a pawn to be used and discarded.

He would become a player on the board, just like them.

°°°

The border with the demon world was shrouded in darkness. Stars scattered across the sky, their faint light barely breaking through the thick clouds, but for Deon, it was enough. At the very least, he could go without his blindfold tonight.

The wind lazily tousled his snow-white hair, and the night's chill was a pleasant relief against his skin. Silence… Peace… For a brief moment, it seemed even the war had paused to take a breath.

But the sound of movement shattered that illusion. Deon turned his head, his crimson eyes narrowing slightly as they fixed on a shifting shadow. A familiar face. Or rather, familiar from the manga’s description—the current Hero.

Right now, he was simply walking toward him, clearly searching for a secluded place. And he chose Deon’s company for that? Strange choice, but Deon wasn’t about to send him away. Quite the opposite. A key figure in the plot—even if only briefly—and the one who, in the future, would grant him a certain protective power from the World. That meant it was best not to be on bad terms with him.

The young man silently sat down beside him, gazing at the night sky. They remained in quiet companionship for a while until the brunette shifted his attention to him, studying the unusual features of the albino.

“You’re not sleeping either, are you?” The Hero unexpectedly broke the silence, glancing around as soon as Cale met his eyes.

— … —

His companion remained silent at the obvious rhetorical question, which the other took as permission to continue his near-monologue.

“You know…” The brunette shrugged slightly, resting his head on his folded arms. “They say the air at the demon world’s border is different. Not like in the capital. Here… it’s quieter.”

Deon raised an eyebrow slightly. Was this an attempt to start a conversation or something?

“Sometimes I think silence is more dangerous than noise,” the Hero went on, not noticing his expression. “When everything is calm, it feels like the quiet before the storm… Though, I wouldn’t mind if it all ended here.” He chuckled, shifting his position and leaning back against the tree trunk. “It’d be fitting if the fate of the world was decided right now.”

Now that was more interesting.

Yet another confirmation that the Hero knew about the emperor’s plans. And another warning that this mission was the mission.

“And you? What are you here for?” The Hero finally brought up the topic he had likely intended to, or maybe he just didn’t want to look like a fool talking to himself.

“What am I here for?” Deon repeated, as if tasting the words. He tilted his head slightly, slipping into thought for a moment.

Really, why was he here? Another task from the Gods—something they couldn’t handle themselves, so they decided to use him instead? Yeah, that was probably it. He was just a tool, a convenient instrument. A reusable item that wouldn’t break under pressure, always finding a way to survive. No matter the losses, he always survived—always the last one standing.

“Because I was sent here.” His red eyes narrowed slightly in irritation, though his expression remained calm.

“A cold answer.” The Hero chuckled.

“But an honest one.”

That could’ve been the end of the conversation…

“So if you had a choice, you wouldn’t be here?” The brunette suddenly smiled as he said it. Bastard.

“If I had a choice…” The red-eyed young man leaned back, tilting his head toward the stars, a faint smirk on his lips. “I wouldn’t be sitting here with you.”

The answer was cold, despite the slight upward curve of his mouth. There was something deeper hidden in those words, and of course, the Hero noticed.

The green-eyed young man didn’t immediately grasp the meaning behind them, but no further conversation followed, which Deon appreciated.

The silence around them was strangely soothing, peaceful. They sat there, saying nothing, yet both found comfort in the atmosphere. Perhaps it was fate? Bringing them together here, where they saw in each other what they themselves wished to be.

Cassius saw Deon as a free man—someone who could voice his own opinions and disregard all etiquette. Someone who didn’t care about the citizens who idolized Heroes. Someone who didn’t even care that the Third Hero himself was sitting less than half a meter away.

For Deon, however… it was a little different. If the original Deon were in his place, he would have envied Cassius—his looks, his personality, his unbroken and ready-for-anything soul. A soul that hadn’t cracked, one that was needed by someone. Someone born without weakness, yet still so loved.

No—right now, it was Cale, not Deon. Kim Rok Soo, the one who is Deon now. He needed to separate himself from the child—who knew where he was now. But was he safe?

No, focus. It was better to think about the situation at hand.

He had been sent as support for the imperial knights assisting the Hero on their way to the discovered demon camp. But not many knew that it wasn’t just any demons waiting there. The legion commanders and the Demon King himself were there as well.

Along the way, they had lost many, and only a quarter of them had made it this far. It was obvious why so many were sent, but not everyone realized it. And if they did, they kept quiet, not wanting to kill the morale of the remaining warriors.

He had been sent to this Hero before—perhaps in the hope that his strength and intelligence would make him more useful as a living shield and pillar of support for the chosen one. Or maybe the emperor was trying to bring the albino closer to the brunette? Did he think that if the Third Hero died, Deon would take his place?

Well, if that was the plan, then Eduardo had chosen wisely.

“Sir Hart,” Cassius suddenly spoke formally. “Please stay here.” His words came out with difficulty, and his eyes avoided meeting Deon’s. “You do want to fulfill your wish, don’t you?”

Another rhetorical question—no answer was needed to know he had hit the mark.

“…When I return, you’ll be honest with me, right? You promise to tell me what’s hidden behind that stoic mask of yours?”

His last sentence was a small joke—a way to soften the sharp edges Deon had built. And maybe, just maybe, a way to calm himself before what was to come.

°°°

Dust rose over the battlefield, stained with blood and magic. The warriors' screams had long since faded, and the air was heavy with the scent of metal, smoke, and dirt. In the distance lay the remains of what was once the Hero's mighty squad—one of the emperor’s elite forces—now reduced to nothing more than a grim reminder of their futile struggle.

Caver watched it all, feeling less remorse than confusion. He saw the last survivor—the Hero—standing, swaying, barely holding onto his sword with trembling hands.

"He keeps fighting... even when he has no chance." The Demon King, which was Caver himself, pondered.

Was this man a fool, or did he simply cling to blind faith in his destiny? Of course, the Hero was an important figure—the World had chosen him for a reason. But even a chosen one could not overcome twelve division commanders and the Demon King himself.

Caver’s gaze swept across the battlefield. They were all dead. Dozens of bodies, both his own summoned soldiers and the Hero’s men, lay scattered across the ground. Pockets of magic flickered here and there, slowly fading into the heated air. And yet, amid the chaos, only one survivor remained.

So why?

Why did he keep going? For the dead? For revenge? Or did he truly believe that some miracle would lead him to victory? It was nonsense.

And Caver knew it—he knew the truth. Heroes always had hope, because the World stood behind them. That was precisely why he wasn’t in a hurry to kill this man.

The Demon King understood that if one Hero fell, another would soon rise. Remove one, and another would take his place.

The World always maintained balance. The fewer Heroes there were, the more the World sent new ones, granting them strength and blessings. Demons, on the other hand, would always be despised by this World.

More importantly, his army could not waste magic endlessly. He had long realized that when demons expended too much energy, the World responded by creating a new candidate for the role of Hero. Centuries ago, this had been barely noticeable. But now, he could feel it—how the system worked against him. Against his very existence, as if he were nothing more than a mistake, something that had to be erased, forever hunted down.

That was why he was in no rush to kill this man. Perhaps it would be far more useful to keep him alive… Yes, to imprison him, to make sure he could neither die nor call for help.

“Haa… ha…” The Hero’s sword trembled in his hands. The man Caver was thinking about was breathing heavily, his body shaking from exhaustion, yet he still stood. Still endured.

Caver watched as he took a step forward. His wounds were severe—his side was bleeding, his arm was broken, deep gashes covered his body, barely missing the tendons. He could hardly lift his sword, yet he refused to let go of it.

And even now, even in this state, his eyes burned with a fire that most humans lacked. It was resolve.

"A pathetic sight," the commander of the Third Division scoffed. "You've already lost." The demon, named Asild, tilted his head, observing the Hero with his amber eyes.

The Hero did not respond. Instead, he took another step, using his weapon for support.

At that moment, Caver felt something crack within this man. It was not just fear. Not just despair. It was his will—strong, unwavering, refusing to fade.

And yet, it would fade.

"That's enough. He is no longer a threat." Caver stepped forward, his cloak billowing with the motion. "You lost," he stated, looking at the Hero with a slight smirk, but without the satisfaction this battle should have brought.

The brown-haired man wavered but did not fall. On the contrary, his fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword. Unfortunately, in the next moment, he coughed, and blood dripped onto his armor, staining the once-pristine uniform of the Empire beneath him.

The Demon King frowned slightly.

This man would not surrender—not even if his body failed him. Not even if his mind told him it was pointless to keep going.

"How stubborn." But Caver was in no hurry to finish him off. And that was because he suddenly sensed something strange.

It felt as if the air above the battlefield had thickened, making it difficult for anyone to breathe properly. As if someone else had intervened in the course of events.

That was when he saw it—something white, floating in the air. High. So high that neither the demons nor the Hero noticed it.

Caver squinted, focusing on what exactly this figure was. And... it was strange. A person—at least, it seemed like one—was levitating, apparently engaged in a fight. But… humans couldn't use magic. They weren’t capable of flight. So how was this possible?

"Hmm…" The Demon King hummed quietly, clasping his hands behind his back.

His commanders also felt that something was off, but they paid it no mind, too focused on the exhausted Hero. The brunet’s actions seemed suspicious, so they remained on guard, ready to protect His Highness—the one they existed for—should any danger arise.

But before Caver could study this new figure any further, he was interrupted by the Hero, who made his presence known once again.

Cassius, barely standing, suddenly lifted his head. His body began to glow, golden rays bursting from his chest.

The Hero had decided to self-destruct.

Of course. If he died here and took down at least part of the demon army, it would be considered a victory for his side. The world would send a new Hero, while Caver and his subordinates would suffer significant losses.

However, Caver was so distracted—almost hypnotized—by that figure that he failed to notice how his subordinates scrambled to shield him, shouting at each other to conjure protective spells. And in the midst of this chaos… something changed. Something that even the World itself hadn’t foreseen. Something it hadn’t predicted and was now thrown into disarray over.

And it was right.

A thunderous crash echoed across the battlefield.

The commander of the Seventh Corps—the one fighting against that albino—was suddenly sent plummeting from a high cliff where he had been hiding to provide long-range support. His face twisted in confusion, then panic.

Caver turned his gaze to the side. Not just him—every demon was now focused on the scene unfolding just a little distance away.

The white figure raised its hand. The sky darkened almost immediately, streaked with pink-gold flashes. The clouds swirled, as if obeying someone’s command. And then…

Lightning struck.

It wasn’t like the magical spells of demons. No.

This was nature itself.

A raw, untamed force that required no mental formulas, drew no energy from magic. It simply existed.

In an instant, the corps commander was gone. No flesh, no armor. Only a seared mark on the ground, blacker than ink.

.

.

.

Silence fell over the battlefield, but then whispers spread among the demons.

"T-the commander of the Seventh Corps…?! Who the hell is that person?!"

"Is… is that magic?"

"How powerful is he…?"

Caver slowly turned his head, his gaze locking onto this new participant.

The figure landed softly between him and the Hero, catching the latter just as he was about to collapse.

Who was he?

This energy… this scent…

Caver narrowed his eyes. He could sense nature itself. But not the weak, muted presence found in those damned elves. No.

This man was its embodiment. As if the earth, sky, and wind had condensed into a single being.

And the explosion? You might ask. Instead of an explosion, a quiet yet distinct prayer echoed across the battlefield.

The Hero, his vision blurred, saw familiar red eyes. Perhaps his words were so faint that even the albino who caught him couldn’t hear them. But the World could.

"World, can you hear me? Please… protect him."

The ground trembled, but the explosion never came.

Instead, the energy meant to annihilate everything around them was absorbed.

Absorbed by this strange man.

The demons froze. Some in fear, others in awe.

He hadn’t just stopped the explosion.

He had taken it into himself.

"Hey, you. What’s your name?"

That was when the Demon King finally decided to speak to this being—one that looked human but seemed beyond everyone else present.

Even beyond the World itself.

"Deon…" The albino started, barely parting his lips before sighing and speaking more clearly. "Demon Arut."

"Demon Arut?"

The corners of Caver’s lips curled in intrigue—an expression absent during his battle with the Heroes. He noticed how some of his subordinates’ eyes lit up, how they listened intently, whispering amongst themselves, speculating on what would happen next.

"D-did he just kill the Hero?" The first demon, one with horns, was shaken.

"I think so. He stopped the Hero from self-destructing… and killed him! That’s incredible!" The second, with sharp ears, watched the albino with shining eyes, eager to learn more and witness what would unfold.

"But I think he’s in terrible shape." The third demon shook his head, choosing to be logical. "If he took a hit from the Hero, there’s no way he’s fine."

And as if on cue, the albino coughed up blood. It slipped through his fingers, dripping onto the ground. It didn’t last long, but the amount was concerning.

Amazingly, the wounded man remained standing, as if it meant nothing to him. Or perhaps he was simply trying to hide the pain likely coursing through his body like poison.

"...Good. I like that name."

After a moment, Caver continued, causing the others to fall silent.

"Have you ever considered joining the demon army?"

"And what do I get in return?"

What Caver hadn’t expected was a response devoid of surprise. No emotion—except indifference and bloodlust.

Such audacity from a human might have enraged someone else, but to Caver, it only added to the intrigue.

This man. He was different. And now, the Demon King had no intention of letting him slip from his grasp.

"I can promise you that no demon here will bother you."

Caver’s smile grew as he extended his hand.

"And I can offer you…" He paused, as if carefully choosing his words.

"The opportunity to gain a power surpassing all others. You’ve already proven that your strength is something special. Aren’t you curious to see your full potential?"

The demons around them whispered among themselves.

They didn’t know who this "Demon Arut" was, but their king clearly saw potential in him.

"I don’t accept simple promises."

The stranger shook his head and raised his hand again—this time, palm-down.

A black aura seeped from his fingers.

Death’s Oath.

Caver recognized it immediately.

Death’s Oath was a contract from which there was no escape. Anyone who broke it would die instantly.

And this man… he could summon Death’s Oath? That was impossible.

Only ancient beings or those who had made pacts with Death itself could wield such a power.

And yet, he had called upon it as if it were nothing.

The demons fell silent, recognizing the dark substance burning like fire in his pale hands.

Caver, however, laughed.

"Now this… this is unexpected."

He ran a hand through his dark hair, golden eyes gleaming like crescent moons.

"Are you truly willing to make such a serious agreement?"

Deon didn’t answer. He only stared coldly ahead, letting the power flow through his fingers.

"Very well," Caver sighed, calming himself. But his smile never faded.

"Then let’s make a deal."

Chapter Text

Almost a week had passed since the Demon Arut became an ally of the demons, receiving the title of Commander of the Zero Corps.

In general, the Demon King had twelve corps commanders, each responsible for a specific group of demon soldiers, either defending a portion of the Demon Realm’s lands or leading them into battle. Each commander possessed their own unique strength, but the lower the corps number, the stronger its commander. In other words, the most powerful among them was the First Corps Commander, Jaikar.

But now, everything had changed.

With the appearance of the Zero Corps Commander, the hierarchy had been shaken. Arut had become the strongest among them, taking the highest step of power—perhaps second only to the Demon King himself.

No one dared to test whether he was truly that powerful. Even without sparring, the demons instinctively realized that this man possessed an overwhelming force.

Why?

Because they could feel it. The aura surrounding the albino suppressed all living beings nearby. It slid invisibly over his body, like a living shadow, guarding him. But for those around him, it appeared entirely different.

The moment Arut released even a fraction of this energy, demons would collapse to their knees, barely able to breathe. Fear froze in their eyes, and their minds shattered under the pressure of an alien, inexplicable power.

No one could resist it. Even the strongest demons felt sheer panic whenever they stood near the albino during the celebration. They felt insignificant, like mere insects before a giant.

And the most terrifying part?

This man wasn’t even trying. He wasn’t making an effort—he seemed completely at ease. So what would happen if he got angry...?

One could only wonder how they would react if they knew that everything was being done by the Dominant Aura alone. That’s right, they hadn’t misheard. That bastard remained silent, though Deon wouldn’t have been able to hear his voice anyway—just like he couldn’t hear the voices of other ancient forces.

The ancient power, tightly coiled around his body, acted on its own, protecting its master and punishing even a mere side glance in his direction. But then again, what else could be expected from a prideful dragon—the former owner of the Dominant Power?

But that wasn’t the main point.

A week had passed since Deon became Demon Arut in the eyes of all demons in this world. It was time to return before the emperor declared him and the hero’s party missing—or worse, dead.

After informing the Demon King of his departure, he didn’t bother to listen to Cavert’s response and simply left the office. This could have been seen as the height of disrespect, but the brunette could do nothing but watch the albino’s antics.

He didn’t even try to stop him, knowing that he had placed a tracking seal on Arut’s chest. That had happened when they had first arrived in the Demon King’s Realm.

At first, Cavert had suspected something, but he hadn’t paid much attention to it.

They had entered the Demon Realm, where Deon removed his hood and mask, revealing his face under the light of the three moons... A face the Demon King recognized immediately.

So that’s what it was...

It was that child.

The one whose life had been gambled away without his consent by the duke in a foolish bet long ago.

Cavert hadn’t interfered back then. He had merely observed the fate of a weak, sickly creature—one brought into this world against its will, only to become the victim of a wager.

And then he had stopped watching.

Sent to war, that boy had no chance of survival. The outcome had been obvious, and the Demon King had simply... forgotten about him.

And now, he regretted it.

He looked at the Demon Arut—the being whose thoughts and emotions were beyond his reach. He couldn’t read this man, whose face displayed nothing but boredom. And more than that, he couldn’t even gauge his strength.

— "How? How did you survive?"

He didn’t ask the question aloud, but his eyes spoke for him.

Perhaps that was why he had placed the tracking seal on him. He wouldn’t lose sight of him again.

This man intrigued him, and Cavert wanted to see what he would do next.

°°°

The sun burned through the small gaps between clothing and accessories, such as the space between the hood and the mask, making his eyes sting. But beyond that, the sunlight also reflected off the white walls made of high-quality quartz.

The Emperor’s majestic palace shone brighter than ever.

Scoffing to himself, Deon passed through the gates. The guards who had intended to stop him immediately stood down the moment they saw the emblem he pulled from his pocket. This insignia had once belonged to the fallen Hero—now carried in his arms.

Moving inside and turning at the right corridors, he reached the throne room. Eduardo Dezérro, the current emperor who had ruled for six years, glanced at him briefly, cutting off the aristocratic advisors mid-conversation with a single hand gesture.

"Glory to the Empire," he greeted, placing the corpse before the emperor and swearing an oath. His muscles ached from carrying the former Hero all this way, but outwardly, his face remained unchanged, betraying none of the irritation he felt.

["Glory to the Empire"—this is the phrase used in times of war, while "Light of the Empire" is spoken in times of peace.]

That passage from the book still lingered in Deon’s memory. Right now, while they weren’t at war in its full-scale form as at the start, its remnants still remained. The war, which was supposed to last eight years according to the original timeline, was soon coming to an end in six. And all of it was thanks to Deon Hart's knowledge and actions—the infamous mad captain with an equally mad squad.

"Deon Hart, I see things didn’t go as planned," the Emperor sighed, silently ordering the unnecessary people to leave the hall, leaving them alone.

He studied Deon in silence before shifting his gaze to the lifeless body of the Hero. A tense silence settled over the throne room, broken only by the distant echo of retreating footsteps.

Deon held his gaze calmly, as if unaffected by the oppressive aura the blond was used to subjugating people with. He had faced it many times before.

"That’s correct, Your Majesty." Deon inclined his head slightly in respect, but there was no trace of admiration or loyalty in his eyes.

"What do you want in return?" the Emperor finally asked.

Blunt and straight to the point. No grief over the Hero’s death. Hah, just as expected from a man who ascended the throne with bloodied hands.

How had the former ninth prince and now emperor managed to kill all his family members and take the throne so effortlessly? How had he become a widely acknowledged ruler within just six years?

The answer lay in his overwhelming strength. He possessed the largest Hero’s Fragment ever recorded.

Its exact size was unknown, but that was the prevailing belief. It might as well have been true, for no Hero had ever demonstrated as much power as the Emperor.

A tyrant—that’s what people would call him if not for the risk of losing their heads. Though, there was some sympathy for him, considering what had forced him into such actions.

"Land," Deon simply replied, shaking off his previous thoughts. He couldn’t afford to fall into the state of Record here.

Silence filled the hall. Eduardo didn’t react outwardly, but a flicker of interest crossed his gaze.

"Land?" he repeated, as if analyzing a hidden meaning. And indeed, there was one.

"Yes. A piece of land that will hold neutral status."

Those words were unexpected.

The last word carried a subtle trick—it implied Deon’s immunity from becoming the Emperor’s loyal pawn. At the same time, it signaled no hostile intent, easing the blond’s thoughts, if only slightly.

"Amusing. I thought you’d ask for something else." The Emperor tilted his head forward slightly, his fingers idly brushing against the throne’s armrest.

"This is all I need," Deon answered curtly. The words carried a double meaning, but Eduardo didn’t press further.

"And what do you intend to do with this piece of land?"

"Live."

A simple answer, but one that held the truth. Deon sought neither power nor revenge. He just wanted a place where he could exist in peace, avoiding further entanglements. To live a life of leisure while also supporting his squad—most of whom had no homes to return to after the war.

"…Fine." The Emperor remained silent for a moment, then slowly nodded.

So easy. So simple.

But Deon knew—Eduardo never did anything without reason.

"Of course, you understand what follows," the Emperor added, rising from his throne. His shadow stretched across the floor, cast in long lines of refracted light from the quartz walls. "You will receive the land, but it will be yours permanently, along with the responsibility that comes with it. You must realize that for all your achievements, you will never be the same as you are now."

Farewell to official titles. Farewell to the rank of captain. Long live the new life of an aristocrat and a Hero.

"…That’s exactly what I want."

"Then so be it." And just like that, with a short exchange, Deon Hart secured his sanctuary.

"You may leave, Honorary Count Hart."

It was a one-time title, naturally ending with Deon’s death. In other words, there would never be another House of Hart. It was the perfect arrangement for the albino.

However, as he rose from his position, a sudden cough forced blood up his throat.

Carrying a corpse heavier than himself had clearly been a bad idea.

Never before had he allowed anyone outside of his Squad 314—now known as the Order of High Knights—to witness him coughing up blood.

And now, after seeing it, the Emperor was unlikely to let him leave without an explanation.

Well, he had expected this outcome.

He had foreseen something like this, though he had hoped to avoid it. Before entering, he had asked one of the maids cleaning nearby to remove the cloak from his shoulders. She had hesitantly but obediently followed his request, placing the garment over the Hero’s cooling body.

It was the height of summer, so through the thin clothing, the Emperor could easily see Deon’s pale skin. And, of course, his gaze settled on one particular spot.

Right above his collarbone was a violet-black mark.

A Demon King’s curse—that’s what the Emperor would assume.

"Is this… a curse?" The blond reached out, leaning forward even more, repeating the words with a joyless smile.

Of course, it truly was caused by the Demon King.

But it was not a curse weakening Deon’s body, as the Emperor assumed. The mark was actually a spell akin to "location tracking."

"Are you wounded, Honorary Count?"

Realizing what he was doing, the Emperor withdrew his hand before it could touch the mark. He leaned back into his throne, his gaze sharp and scrutinizing.

"Not at all." Deon shook his head in denial, adjusting his clothes. Mentally, he was relieved that his minor preparation had worked. He didn’t refute the Emperor’s assumption but instead encouraged him to keep thinking in that direction.

"Just minor aftereffects. I’m fine."

"…I’ll take your word for it."

The blond willingly walked into the trap, unaware it had been set. What concerned him more was the possibility that his greatest talent—Deon—had been seriously cursed.

"But I advise you to visit the imperial physician first."

"As you command, Your Majesty." Without arguing, Deon left the hall, paying no attention to his own appearance or the people standing at the entrance.

They eyed him, noting the blood on his lips and the fingers of his white glove.

Beyond that, the mark on his skin glowed a faint purple, sending a wave of unease through those who saw it.

From that day on, rumors spread across the empire—whispers of a curse and of the newly appointed war hero.

°°°

Kletter, sitting on a stump in the corner of the training ground, glanced at the other buildings nearby. Now, they had a place to sleep and a space to train as much as they wanted. And no, it wasn’t just new tents or the same makeshift structures they were used to in military conditions.

This was their new home.

A place they could call home. A place they could return to at any time, knowing that one white-haired guy would always be there, waiting for them. He might not show his affection outwardly, but he would undoubtedly welcome them with open arms.

Everything here felt new, as if the people who built it already knew something would be here, that these lands would be used. It felt so... new. So unfamiliar to them. But at the same time, with all the familiar faces around—the ones they had been with for so long—the place felt warm.

They owed their commander for taking them with him.

At the entrance, they were greeted by servants chosen personally by the esteemed Count. He had no intention of accepting spies from the Emperor—the ones the blond had recommended—and they were immediately dismissed.

Instead, the servants were inexperienced commoners who simply needed money. And for that reason, they were good candidates to serve Deon Hart.

"S-Sir, good day!" The knights assigned to guard the estate and its surroundings greeted them, their voices trembling.

And how could they not tremble, knowing that the High Knights of the infamous White Shadow were wandering around them?

"Relax," Kletter said. Though, in truth, this reaction was rather flattering to every member of the 314th section, and they weren’t shy about admitting it. "What’s your name?"

One by one, the fresh-faced knights introduced themselves, and as the highest-ranking and most senior knight present, Kletter took it upon himself to train them. No way were they going to leave the safety of their "child" (yes, they secretly referred to Deon as their child) in the hands of incompetents.

.

.

.

Break time. The only break Kletter allowed the knights. Everyone was drenched in sweat, reeking, and utterly exhausted.

"Weaklings," Sharky commented, watching them with boredom. He and the other remaining High Knights had been scouting the lands and had only just returned to the captain's deputy, Kletter, near the training grounds.

"Agreed."

Laughing, Kletter leaned against a column, crossing his arms as he observed the fallen recruits. Some were ashamed of their pathetic endurance, while others gazed at them with envy.

"Do you know about our knightly order?" he asked one of the more promising recruits.

"It’s called the Devil’s Followers... and it’s considered the strongest among all sections," the nameless knight replied. Kletter had already forgotten his name.

"Hah, you sure know how to flatter. Well, we are quite famous," the senior knight admitted, glancing at the sky with a faint smile, as if reminiscing. "Truth is, we’re not as strong as people think. Did you know that most of us were forcibly conscripted commoners? Mostly from the poorest backgrounds?"

He wanted to make this clear so no one would think ill of them or their captain. Rumors painted them as warriors of noble birth with extensive battle experience, given their survival skills, but that was far from the truth.

"I... I didn’t know that."

"Really? It’s a pretty ‘well-known’ story. Though I suppose some people never hear it. What I mean to say is, we were once just ordinary people who couldn’t even tell left from right. Learning swordsmanship as adults was already too late for us."

"Yeah! Especially that guy over there. See him? He’s turning forty-two this year. He was already thirty-six when he was drafted!" A brown-haired knight with a scar on his face chimed in.

"Milan..." Kletter dragged a hand down his face. Somehow, this brat managed to stay quiet for a while, but clearly, it wasn’t going to last.

He debated kicking Milan out for the time being, but it was obvious that would only make him louder and more persistent. So, he gave up and turned back to the knights. Had Milan’s words impressed them?

"Forty-two..." someone muttered.

"Alright—" Kletter was about to continue the training when someone interrupted him, though not intentionally.

"...How?"

"What?"

"How did he get so strong?" One of the recruits looked at them with determined eyes, eager to learn the secret that might help them become stronger.

"Well. There’s actually no special reason for it." Kletter spread his arms and shrugged, deliberately drawing out his words. No, in truth, he didn’t want to tell them at all. But thanks to that idiot Milan, there was no avoiding it.

"Well, for starters, all the weak ones died during the war."

"Milan!" Kletter smacked the knight on the head, shooting him a furious glare.

"What? I’m right," Milan muttered, rubbing his head and pouting like a child.

At first, they had been the vanguard—the ones used as meat shields. Deon Hart, their captain at the time, gave them orders and advice. But everyone who ignored his commands ended up dead due to their own arrogance or stupidity.

And those who died even before their new captain arrived... There had been so many of them it was impossible to count.

Of course, Kletter wasn’t eager to tell the recruits about that. He had wanted to sugarcoat things a little, but he never expected Milan to just blurt out the brutal truth.

"And after the war, those who had a home to return to left. Doesn’t our Order seem small, considering we were once the vanguard?" With a deep sigh and a resigned expression, Kletter explained the rest. "Only those who no longer fear death remain."

«And those who are willing to give their lives for a single child.» That part remained unsaid.

Those who had something to return to, or something to protect, couldn’t afford to get hurt. On the battlefield, they had no choice, so some pretended they didn’t fear death. But now, with the war over, they didn’t have to pretend anymore.

Naturally, those still attached to life left the Order and returned to their normal lives.

Of course, there were plenty who came back—unable to move past what the war had done to them—but most returned simply because they had lost the home they could have gone back to or the people they had fought to protect for those six long years.

When you thought about it, it was almost funny.

During the war, he had been so afraid of dying that he had trembled, cursing his fate. But afterward, when he wanted to die, he had laughed in death’s face, still cursing his fate.

And now, when he wanted to live, for the first time, he was grateful to that wretched fate for leading him here.

"Well, actually, I convinced myself I wouldn’t die even if I got killed during the war, so maybe it’s a little different." A grin spread across Kletter’s face, but for a brief moment, his expression darkened.

"And one more thing," he said, already feeling uneasy for a while. But then Milan, that damn bastard, started again... "One of the reasons could be that miracle drug."

"Miracle... drugs? Wait... are those narcotics?!" One of the newcomers shouted, making the others look at them with eyes as wide as saucers.

"Uh... almost. I exaggerated a little, but to put it simply, we're weaklings who can't properly kill a single person without these drugs. And that's despite the fact that—"

"And they were developed by our captain!" He was interrupted again, this time on purpose. Damn Milan.

"Milan! How many times do I have to tell you to call him the Count, not the Captain?!" The brunette's words were true— their former captain, now an honorary Count, had created these drugs for them.

The main issue was that many soldiers suffered from insomnia and hallucinations because of the people they had killed. Considering that they had never been properly trained before and that most of them were from the slums, it made sense.

They didn't even have money for food, let alone an academy education.

That's when the empire offered them a deal involving drugs, believing it would turn them into bloodthirsty killing machines, willing to do anything for the empire if they agreed to transport the narcotics.

But their captain at the time was against it, even though he knew no one would ask for his opinion. However, Deon refused to back down, believing he was responsible for them. So much so that he developed his own prototype of the drugs—one that had the same effects, but even better.

"Ow, ow, ow... Buddy, that hurts! I'm dying here!... Pfft!" This time, Milan didn't get away with just a light smack. Kletter had him in a chokehold, one arm twisted behind his back in a firm lock.

"Alright, alright, I get it!"

"Hahaha!" Behind them, Sharky laughed, clearly enjoying the sight of Milan struggling. Though, to be fair, the toothy bastard would’ve blurted out something similar if it weren’t for Milan beating him to it.

"Haah," the vice-captain sighed dramatically, finally letting Milan go. As soon as he was freed, Milan started chasing after Sharky.

"Like a bunch of kids."

"..." Dargan wanted to comment in agreement but fell silent when, suddenly, an old man appeared before them—his footsteps unheard by anyone. Even Milan and Sharky stopped their bickering, turning their attention to the newcomer.

"Eh." Kletter inhaled slightly. Milan also looked surprised, letting out a dumb-sounding "Huh? Huh?" before asking, "Do you need something, Remember?"

After six years on the battlefield, they had become quite good at sensing presences. And yet, they hadn't noticed the butler at all.

They had always assumed he wasn’t just an ordinary butler, but they didn’t expect him to be this skilled.

"The Count has invited you to dinner," announced Remember—the old man standing before them.

Shared meals had always been a tradition for Unit 314 and their commander. And apparently, that tradition remained unchanged despite the albino’s new position.

That lifted their spirits quite a bit, almost making them forget the butler’s sudden appearance—or at least, postponing their reaction to it indefinitely.

"Last one there loses their entire portion!" someone shouted before dashing toward the estate, laughing.

"What-... Hey! That’s not fair!" The others quickly followed, yelling accusations of cheating.

Chapter Text

Damn emperor.

Deon cursed, clenching the invitation letter in his hand.

That blond bastard had decided to throw a banquet in his honor. Apparently, he needed to gather all the nobles and officially declare him an honorary Count and a Hero of War for his immense contributions over the past six years.

And worst of all, Deon would have to face his current family.

Cale still didn't understand what kind of relationship they had with the original Deon, but he had no intention of figuring it out or meddling in their affairs. That would only bring him unnecessary trouble, and he was against such cliché moments that he had read about countless times in medieval-themed books.

The last thing he needed was for them to become a nuisance in the future, setting traps for him in every possible way.

But even that wasn’t the worst of it. He was avoiding the real issue—the main reason he didn’t want to meet anyone who could be called "family."

He simply couldn’t—didn’t want to—get attached to someone again, only to watch them break apart. Over and over again.

His life as Kim Rok Soo was already proof that he was never meant to have a peaceful life with his loved ones.

First, he lost his parents—his gentle and loving mother, his steadfast yet kind father. It happened during a holiday when they were supposed to visit a water park together, but their car crashed into another vehicle, leaving him as the only survivor.

“Such luck,” people had said. “A miracle.” A mere coincidence that he managed to survive despite his severe injuries and multiple surgeries.

Then, his uncle took him in. A good, caring man at first—one who worried about his condition and comforted him at his parents’ grave.

But, of course, that story had a different ending too.

After losing his job, his uncle changed. That was when Kim Rok Soo learned what it meant to "survive." What it truly meant to "want to live."

He was starved. Forced to do all the household chores, no matter how grueling. Used as a punching bag whenever the man lost his temper. Locked in the basement if he made a noise his uncle didn’t like. There wasn’t a single spot left on his skin that wasn’t covered in bruises or cuts.

That was when he began hating the scars on his body. Hating anything that reminded him of the worst moments of his life.

Next came the orphanage. A place where children were sent with the naive hope of being adopted by new families.

What nonsense.

It was a place for children no one wanted. A place no different from his uncle’s house.

Except this time, instead of one abusive adult, he was tormented by a group of children. Instead of a cruel guardian, he was ignored by caretakers who pretended he didn’t exist—like he was a broken, filthy doll no one wanted to play with.

"It’s fine. I can take care of myself."

That was how he comforted himself at night, sneaking through the corridors, trying to steal food—if he wasn’t caught and punished by having his mattress taken away, forced to sleep on the cold, hard floor.

And then—oh, what a miracle—he didn’t last long there either.

The apocalypse happened.

Monsters appeared everywhere, destroying everything in their path.

The orphanage was reduced to ruins. No one survived. No one except Kim Rok Soo.

Half of his body was trapped under the rubble, but he was alive. More alive than all the corpses surrounding him for a week until his rescue.

Lee Soo Hyuk. That name would stay with him for a lifetime. For more than one lifetime.

Lee Soo Hyuk was the leader of the group that saved him. The one who fed him a chocolate bar.

Oh, how delicious it had been. And at the same time, how painful—to swallow dry chocolate with a parched throat, using a weak jaw just to chew.

And then, they met again.

This time, with Lee Soo Hyuk came Choi Jung Soo.

And, of course, the moment he dared to believe his life was finally getting better, that he had a chance to be happy with his found family, they were taken from him.

As if Death was mocking him—giving him precious people only to snatch them away.

He hated himself. Hated his life. His scarred body. His broken soul.

He despised the idea of being killed, yet at the same time, he longed for it—even if he didn’t realize it.

He blamed himself for everything.

If he had never been born, his family wouldn’t have gone on that stupid trip to the water park. His uncle wouldn’t have lost his mind. His hyungs wouldn’t have sacrificed themselves for someone so useless, so weak, so disgusting.

But then, he woke up in Cale’s body.

He thought it was a new chance. But he never truly believed in it.

He kept his distance, made sure not to let anyone too close.

He hoped—begged—that his fate wouldn’t repeat itself.

And all because of that damned curse.

A curse that took away the people he loved, dragging them into the embrace of death.

(Yes, he knew it had been Sheritt’s curse in the original, but… let’s say things were different this time.)

He was cursed. He had no doubt about it.

And yet, he still let his team into his heart.

What had he expected? That the gods would take pity on him? That he actually deserved happiness—deserved to be cared for?

Ridiculous. He was trash.

A bastard who didn’t deserve any of it.

He deserved to rot in hell for his sins, for simply existing—because he had lost everyone.

Again.

Once more, he was left alone.

Alone with the countless corpses of his family, his team, his children.

He was still cursed. Still broken. Even if he had changed bodies, his soul remained the same.

For the longest time, after waking up in Deon’s body, he would wake in a cold sweat, haunted by nightmares. His knights had comforted him so often that he knew exactly where each of them slept—who was in which tent, on what level—so he could find them even with his eyes closed.

(Please don’t hit me! I just wanted to make Cale a bit more tactile due to his trauma. He’s too cute, and the knights are way too protective.)

Most of the time, Milon or Dargan ended up being his makeshift pillows—Milon because he was too stubborn to leave, and Dargan because he was quiet enough to be a comforting presence.

Cale never told the others, but he knew they all noticed. They just chose to stay silent.

Over the years, the nightmares became less frequent, but they never truly disappeared.

And even though he swore he wouldn’t let history repeat itself—he still failed.

Among people who weren’t supposed to become his family. Among those he had planned to keep at a distance, yet who had shattered his walls regardless.

These damn knights had stormed into his life like a hurricane, sweeping away his caution, uprooting his fears, filling the void in his chest with something warm. Something real.

But how long would it last?

He knew that attachment meant pain.

He knew that the moment he called someone "family," they would disappear.

He had lost before. Too many times.

And now, as he stared at the cursed invitation in his hands, knowing he would have to meet yet another "family," a quiet panic settled in his chest.

What if he got used to them? What if he—without realizing it—started to see them as his own?

What if, one day, he woke up and realized he didn’t want to lose them?

What then?

What was the point of going through this again, knowing how it would end?

He didn’t want to lose anyone. He didn’t want to be alone.

But the choice had already been made. Not by him. And he had no idea how to handle that.

Will he be able to endure their loss once again without breaking? And how will he piece himself back together if even this third life turns into a curse? How will he continue without a reason to live?

His thoughts lingered for a long time, but in the end, he pushed them away, hoping this family would be just as they were described in the novel—problematic and infuriating.

He decided to avoid them or, at worst, keep his interactions to a minimum. For the sake of his goal—a peaceful, idle life—he repeated to himself, ignoring the swirling images in his mind brought forth by the Record.

°°°

The banquet was in full swing.

The grand hall gleamed under the light of chandeliers, its walls adorned with lavish tapestries that felt excessively pompous and stifling. The air was thick with the scent of expensive wine, perfume, and self-importance. The clinking of glasses, hushed whispers of aristocrats, and their deliberately loud laughter—it all grated on his nerves, pressing in like an incessant noise inside his head.

And at the very center of this chaos stood him—Deon Hart.

Thrown into this society like an exotic beast, one that everyone wanted to touch, to examine, to tame. Each person sought to claim even a sliver of his attention, searching for ways to win his favor. Power. Status. Bloodline. The emperor’s protection. He was too valuable to be ignored.

Hypocritical bastards.

Even in the Demon Realm, there wasn’t this much pretense. Things were simpler there, more honest. You were either feared, respected, or killed. But here—here were smiles that hid venomous fangs.

The clingy princess was especially irritating. Her voice was like sweet honey, but sticky and cloying to the point of nausea. Her smile was too wide, her words dripping with insincere admiration. Her name was Aletia—Aletia Deserte. The emperor’s niece and the sister of the crown prince, Elfidius Deserte.

Deon closed his eyes, exhausted. After years of war, noisy gatherings only grated on his nerves. In any other situation, he would have stayed in a corner, unwilling to take part in something so tedious and pointless. But no, of course, they had to make him the guest of honor at this wretched celebration.

Yet even more than the noise, he despised the gazes piercing through him—assessing, greedy for advantage. He could feel their impatience, their selfish desires. Each person here wanted to convince him to join their faction, to offer him a deal, to forge an alliance.

False words. False people.

Perhaps in moments like this, he understood the original Cale—the one who built a reputation as a worthless slacker. At least that way, he wouldn’t have to endure these social games for long. Most people would simply avoid him like the plague.

— The heir of House Hart, Cruel Hart, has arrived!

A voice rang out, announcing the arrival of the guests. It drew the attention of everyone in the hall, and the aristocrats fell silent as if on command.

A suffocating, bloodthirsty pressure spread through the hall, as if squeezing the air from their lungs.

And it came from the man at the center—Deon Hart.

.

.

.

Silence.

It became so quiet that one could hear the soft footsteps of the newcomer, the click of ladies’ heels, and the beads of sweat trickling down the foreheads of gentlemen.

Naturally, it was his dominant aura responding to the irritation and exhaustion of its bearer, stepping in to assist.

And, of course, they misinterpreted it.

They thought Deon was furious at Cruel Hart.

Rumors of tension between them had long circulated throughout the empire—whispered among the noble corridors, spread by the earl’s servants. And now, with the heir of Hart finally announced, it was as if their speculations had been confirmed.

Deon didn’t bother correcting them.

Instead, he simply turned and walked away. His steps were light but firm. No one dared stop him, unwilling to invoke the wrath of the Hero.

That same Hero, noticing how the crowd was subtly retreating from him, seized the opportunity to slip away onto the balcony, where the air was cooler and silence reigned.

It was so peaceful here that he had no desire to leave.

Closing his eyes, he let the wind play with his long hair, making it sway gently as if it were alive.

Almost like… wind elementals.

His lips curled into a faint smile.

Perhaps they really were.

°°°

Elsewhere.

The name Cruel Hart was known across the empire. A genius swordsman, a natural master of the blade who had surpassed veteran instructors in just a few years. His reputation preceded him, cutting through obstacles with ease.

But he… had never wanted any of it.

If given the choice, he would have traded all his strength, all his talent—without hesitation—for the well-being of his family.

For his younger brother’s health.

Deon Hart… Weak, sickly, frighteningly fragile. In childhood, people mistook him for a vampire rather than a human—his pale skin unable to endure sunlight, his snow-white hair like freshly fallen snow, his haunting frailty.

He had been sentenced to a life in bed from birth. The moment he stepped outside his room, illness would seize him. A hint of stress was enough to make his nose bleed, his hands tremble.

But that had never stopped Cruel from loving him.

This small, fragile bundle of happiness, with eyes full of adoration… Deon looked up at him, clinging to him, seeking warmth, and Cruel couldn’t refuse. But deep down, one thought always tormented him: what if he didn’t live to see another day?

That thought returned again and again, sending icy waves of fear through his chest. He forbade Deon from touching wooden swords, always kept him within sight, made sure his brother was safe.

It didn’t matter that Deon pouted and puffed his cheeks in frustration, trying to mimic his serious expression or the proud tilt of his head. It all looked amusing, but damn, it was so heartwarming to see Deon trying to be like him.

At those moments, looking at him, Cruel could at least calm himself a little. He had to be an example. He had to protect him. He had to…

But when the knights took Deon away, he couldn’t even move.

He stood. Just stood there, like a damned statue, watching as his younger brother was dragged into the carriage.

His hands trembled. His pupils darted frantically. But he did nothing. He didn’t act, even though there had been a chance to do something—anything.

Strong? Unbeatable? The pride of the family? What were all those words worth if, in that moment, he was nothing more than a helpless fool, unable to even look away from his brother’s pleading face?

Regret. Anger. Despair. All of it twisted inside him. He hated himself for not acting. For his letters going unanswered. For the fact that no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t even get in contact with Deon. Someone had deliberately cut all their ties, destroyed everything he and their parents had tried to do to help the youngest son.

And now, after so many years, he hears news of a celebration—the welcoming of a new Hero. He was invited to the banquet on behalf of House Hart, and he accepted, not knowing where it would lead him.

Cruel stepped into the hall, ignoring the sudden silence. His attention was fixed on a single figure with rare white hair.

He’s alive.

He’s—damn it, he’s alive!

Something tore inside his chest, filling his entire body with a whirlwind of emotions. It was like a drowning man’s first gasp of air—so desperately needed, yet so unattainable.

And he couldn’t wait. He couldn’t hold back any longer.

His steps quickened. He was almost running forward, oblivious to the stunned stares, the concerned aristocrats.

Just let this not be a hallucination. Let his sleep-deprived mind not be playing a cruel trick on him.

Just let him not disappear.

The figure was slowly moving away, but Cruel couldn’t afford to lose sight of it. His heart pounded in his chest, drowning out the noise of the crowd, and his feet carried him forward, cutting through the sea of people.

He practically crashed onto the balcony, yanking the curtains shut behind him. A closed space. Silence. Only the loud thudding of his own heartbeat.

He was afraid to turn around.

Afraid of what he might see—or rather, what he might not see.

His hands trembled again. But not from panic, like before, but from something else entirely—an aching fear that squeezed his throat and made his head spin.

Six years.

Six long years since he last saw Deon. The last time, his brother had been a child—thin, sickly, but still radiating that childish purity that made Cruel constantly worry yet love him endlessly.

And now…

When he finally turned, he saw a grown young man. Taller. More composed. Silent. His gaze was cold, empty, directed somewhere into the night sky. But it was still his sweet little brother.

Deon—his Deon—was leaning on the balcony railing, staring into the distance. So serene. So relaxed. As if he had never been on a battlefield.

For a moment, Cruel wanted to believe this was all just a bad dream. That if he blinked, he would see that same little brother again—the one who once tugged on his hand with excitement, begging him to read a book before bed.

The Deon who laughed, feeling a little jealous of his fencing skills, yet still admired him with all his heart.

If that were true, he would embrace his little brother and cry. Like a child, he would sob, unable to explain why or what nightmare had plagued him.

But no. This was not a dream, nor a hallucination. This was reality, and he would have to accept it.

He feared what would happen next. Of course, he sincerely wanted his brother to be with him again, but… What was he supposed to say? What was he supposed to do now? How could he explain everything?

"Deon," he called, trying to keep his voice steady. The words felt heavy. "Have you been back long?"

He felt guilty, ready to accept whatever accusations Deon might throw at him. Ready to take responsibility if needed. As long as his brother could let out all the emotions he had bottled up over the years.

Let the albino get angry, lash out, unleash all his pain. Let him scream, ask why he hadn’t been protected. Let him hit him, even with his fists. Let him break his nose, let him yell as much as he wanted if it made him feel even a little better. Cruel would endure it all.

But that was not what fate had planned for him, as he realized when he looked up.

The albino slowly turned his head, gazing at him with no particular expression. There was no anger. No sadness. No hatred. Just… nothing.

Empty. Hollow.

Cruel involuntarily held his breath, as if hoping that Deon would blink and that familiar light would return to his red eyes.

But it didn’t.

And then, he noticed something. The sleeves of Deon’s white gloves had slipped slightly, revealing faint, pinkish scars on his wrists. Thin, but old.

Cruel didn’t know what to say. A sickening feeling twisted in his chest. He knew war had been cruel to Deon, that his younger brother had been through hell, but seeing the proof of it so clearly…

"A few days ago," Deon answered, as if nothing had happened, his voice impossibly calm.

"These scars…" Cruel began, but Deon let out a short chuckle, averting his gaze back to the night. His hands disappeared into his sleeves.

"Side effects of war. Don’t think too much about it."

Cruel wanted to ask more, but Deon’s gaze was too indifferent. As if he didn’t care. As if he didn’t want anyone to notice.

A deep sense of unease began to settle inside Cruel. What else did he not know about what his brother had endured? Why was Deon looking at him as if they were strangers?

"I—" The brunette struggled, damn it, to speak normally. He really tried, but this reunion drained him of all emotions, leaving him lost.

Taking a few cautious steps forward, Cruel reached out, wanting to embrace him, to comfort his brother—and himself—with that touch. But the moment his fingertips brushed Deon’s shoulder, they were immediately pushed away.

The message was clear: Do not come any closer.

Pressing his lips into a thin line, he accepted it without protest.

He hadn’t earned forgiveness. He didn’t deserve to touch him—no matter how much he wanted to.

°°°

After the banquet, Cruel returned with a blank expression, something the Count and Countess quickly noticed. There was no need for questions—their eldest son rarely showed concern unless it involved his younger brother. There were no words, no greetings, no inquiries about how the celebration had gone.

He needed time. He had to think before saying anything.

The next day, they all sat at the long dining table, barely touching their food but holding their utensils as if to feign that the tension in the air did not exist.

A minute passed. Then another. A third. A fifth…

Unable to bear it any longer, the Count sighed and cast a stern look at his son. It could have been mistaken for displeasure, but it was nothing more than impatience and worry.

"The hero everyone celebrated yesterday…" Cruel finally spoke, closing his eyes for a brief moment. "It was Deon."

Silence fell over the dining room.

The Count furrowed his brows, while the Countess covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes wide with shock.

"Deon?" Her voice trembled as if she feared she had misheard.

"Yes. He’s alive." Cruel ran a hand down his face, the words spoken at the banquet replaying in his mind. "He has returned, but he is not the same."

"Tell me everything." The Count exhaled heavily, setting his fork and knife down on his untouched plate. Crossing his arms over his chest, he fixed his son with a piercing gaze.

Cruel gave a brief explanation—how he had noticed Deon, how he had tried to speak with him. How Deon had stood on the balcony, looking at him… but not truly seeing him. As if he were looking through him, at someone else. As if he were picturing another person in his place—not Cruel, not his brother.

But he chose to remain silent about the scars, unwilling to send their mother into a panic. She was already on the verge of tears, on the edge of hysteria.

"He was calm. Too calm. He barely said a few words, and when I tried to…" Cruel clenched his fist, staring at a single point. "He didn’t want me to touch him."

"Deon…" The Countess couldn't hold back. Her shoulders trembled, and she buried her face in her hands, just as she had on that dreadful day when they hadn't even been able to say goodbye to their son. They hadn't made it in time. They… they had lost him.

"My baby," she sobbed. "My little boy…"

Cruel felt his heart clench. He remembered how she had cried by Deon’s bedside when he was small, how she had sat there for hours while he slept, afraid to leave him alone. And now… now her son was right there, closer than ever—yet farther than he had ever been.

People say that indifference is worse than hatred.

And that was what Deon showed them upon his return from war. That was his punishment for their inaction.

But they were not ready to accept it. At least, the Count certainly wasn't.

"So he has chosen to cut us off," the Count murmured, but even in a whisper, his words shattered the silence.

Cruel looked at his father. He seemed composed, but something dangerous flickered in his eyes—not anger, not irritation, but resolve.

"What are you going to do, Father?" Cruel asked cautiously.

"I'm going to see him." The Count rose from his seat, heading for the door.

"He won’t want to," Cruel stood up at once, as if trying to stop him.

"And?" The Count gave him a cold look. "He is our son, Cruel. If he thinks he can simply erase us from his life, he is mistaken." His voice was laced with desperation. The mere thought of losing his son again, after all this time, hit him like a blow.

It wasn’t a physical pain, but it was far worse—deep, piercing, and incurable if he left things as they were.

He… He had to. He had to do something.

"Dear, do you really think you can reach him?" The Countess lifted her head, hope flickering in her eyes. A small, fragile hope.

"We have to try. I… We cannot leave things as they are."

Cruel remained silent, knowing that there was no persuading his father. The Count was stubborn, but worst of all—he was right.

They had to try to explain themselves to Deon. To ask for forgiveness.

And even if nothing changed, they had to convince him to at least let them be a part of his life again.