Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In a realm so impossibly beautiful that it seemed torn from the pages of a divine masterpiece, a crystalline waterfall cascaded like liquid stardust, each droplet shimmering with ethereal light. The sky stretched endlessly above, painted with vibrant streaks of aurora that danced like celestial ribbons. Beneath this breathtaking expanse, a garden bloomed in perfect harmony—so flawless that it felt less like nature and more like the deliberate artistry of a god.

Yet, in the midst of such transcendent beauty, an unmistakably annoyed figure stood. His pristine white hair fluttered despite the utter stillness of the air, moving as if stirred by a force beyond mortal comprehension. His expression, however, was anything but serene—his brows furrowed, his lips twisted into a deep scowl of exasperation.

The God of Death sighed, his patience wearing thin as he waited for a particular someone. Time flowed differently here, yet even so, the wait had been long enough to irk him. And in the end—just as he had expected—there was no grand arrival, no dramatic entrance. Instead, a single note materialized out of thin air, floating gently before him like an afterthought.

Death’s eye twitched. He snatched the note midair, already sensing trouble. As his gaze skimmed the words, his annoyance deepened into something resembling disbelief. Then irritation. And finally, outright betrayal.

He clicked his tongue, his voice laced with sour displeasure.

“I can’t believe it. That damned ‘Life’ pulls something like this and still has the audacity to claim it’s not interfering? What a load of nonsense, Life.”

Despite his grumbling, Death continued reading. With every word, his expression grew darker, his fingers tightening around the note as if contemplating crumpling it into oblivion.

—The saint you have chosen has also been granted the powers of Life. They shall serve as the First Angel, a bridge between your domain and mine.—

A muscle in Death’s jaw twitched.

His child. His self-proclaimed child.

Kim Rok Soo’s soul had been part of his deal. He had chosen him, nurtured him in his own way. That boy belonged to him. Not to Life. And now, Life had the gall to claim otherwise? That Kim Rok Soo was now half Death and half Life? Like some ridiculous Yin-Yang abomination?

Death groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

“Great. Fantastic. Just perfect. What’s next? Is he going to start sprouting flowers every time he touches something?”

The mere thought made him shudder. He had claimed that child first, fair and square. Life had no right to meddle in his affairs.

Annoyed beyond words, Death lifted his gaze toward the sky, staring at the ever-moving auroras as if they held the answers to his predicament.

“…You owe me an explanation for this, Life” he muttered, already feeling the headache coming.

~~~~~

Kim Rok Soo stirred, his consciousness teetering on the edge of wakefulness. He had only been reading—a novel that had caught his eye, nothing particularly unusual. And yet, at some point, without even realizing it, he had dozed off.

A frown tugged at his lips as he slowly pushed himself up. His movements were sluggish, still tinged with the haze of sleep. But then—

‘Soft?’

His mind jolted awake as he registered the sensation beneath him. This… this wasn’t the hard, worn-out mattress he had been accustomed to. The ground—no, whatever he was lying on—felt far too plush, far too luxurious.

Kim Rok Soo’s eyes snapped open, sharp and alert. His pupils darted around, scanning his surroundings with the practiced wariness of someone who had learned—over and over—that unfamiliar places were never a good thing.

White. Everything was white.

Majestic walls rose around him, pristine and beautifully sculpted, their designs reminiscent of ancient Rome—tall pillars, intricate carvings, an overwhelming sense of grandeur. The sheer elegance of it all sent a ripple of unease down his spine.

His gaze dropped to what he had mistaken for the ground.

‘A bed?’

A white mattress, thick and soft like a cloud, lay beneath him, its very presence unfamiliar and unsettling. A flicker of confusion crossed his face before instinct kicked in.

He jolted upright, leaping out of the bed in one swift motion. His muscles tensed, his senses sharpening as he surveyed his surroundings with caution.

‘Where… am I?’

The thought surfaced sharply in his mind, his entire being now thrumming with vigilance. Had he been dragged into an illusion? A trap woven by some cunning monster?

His jaw tightened. That was the only logical explanation.

His tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth as he clicked his tongue in irritation. His gaze swept across the room once more, this time with a colder edge, assessing every possible escape route, every potential threat.

‘Few windows.A visible doors.’

Kim Rok Soo exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders as he steadied himself.

‘Alright. Let’s figure this out.’

Something felt off.

Kim Rok Soo’s sharp gaze swept across his surroundings once more, an inkling of unease creeping into his chest. Everything—the walls, the furniture, even the air itself—seemed bigger than it should be.

A strange sense of displacement prickled at his senses.

He lowered his gaze to his hands.

“…Huh?”

The stupid noise escaped him before he could stop it. His expression twisted into sheer incredulity as he turned his hands over, flexing his fingers as if that would somehow change what he was seeing.

Small.

His hands were smaller.

His body felt lighter.

The realization hit him like a bucket of cold water.

‘No. No way.’

His brows furrowed deeply, his throat tightening with an ominous feeling he didn’t quite have the words for. He had been an adult—a grown man. This… whatever this was, it made no sense.

Pushing down the unsettling sensation curling in his stomach, he turned on his feet and strode toward the nearest window—or at least, what appeared to be one.

It was massive, stretching from floor to ceiling like an elegant doorway. But when he peered outside, his frown deepened.

There was nothing.

No scenery, no sky, no horizon. Just an endless, tinted white expanse, like a frosted pane of glass concealing the world beyond.

Kim Rok Soo exhaled sharply, his mind racing.

“This place… This isn’t anything like the Cataclysm.”

The words left him in a quiet murmur, edged with wariness. He had suspicions, of course—he always did. But this? This felt too far removed from reality. It was too fictional, too surreal for him to entertain the logical conclusions forming at the back of his mind.

Then—

A presence.

Kim Rok Soo’s body froze.

A soft, unfamiliar voice reached his ears, its tone carrying an almost amused warmth.

“I see you’re awake, child.”

The fine hairs on the back of his neck rose.

His body reacted before his mind could catch up—his head snapping toward the source of the voice, his muscles instinctively coiled for defense.

There, standing a few steps away, was a silhouette.

A woman.

Her long, curly white hair cascaded down her frame, glowing faintly against the blindingly white backdrop. But there was something wrong. Despite the clarity of her features, her form remained shadowed, like an illusion refusing to take full shape.

Kim Rok Soo’s eyes narrowed. His first thought? Were they bleached? His second thought? Why the hell does she look like that?

But he shoved those thoughts aside, his voice dropping into a low, sharp tone.

“Who are you, and where am I?”

Only then did he register it.

His voice.

It sounded… younger.

His frown deepened, a flicker of irritation flashing through his chest, but he forced himself to focus on the immediate threat.

The woman merely smiled, unfazed by his hostility.

“How about we sit and chat, Child of the Two Creations?”

Kim Rok Soo stiffened.

His mind stalled for half a second before the weight of the title fully registered.

‘Child of the Two Creations?’

His breath hitched—just slightly.

A foreign chill ran down his spine, an unfamiliar sense of dread latching onto his thoughts.

There was no way.

No way she was talking about him.

Chapter Text

Kim Rok Soo lay sprawled across the same bed he had woken up on hours ago, rolling onto his side before flipping onto his back, then onto his stomach—only to sigh in frustration and bury his face into the plush mattress.

His mind was an absolute mess.

So, if he pieced everything together correctly, he had been transported here… because of one damned thing?

Because the God of Death apparently had some kind of interest in him?

A shudder of disgust crawled down his spine at the mere thought.

That was the reasoning? That was why he was here, stuck in this surreal place with no way out? Just because some higher being had decided, on a whim, to pluck him out of his life?

It was almost laughable.

And if that wasn’t enough, there was the woman.

Sherrit-nim.

Rok Soo scowled as he thought about her. He had been all but prepared to escape and gather information the moment he found an opening. He wasn’t the type to sit around and wait for answers to fall into his lap. But then—he had hesitated.

Why?

Because she was a Dragon Lord.

He resisted the urge to groan, feeling another wave of frustration crash over him.

Kim Rok Soo may have been reckless at times, but he was not suicidal. If he had foolishly tried to run or fight, she could have snuffed him out in an instant. The sheer thought of dying just because he had opposed her sent an involuntary shudder through him.

But even beyond that, beyond the God of Death, beyond Sherrit—there was one thing that nagged at him the most.

An angel?

Him?

Kim Rok Soo—the same Kim Rok Soo who had lived a life of blood, war, and cold pragmatism—was supposed to be some kind of angel?

A scoff left his lips before he could stop it.

It was absurd. Unbelievable. Laughable, even.

Kim Rok Soo, an angel? The same man who had lived in the darkest corners of survival, who had long since buried any foolish ideals of purity and kindness? If this was some cosmic joke, he wasn’t laughing.

He let out a slow breath before slowly sitting up, drawing his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them.

His gaze darkened as he stared at the pristine white walls, thoughts swirling in an unrelenting storm.

There’s no way a god would transport me here just out of mere ‘interest,’ right?

He had read far too many fictional stories to believe something like that.

Gods were never that simple.

They were bound by rules—by laws and balances that dictated their actions. If the God of Death had gone so far as to bring him here, there had to be a reason. A purpose.

And that was what unsettled him the most.

Kim Rok Soo’s gaze flickered upward as the woman entered, her form still nothing more than a translucent silhouette.

Yet, despite her ghostly appearance, she moved with a quiet grace, her steps light and unhurried. But what caught his attention the most—what made his brows subtly knit together—was the tray in her hands.

A tray. With fruit.

‘How?’

His sharp eyes tracked the way she carried it so effortlessly. By all logic, her hands shouldn’t be able to grasp anything solid—not when her entire form looked as if it would vanish with a passing breeze.

Mana.

He already knew the answer, of course. She had explained it to him earlier—how her existence here was a result of mana, how she sustained herself through it. And yet…

It still felt unnatural.

Something about it made him want to poke at the edges of reality, just to see if it would waver.

Sherrit smiled as she approached, her dark blue eyes quietly observing the boy before her. Even without speaking, she could sense the curiosity flickering beneath those reddish-brown orbs.

The essence of both Life and Death.

That was what he had been called.

Sherrit had assumed—before she met him—that he would reek of death. That his very presence would be draped in the suffocating chill of the grave.

But…

This child—

He was warm.

The ‘death’ he carried was not the cold, rotting stench of decay.

No, it was something gentler. Like a soft, peaceful slumber.

Like the quiet lull of dusk, when the world slowed to rest.

She sat beside him, placing the tray between them before offering a gentle nudge.

“So, Rok Soo. Eat some fruit. You haven’t eaten anything since you woke up.”

Her voice was warm but firm, the kind of tone that left little room for argument.

Kim Rok Soo glanced at the tray before shifting his gaze back to her, expression unreadable.

He made no move to accept it.

But Sherrit…

Her gaze lingered on him, taking in the boy before her.

Crimson hair.

Reddish-brown eyes.

Even in this form, his features were striking, his presence steady and unwavering. But it wasn’t his face that unsettled her the most.

It was the scars.

They were faint beneath his strange, unfamiliar clothing, but she could see them. The ones on his wrists. The ones peeking out from his neck.

A silent weight settled in her chest.

‘How many battles has this child fought?’

Her ocean eyes softened with something unfamiliar.

Protection.

Affection.

He looked no older than fourteen, a mere child in the eyes of the world.

But those scars told a different story.

Kim Rok Soo finally reached for a grape, rolling it between his fingers before popping it into his mouth.

Sweet.

A faint hum of satisfaction stirred within him at the taste. It was simple, yet unexpectedly pleasant—far removed from the dried rations and hastily prepared meals he was used to.

As he chewed, his gaze flickered back to the woman beside him.

She was beautiful.

Not just in the way ordinary people were, but in the way that felt almost ethereal, otherworldly. Her presence carried an unshakable grace, a quiet regality that made it obvious—this was a being far beyond the realm of mere mortals.

‘Well… no wonder. She was?..is? a Dragon Lord.’

He swallowed before speaking, his voice hushed but firm.

“So, if you’re just a mana form inside this castle… how can you interact with me?” His sharp gaze lingered on her translucent form before he reached for another grape. “And how did you know I would be here?”

He bit into the fruit, savoring its familiar sweetness as he waited for an answer.

Sherrit chuckled softly.

“That’s because we dragons are the closest to nature. And if we are close to nature, then we are inevitably connected to the gods.” She smiled, her azure eyes holding a knowing glint. “So, I was informed that I would be given the honor of looking after you.”

Kim Rok Soo blinked.

Honor?

His chewing slowed, a frown barely tugging at his lips.

That word didn’t sit right with him.

Since when had he ever been someone worth such a title?

It was ridiculous enough that the God of Death seemed to have taken an interest in him, but now this?

His mind churned with unanswered questions.

And yet, despite everything—the absurdity, the overwhelming unfamiliarity—one thought stood out above the rest.

This is the novel, isn’t it?

The Birth of a Hero.

The novel he had been reading before he fell asleep.

It had taken him a while to piece together, but there was no mistaking it now. Everything around him—the setting, the people—it all aligned too well with the story he had once casually picked up.

But something still didn’t fit.

He had only read up to volume five.

And as far as he remembered, there had been no mention of a ‘Castle of Light.’

His fingers absently rolled another grape between them as he mulled over the thought.

Something was different.

Something had changed.

His gaze sharpened slightly as he turned back to Sherrit.

He had another question—one that had been gnawing at the edges of his mind for a while now.

“You say I’m an angel,” he finally voiced, tilting his head slightly. “But… I don’t feel any different.”

There was no divine power coursing through his veins, no unnatural warmth or overwhelming sense of holiness. If anything, he felt like the exact same person he had always been.

Cold. Logical. Human.

Sherrit’s blue eyes crinkled in amusement.

The child looked genuinely confused. His expression, despite its usual sharpness, held the kind of innocence that made her want to chuckle.

“It’s because you were only transported here hours ago,” she explained patiently. “Your divine powers need time to adjust to this place.”

Then, after a brief moment of hesitation—

She reached out.

Her fingers brushed through his soft crimson hair, a gentle pat that carried a warmth he hadn’t expected.

Kim Rok Soo stiffened.

It wasn’t an unfamiliar gesture. But it was… different.

Soft. Careful.

Like she was touching something precious.

Her voice was gentle as she added, “Just wait a little longer. You’ll get your wings for sure.”

Kim Rok Soo blinked up at her.

For a moment—just a moment—he didn’t know how to respond.

Because in her eyes, there wasn’t just amusement or curiosity.

There was something deeper.

A mother’s affection.

And that, more than anything else, left him at a loss for words.

~~~~~~

Henituse County was as lively as ever, its streets bustling with merchants hawking their wares and townsfolk going about their daily routines.

Yet, amidst the usual clamor, whispers spread like wildfire.

Eyes widened, gasps slipped past parted lips, and heads turned—one after another—as a striking figure strolled through the marketplace.

Red hair.

A color so vivid it could belong to only one person.

Sharp, reddish-brown eyes that carried a perpetual air of indifference.

And, most notably—

The infamous slacker of the Henituse family.

Cale Henituse.

A man who, by all accounts, should have been leisurely wasting his time at home, preferably lazing around with a glass of wine in hand.

Yet here he was.

Walking from shop to shop.

Buying bread.

A lot of bread.

The townspeople could only stare in stunned disbelief. Was this truly the same young master Cale they knew? The one who was notorious for avoiding anything even remotely resembling work?

Then, as if to add to their confusion, he casually strode out of yet another bakery—several bags of bread in his grasp, while the rest had long since disappeared into the depths of his spatial pouch.

Cale, however, paid them no mind.

His thoughts were elsewhere.

‘So, the start of that book said I need to feed all of this to a tree?’

His expression remained blank as he clicked his tongue in mild irritation.

‘Absurd. Completely ridiculous.’

He adjusted the bags in his hands, his movements slow and deliberate.

‘Then again… it’s not like it’s any more absurd than my regression.’

A low tsk escaped his lips, and—

—several passersby flinched violently.

Some outright shrieked in fear, scrambling out of his way as if he had just announced his intent to burn down the entire street.

Cale paused.

Then blinked.

‘…Huh.?’

Had he done something?

His gaze swept across the wary onlookers, their expressions a strange mixture of awe and terror.

He slowly exhaled through his nose.

Right.

This again.

It seemed that, no matter what he did, the people of the county would never stop mistaking his general indifference for something far more menacing. Well even if he's a trash, it's not that bad…right?

~~~~

Kim Rok Soo stood outside the Castle of Light, utterly speechless.

His expression?

Frankly, it was hilarious.

Shock, disbelief, and sheer bewilderment warred across his face as he whipped his head toward Sherrit, as if silently demanding confirmation.

Is this real?

‘I’m not dreaming, right?’

Sherrit, watching his reaction, couldn’t hold back a chuckle.

“No, child. You’re not dreaming,” she reassured with a shake of her head, amusement twinkling in her azure eyes.

Her gaze softened as she looked at him—no, not just him, but the sight before her.

The wings.

Now fully materialized, they stretched outward with a quiet grace, their presence alone exuding an indescribable divinity.

They were unlike anything she had ever seen.

Even though she had never personally witnessed an angel before, she knew—

These wings…

They are one of a kind.

A paradox of existence.

One side was pure white, as if woven from threads of dawn’s first light.

The other, deep black, darker than the abyss, carrying the silent weight of midnight’s embrace.

Even as a Dragon Lord, a being revered across the ages, she felt something primal stir within her.

An instinctual urge—

To kneel.

To bow her head and whisper repentance for sins long past.

The sheer majesty of those wings demanded reverence.

And yet, despite their overwhelming presence, the boy himself remained… well, himself.

Still Kim Rok Soo.

Still staring at his own wings like a man struggling to comprehend reality.

He fluttered them experimentally.

‘…What the hell.’

His mind blanked for a second as the sensation registered.

He could feel them.

Every movement. Every shift in the wind against their feathers.

A part of him wanted to question the physics of it all—how his body, which had never possessed wings before, suddenly knew how to control them.

But another part of him, the one growing far too accustomed to ridiculous situations, simply accepted it.

Because honestly?

After r surviving countless life-or-death battles, and now getting transported into a novel—

Having wings was far from the strangest thing to happen to him.

Sherrit watched him closely, her amusement giving way to something quieter.

Something heavier.

She took a slow breath before finally speaking.

“So, child,” she murmured, voice laced with a gentle sincerity, “I have given you the knowledge you sought. Now, tell me—”

“What do you wish for?”

Her heart clenched, her grip tightening ever so slightly at her sides.

There was fear in her blue eyes, no matter how much she tried to hide it.

Fear… that he would leave.

That this angel of two creations—this child who had, even in such a short time, carved his presence into the quiet corners of her heart—would spread those magnificent wings and disappear from her life.

She hated to admit it, but…

She didn’t want to be alone again.

Not so soon.

Not when she had only just begun to feel the warmth of company once more.

Rok Soo remained silent for a moment.

He didn’t miss the emotion laced in her voice.

Didn’t miss the way her fingers twitched slightly, as if fighting the urge to reach out.

But instead of acknowledging it directly, he simply… thought.

His wings shifted unconsciously as he pulled a map from his spatial pouch.

Not just any map.

The Rawoom Kingdom’s map.

His sharp eyes quickly traced the familiar markings before settling on a particular location.

Henituse Territory.

A place mentioned in the book he had read.

Where the life elf protagonist’s journey would begin.

And more importantly—

The place where the shield would be.

Chapter Text

Kim Rok Soo let out a long sigh, shifting slightly on the sturdy tree branch beneath him.

It had been a few days since he arrived at the Castle of Light.

A few days since he met Sherrit-nim.

And yet, somehow, he was still here.

Not because he was attached or anything.

Nope. Absolutely not.

It was just… well—

She insisted.

And Rok Soo, despite his usual inclination to avoid unnecessary entanglements, had found himself reluctantly staying.

Now, perched on a frost-covered tree, he pulled his cloak tighter around himself as a sharp gust of wind swept through the area.

His gaze drifted toward the looming silhouette of Mount Yellia in the distance—the most dangerous mountain in the entire eastern region.

Snow blanketed everything in sight, painting the world in a pristine white.

It was beautiful.

But also freezing.

He let out another sigh, watching as his breath curled into the cold air.

‘I’m glad Sherrit-nim gave me this cloak. Otherwise, I’d probably be frozen stiff by now.’

His fingers absentmindedly traced the fabric, grateful for the warmth it provided.

The clothes, however…

A pain in the ass.

Sure, they looked nice—all intricate designs and elegant patterns—but they were far from comfortable.

He shifted again, trying to ignore the slightly stiff material as another burst of wind ruffled his Dark hair.

His expression twisted slightly in mild irritation.

‘I needed to come here because Sherrit-nim said so, but… isn’t it too damn cold?’

He furrowed his brows, kicking his feet slightly in the air.

Despite his complaints, he knew why he was here.

Training.

Sherrit had been clear—he needed to understand his powers.

And for that, he required someone who wasn’t just a silhouette of mana like her.

Which meant—

A dragon.

Rok Soo exhaled sharply, shuddering—not from the cold, but from the memory of her words.

"Remember, after two days, you need to come back to me, alright?"

"If so, just tell that dragon to teleport you—I can give you the coordinates."

She had said it so casually, as if it were a simple errand.

But to Rok Soo?

Asking a dragon for anything felt a little too much like courting death.

Who just casually tells a dragon to teleport them?

The mere thought made him grimace.

And yet…

Here he was.

Sitting on a tree. In the middle of a snow-covered wilderness. Near a notoriously deadly mountain.

All because he couldn’t refuse her request.

Rok Soo groaned under his breath, rubbing his temples before letting out yet another sigh.

This was going to be a long few days.

Kim Rok Soo flapped his wings, his movements sharp and precise from days of relentless training.

The cold wind howled around him as he soared toward Mount Yellia, his dark hair whipping in the icy air.

His lips curled in mild frustration as he muttered,

"Never in my life did I think something like this would happen to me."

Sure, he liked reincarnation and transmigration novels.

Reading them.

Not living in one.

Rok Soo had long since learned that fantasy was fun when it wasn’t real.

The reality?

A complete pain in the ass.

The harsh gusts near the mountain made flying even trickier, and as much as he wanted to master aerial maneuvers, he wasn’t keen on face-planting into the ground.

Again.

A visible shudder ran through him as a memory surfaced—

Sherrit-nim’s voice, gentle yet filled with barely contained amusement, calling out—

"Rok Soo, at least try to land on your feet next time."

"You’re not a bird crashing into a window, child."

Rok Soo groaned at the memory before quickly pushing it to the darkest depths of his mind.

That never happened.

Nope.

With a sigh, he began his descent, making sure to land as gracefully as possible.

His boots touched the snow-covered ground without incident, and he immediately thanked/cursed every god in existence that there were no witnesses.

Then, as if to ruin his moment of relief, a new wave of frustration settled in.

"Haaa… I still need to check on that crazy dragon and the protagonist too," he grumbled under his breath.

He scowled.

This novel.

This novel was absolute garbage.

Rok Soo had no issues with violence in fiction.

In fiction.

But experiencing it firsthand?

Hell no.

This world was overflowing with mass murder, war, and all kinds of suffering.

And if that wasn’t bad enough—

He hated pain.

He vividly remembered the last thing he had read before waking up here—

The Henituse Territory War.

Just the thought sent an unpleasant shudder down his spine.

Rok Soo forcefully shook off the memory.

Nope.

Not thinking about it.

Right now, what he needed was a break.

Too bad life—or rather, this ridiculous novel— had no intention of giving him one.

“Damn it,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair.

His suffering was just beginning.

~~~~~

In a lair woven from shimmering golden walls, where each surface gleamed like starlight trapped in stillness, a figure reclined with effortless grace—long golden hair cascading down his back like threads of sunlight, and sharp slit eyes glowing with ageless wisdom.

He was far too ethereal to be mistaken for a mere human.

No—he was something far more ancient. Far more regal.

Eruhaben, the Golden Dragon, exhaled a long, quiet sigh, his expression both composed and mildly exasperated.

For days now, the World Tree had been incessantly murmuring to him through nature’s pulse—nagging, whispering, pressing him with vague riddles and celestial foresight.

A divine intervention, it claimed.

A child of significance, shrouded in obscurity.

Eruhaben had felt it too. A powerful ripple of mana, unnatural and yet achingly familiar, had plunged into the world not long ago—stirring every sensitive mana thread in existence.

And yet… it refused to be found.

He closed his eyes, recalling the cryptic words whispered by the World Tree:

> "That child… You will find him only when he wills it. No ally may approach him without his intent."

Those words had burrowed into Eruhaben’s mind like a persistent itch he couldn’t ignore.

He was not one for needless obsession, but the mana he had sensed that day—

Ah.

It was like honeyed lightning. Wild, untamed, but captivatingly pure.

The kind of mana that sings to a dragon’s soul.

Dragons, by nature, were prideful and greedy. But Eruhaben? He was old enough to have refined those instincts into something… subtler.

And yet, even with all his years of self-control and sophistication—

He wanted to find that child.

To see him.

To understand what manner of being had entered the world bearing both the scent of divinity and mortality—of life and death.

Eruhaben’s golden eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

He wasn’t one to be led by curiosity.

But this?

This wasn’t just curiosity.

It was instinct.

And if there’s one thing dragons never disobey—

It’s their instincts.

~~~~

“Haa…”

A deep, weary sigh slipped past Cale’s lips as his eyes skimmed over the aged pages of the book resting in his lap. His short, fiery red hair was tousled messily—clear evidence of fingers having run through it far too many times in frustration.

With another tired exhale, he flipped to the next page, scanning the text more precisely this time. His expression was sour, brows slightly furrowed, a scowl tugging subtly at the corner of his lips.

“…There’s nothing in here about the shield being so damn chatty,” he muttered with obvious distaste, narrowing his reddish-brown eyes at the innocent-looking page before him. “Heck, it didn’t talk at all in the records.”

It was the truth.

He had only just acquired the ancient power—the Indestructible Shield—and the first thing it had done was greet him like an overenthusiastic priest under divine sunlight.

It radiated an aura of holiness so blindingly pure it made Cale's skin crawl.

If the power was supposed to be a protective shield, why did it feel like he’d been strapped to a walking beacon for divine intervention?

Cale clicked his tongue in pure irritation. The shield practically screamed for attention.

And Cale?

Cale Henituse wanted nothing more than peace, silence, and to be completely ignored by the world.

He massaged his temple with one hand, shutting the book with a dull thump. As the enchanted tome dissolved into a shimmer of floating particles, his muttering continued.

“…Tch. I must’ve gotten the shield earlier than expected. That bastard probably hasn’t even arrived at the territory yet.”

A cold breeze drifted in through the slightly opened window, but Cale remained still—his gaze distant.

He didn’t need more noise in his life. And yet, the universe seemed determined to shove glowing holy relics and talking artifacts into his lap.

‘What next? A sword that sings lullabies?’

Cale buried his face in his hands and groaned.

“…I just wanted to live quietly with my family..”

~~~~~

Rok Soo finally reached the peak of the mountain—barely.

Each step he took felt like a personal betrayal from his legs, as though they were two tired twigs begging to snap and throw him face-first into the snow. His boots crunched on the icy ground, and he staggered forward, pulling the thick cloak tighter around his shivering form. His cheeks and nose were flushed a bright, frosty pink, and his fingers, wrapped only half-decently in gloves, had turned an alarming shade of rose.

He sniffled and muttered with a scowl, "Seriously? I’m just supposed to wait here? In the middle of a freezing snowstorm? That’s the plan?"

A gust of wind smacked him in the face like nature’s personal slap, and he wobbled slightly, glaring up at the heavens.

His reddish-brown eyes watered from the cold, and his messy dark hair fluttered around his face in the wind, sticking to his cheeks like an annoyed cat's tail. He looked exactly how he felt—miserable. Like a sad, shivering bun abandoned in the middle of an ice sculpture gallery.

“And here I thought I was getting stronger,” he muttered under his breath, lips trembling. “Can’t even cast a tiny spark of warmth magic. Thanks a lot, Sherrit-nim. Glad we bonded over frostbite and failure…”

He paused, blinked, then sniffled again.

“…My legs are going to file for early retirement at this rate,” he added, plopping down dramatically onto a rock that was absolutely too cold to sit on.

But he sat there anyway—like the tragic little frozen angel he was—waiting for whoever or whatever this mysterious dragon trainer was supposed to be.

“…They better have heating magic, or I’m going back home.”

And with that bold declaration to no one in particular, he sneezed. Loudly.

~~~~~~~

Eruhaben, having felt the subtle pulse of that peculiar mana once more—something ancient yet oddly gentle—stood up from his couch with a sharp frown. The presence was faint but unmistakable. Familiar, even. And that only meant one thing.

“Tsk” he clicked his tongue softly. “So the World Tree wasn’t bluffing.”

Without wasting another second, the ancient dragon swept out of his lair, his long golden locks billowing behind him like flowing sunlight. As his foot touched the snow-covered cliffside, the raging snowstorm—violent only moments ago—suddenly slowed... then stilled entirely, like a curtain drawing back for a stage performance.

Eruhaben narrowed his golden slit eyes, expecting perhaps a cloaked figure with an air of divine mystery, someone ethereal and graceful—at least taller, perhaps more... celestial.

What he got instead was...

A tiny, roundish, absolutely pitiful little snow bun.

Rok Soo sat there on a rock, looking like a miserable dumpling someone had forgotten to steam properly. His cloak was puffed around him, cheeks flushed from the cold, his nose tinged red, and his entire being radiated one clear emotion: Regret.

Eruhaben stopped in his tracks, blinking.

‘...Did someone abandon a baby rabbit up here? No, wait. That’s the divine child? That’s him? Seriously?’

The dragon inhaled deeply, trying to compose himself. Divine mana or not, this boy looked like he’d just lost a battle with winter itself.

He stepped forward, placing just the right amount of elegance in his stride, and opened his mouth to greet—

“I gree—”

“Um... hello… miss…?”

Eruhaben froze mid-step.

The boy—no, the bun—had looked up with hazy reddish-brown eyes and addressed him with all the confusion of a half-frozen squirrel.

Rok Soo, on the other hand, was in pure survival mode. His brain barely functioning, nose running, and all logic thrown to the wind. ‘Why is this person glowing?’ he thought. ‘Too pretty to be real... Wait. Are they the dragon? They must be. But with that hair and face... A lady, right?’

He blinked.

‘No, no... Sherrit-nim’s prettier. Definitely.’

As both stared at one another in silence, snow swirling awkwardly between them, Rok Soo sniffled dramatically, pulled his cloak closer, and muttered one simple, world-breaking word:

“Cold.”

Eruhaben, majestic, ancient, and noble, nearly tripped over his own foot.

"...This is going to be exhausting," he muttered under his breath, already wondering if dragons could get migraines.

Chapter Text

Rok Soo blinked up at the strange, radiant ‘lady’—who was now chuckling like he’d delivered the punchline of a stand-up routine. The audacity.

He squinted. No, really. Was this person laughing at him?

“This isn’t funny,” he muttered, nose red, hands trembling. “I didn’t joke… It’s cold…” he added, voice hoarse with the chill, his lips trembling more from the weather than his own emotions.

He looked down at his frozen fingers. Seriously, touch them! They're practically ice cubes! He could practically hear the glass-like crackle of his child/Teenager-sized body threatening to fall apart.

‘This body,’ Rok Soo groaned internally, ‘might as well be a decorative snow globe. Breaks if you shake it too hard!’

Meanwhile, Eruhaben finally composed himself from his brief burst of amusement. The child’s utter deadpan reaction to the majestic scene, the divine mana, the snowfall—it had all been destroyed by that one quivering word: cold.

It was ridiculous. And somehow, in a strange, endearing way, a little bit adorable.

Still, when he noticed the boy’s hands trembling and his breath forming frail clouds of mist, his smile waned. With a light sigh, he raised a hand—golden mana threads danced around his palm like strands of sunlight weaving through the air.

Rok Soo flinched backward instinctively, pulling his cloak tighter like a small animal preparing to fight for its life.

This is suspicious. Too suspicious! His eyes narrowed. Just because she’s glowing doesn’t mean I should trust her!

Still, his young body betrayed him as the warm mana reached out and gently wrapped around him, seeping into his frozen limbs like a silent fireplace. He visibly relaxed, shoulders slumping a little as the numbing cold began to recede.

Eruhaben gave a long, dramatic sigh as he watched the effect take hold.

“What a bother…” he murmured, half to himself. “How can an existence blessed with divine balance… end up being such a—” he narrowed his eyes, “—bun?”

Rok Soo, still snuggled in his cloak burrito of defeat, whipped his head up, eyes blazing with deeply offended disbelief.

‘Bun?!’ he screamed internally. Excuse me?? I am not a bun! I am Kim Rok Soo! A grown man! An ex-cold-blooded company worker! You—!

But alas, all that came out of his slightly warmed lips was a flat, grumbled:

“…I’m not a bun.”

And Eruhaben just raised a golden brow.

“Sure,” he said, absolutely not convinced.

Rok Soo gritted his teeth.

‘He’s worse than Sherrit-nim.’

Eruhaben sighed deeply, lifting his hand with the effortless grace only a centuries-old dragon could possess. With a soft surge of golden mana, the bundled-up child began to float off the snow-dusted mountaintop like an annoyed little dumpling on a string.

Rok Soo flailed a little at first, eyes wide, cheeks puffed in indignation. “H-Hey! You can’t just levitate people like this! I didn’t give you permission!”

But his voice trailed off quickly as the warmth of the lair loomed closer, and he reluctantly shifted to staring at the shimmering golden hair of the so-called ‘lady’ floating ahead of him. It glinted like molten sunlight.

‘Looks like real gold,’ he mused. ‘Could I… sell it? Is that allowed? Dragons shed hair, right? Right?’

He shook his head violently to dismiss the morally ambiguous thought. ‘No! Get it together, Kim Rok Soo. You’re supposed to be noble now… or an angel… or something equally high-maintenance.’

Still bobbing in the air like a disgruntled cloud, he called out hesitantly, “Um… Miss? You didn’t tell me your name…”

Eruhaben paused mid-flight, turning his head over one elegant shoulder. His golden eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and a soft sigh escaped his lips—equal parts dramatic and amused.

Tucking a shimmering strand of hair behind his pointed ear, he looked at Rok Soo with the air of a teacher disappointed in a student who forgot their homework and tripped over the chalkboard.

“Child,” he said with utmost dignity, “it is respectful for you to introduce yourself first.”

Rok Soo’s brows twitched. Respectful? This floaty golden show-off just yoinked him off the mountain without so much as a “may I,” and now he was talking about manners?

He crossed his arms mid-air, which was harder than it looked. This body may be child-sized, but my soul pays taxes.

Still, he cleared his throat and muttered, “…My name is Rok Soo.”

Their eyes met—Eruhaben’s inquisitive and calm, Rok Soo’s awkward and mildly offended.

A few seconds of silence passed. The golden dragon tilted his head and offered the smallest nod.

“Hm. Rok Soo… An odd name for a divine existence.”

Rok Soo squinted. “Says the person who hasn’t even introduced themselves yet.”

Eruhaben raised a brow. “...Touché.”

Kim Rok Soo: 1. Glowy Dragon Lady: 0.

Progress.

~~~~

Cale Henituse strolled through the bustling streets of the Henituse territory, his crimson hair catching the golden afternoon light like a flickering flame. His sharp reddish-brown eyes, currently narrowed in visible displeasure, swept across the cobblestone road. Naturally, the townsfolk, upon catching sight of that familiar intimidating frown, made a beeline away from his path like ducks avoiding a brewing storm.

Good. Just the way he liked it.

Except—he didn't, not really. Not today. Because today, Cale just wanted to rest. Rest under a warm blanket, with maybe some sweets, and absolutely no thoughts of ancient power or cursed shields whispering philosophical nonsense at him.

But, of course, the universe despised him.

He sighed, dragging a hand through his tousled red locks with a grumble. “Tsk. Of course I can’t rest… Not when I know what madness is waiting in a few days—no, few months.”

The corners of his mouth twitched downwards again as his boots clicked along the stone. His gaze swept across the crowd. 'I need to find a weapon shop,' he thought with resigned irritation.

Not because he wanted to play the role of a knight in shining armor—absolutely not. But because if the upcoming chaos was anything like the book had described, then he'd be a fool not to have at least some method of self-defense.

He let out another sigh. “A sword, huh…”

He hadn’t touched one since that incident. Since the days where he trained as the Count’s firstborn, a dutiful noble child with a blade in hand and expectations crushing his shoulders.

Now? Now he just wanted to drink tea and fake being weak,a total trash.

But no. Now he had people to protect. A family. And that stupid whispering shield that clearly wanted attention more than a puppy in spring.

“…Tsk. Damn it.”

Still, he couldn’t just walk around swinging a sword. Not with his whole trash persona going strong. The image of him casually buying a sword in public? Disastrous.

‘I’ll have to find a discreet shop… Something less flashy, less noble-like… Maybe something tucked in an alley.’

Cale hunched his shoulders slightly, hiding deeper into his coat like a teenager sneaking into a bookstore labeled “Secrets of Swordsmanship.”

He clicked his tongue again. ‘Why is everything I do to avoid responsibility just pulling me deeper into it?’

And yet… his feet didn’t stop moving.

~~~~

Eruhaben sat regally on one side of the luxurious couch, his long golden hair cascading like molten sunlight over his shoulder. Across from him, perched with all the grace of a disgruntled squirrel, sat the tiny bundle of sniffling annoyance—Kim Rok Soo.

The child was still flushed pink from the cold, though Eruhaben was beginning to suspect it had less to do with temperature and more with sheer indignation at life itself.

The ancient dragon subtly glanced toward the boy's wrists. Beneath the slightly too-long cuffs of his shirt, he caught a glimpse of thin, pale scars. They were faint, but undeniable—faint remnants of pain that did not belong on a child’s skin. Eruhaben’s golden eyes narrowed just slightly, a flicker of something ancient and protective curling in his chest.

But before he could dwell on it further—

“Name?” Rok Soo asked, blunt and emotionless, like a judge demanding credentials.

Eruhaben blinked. He could feel a vein throb. The audacity.

He crossed one leg over the other with elegance befitting a creature of ancient lineage, raised his chin and responded with all the pride that came with centuries of grandeur:

“My name is Eruhaben. The Ancient Gold Dragon.”

A pause.

Surely now the child would be awed—maybe gasp even if divine, they'll be bit amused, maybe even shock at the majesty of meeting him, ancient dragon.

Instead, Rok Soo blinked slowly.

Stared.

Tilted his head.

And then gave him the most unimpressed face Eruhaben had ever received in his long life—a blank, slightly judgmental expression that all but screamed: "Okay? And?"

Eruhaben’s eye twitched.

“And, child,” he added, pressing his hand to his chest dramatically, “it is not ‘Miss’—I am not a woman.”

Rok Soo, who had been fully ready to compliment this “lady’s” lovely hair for the second time today, stared blankly.

“…Huh?”

A beat of silence.

Eruhaben ran a hand down his face.

Rok Soo scratched his cheek awkwardly, utterly baffled. ‘Wait, not a lady? But… so elegant. So shiny. Is this what androgyny means? Is this what fanfics were trying to tell me?’

The child blinked again, visibly processing. “Oh. Uh… cool.”

Eruhaben sighed, deeply. This child—this tiny, scarred, freezing, winged menace—was going to shorten his lifespan, ancient or not.

~~~~~~

In a vast, ethereal expanse painted with hues of lilac and rose-gold, the sky shimmered like liquid opal. Threads of mana danced gracefully through the air—vibrant streams of color twisting and twirling in a celestial waltz. The ground beneath shimmered with gentle starlight, soft and surreal, as if the very soil was woven from dreams and divine breath.

Amidst this heavenly realm, upon a bed of luminous grass that pulsed faintly with life, sat a radiant figure. His long, pale green hair flowed freely behind him, catching the non-existent wind like strands of living silk. Golden wings, wide and majestic, unfurled from his back, casting a warm glow across the landscape.

The God of Life, Phanes, hummed happily to himself, cradling a shimmering orb within his hands. Within its surface danced the image of a tiny child—flushed, scowling, fierce—and utterly precious.

“My child,” Phanes cooed to himself with a sparkle in his golden eyes, voice laced with uncontainable glee. “So bold. So fiery. Just like his divine parent.” He giggled—yes, giggled—as the image showed Rok Soo glaring at Eruhaben with all the might of a storm in a teacup. “He’s even got that little frown—adorable! And the ancient dragon’s right… such a bun! I must pinch those cheeks someday.”

Phanes practically sparkled with parental pride, bouncing slightly in place, utterly enamored.

From behind him, a cooler presence stirred the atmosphere like a sharp gust through still air. The God of Death stood with arms crossed, his short, silvery hair ruffled as though by shadows rather than wind. A smirk danced on his lips, but his eyes gleamed with dry amusement.

“You sure it’s not just a 14-year-old’s puberty?” he drawled, voice tinged with sarcasm and a generous helping of disdain.

Phanes turned, blinking with exaggerated innocence. “Ah~ My, my, Death. What an unexpected visitor,” he chirped, clearly not surprised in the slightest.

Death’s smirk darkened, his tone silkily venomous. “How charming,” he mused. “Snatching a child who already has a parent. Truly, such divine integrity.” His words were lined with icy mockery, though not without a flicker of genuine emotion hidden beneath the layers of annoyance.

Phanes laughed softly, a bit sheepish, as he tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. “Oh come now, don’t be so dramatic. I’m simply… borrowing him.”

Death raised an eyebrow. “Borrowing him? You just called him your child.”

Phanes gave a dainty little cough, looking back into the orb. “Semantics,” he mumbled, before beaming again. “Besides, look at him. Isn’t he just—just precious? A fierce little bun.”

Death stared at him, deadpan. “He killed another unranked moster before all this last week.”

Phanes clapped his hands together, eyes twinkling. “He’s such a warrior already!”

Chapter Text

It was the first time in what felt like an eternity that Barrow felt… suffocated? Or was it anxiety clawing at his insides? He couldn’t quite tell. His mind, so long accustomed to silence and nothingness, trembled with unfamiliar sensation. But more shocking than the emotions themselves was one glaring realization—he was dreaming.

That shouldn't be possible.

Barrow had lost such things—dreams, rest, peace—long ago. They had been stripped from him like everything else. So why now? Why this?

He turned his gaze forward.

Darkness. Just as always. An endless void, the kind that had embraced him night after night, year after year, like a cruel friend. And yet… something was different this time. At the far edge of that abyss, there was something.

Something… glowing.

A soft light shimmered faintly on the horizon, like the first golden kiss of sunrise breaching the end of night. It flickered, warm and gentle, and Barrow—Barrow who had forgotten the very meaning of warmth—could feel it. Not on his skin, not with his body, but deep within his chest, like a forgotten ember reigniting.

Almost instinctively, he brought a weathered, calloused hand to the center of that feeling—where his heart should be. There, it fluttered. Soft. Alive.

What… is this?

His brows furrowed, suspicion flickering in his dulled eyes. Could this be another illusion? A deception born of the Sealed God’s twisted games? He didn’t know.

He couldn’t tell.

And yet—gods, yet—it felt… comforting.

Addictive.

Like a balm to a soul that had long since cracked beneath the weight of centuries.

Barrow, the man once called the White Star, remained still. Silent. Eyes lost in that distant glow. He didn't understand it, and that uncertainty should have made him recoil.

But instead… he stayed.

Because somewhere, deep in that fading darkness, he realized one painful truth.

He had longed for this. For this warmth. For this peace. For something—anything—that reminded him he had once been human.

And maybe… maybe he still was.

He heard whispers—fragments of a conversation dancing just beyond his grasp, like ghosts in the wind.

“—You do know what can happen if he finds ou—”

“I know, but what am I supposed to do when those two—”

“—It’ll bring destruction upon all of us—!”

The moment the words reached him, the world around him began to fracture. The formless space—soaked in shadow and silence—splintered like fragile ice underfoot. Pale cracks spread beneath him, each one glowing faintly with an ominous, flickering light.

Barrow’s brows knit together. Who? What had to be kept hidden? And from whom? The urgency in those voices was evident, but the message itself was maddeningly unclear.

He took a step forward, uncaring as the ground beneath him fractured further, as if trying to shatter completely and swallow him whole.

Still, he listened.

“—Arrow will find out eventually!”

“You need to cease that exis—”

“—Can’t!”

And then—

Barrow’s eyes snapped open.

The familiar ceiling of his chambers greeted him in silent stillness, its emptiness almost mocking compared to the cacophony he had just escaped. The eerie clarity of the dream vanished as quickly as it came, leaving no trace of warmth nor dread behind.

Just emptiness.

Barrow lay there, unmoving, his reddish-brown eyes fixated on the ceiling above.

That dream… what was it? It had felt so vivid—real, even. And yet, unlike the warmth from before, this time there was no lingering emotion. No comfort. No anxiety. Nothing but stillness, like a storm that passed before one could witness its fury.

The whispers echoed faintly in his memory.

Destruction… a secret… him…

Barrow exhaled slowly, closing his eyes once again. He didn’t understand it.

But he would.

One way or another.

~~~~~

Back at the golden dragon’s lair, Rok Soo sat stiffly on the luxurious couch, a steaming teacup cradled carefully in his small hands. The scent was floral and calming, but the effect was utterly lost on him.

He had just finished relaying everything—well, everything Sherrit-nim allowed him to say. And now…

Now he was being stared at.

Unblinkingly.

By a dragon.

Rok Soo shifted awkwardly under the weight of the ancient gold dragon’s gaze. Eruhaben hadn’t said a word for the last few minutes. He simply sat there, elegant as ever, his golden eyes narrowed slightly, resting his chin on the back of his hand as he observed him like he was some rare breed of mythical bird that had wandered into his living room.

It was… uncomfortable.

No—beyond uncomfortable.

It was the kind of stare that said: “How are you even real?”

Rok Soo resisted the urge to fidget under the scrutiny, taking a pointed sip of his tea just to avoid eye contact. What? Was it his face? His wings? His soul? Why did dragons look at people like they were studying the evolution of confused ducklings?

He finally broke the silence with a muttered grumble, “...You’re staring.”

Eruhaben blinked once. Then twice. As if just realizing he had indeed been analyzing the poor child like a centuries-old puzzle.

“My apologies,” he said, though he didn’t actually stop. His voice was rich with curiosity, layered in that faint amusement that all ancient beings seemed to carry. “You’re just… not what I expected.”

“Gee, thanks,” Rok Soo deadpanned, eyes rolling subtly as he slumped deeper into the cushions. “Sorry for not walking in with glowing halos and gospel music.”

Eruhaben chuckled, his golden locks catching the light like actual strands of treasure. “You might not have halos, child, but you do carry something divine. That much is undeniable.”

“Right. Divine,” Rok Soo muttered, hiding his pink ears behind the rim of his teacup. “Divinely freezing, divinely tired, and divinely being stared at by a nosy lizard.”

Eruhaben let out a short laugh, ignoring the “lizard” remark with the patience of someone who had heard far worse from bratty dragons over the centuries. “You’re an anomaly, little bun.”

“I’m not a bun,” Rok Soo snapped automatically, setting his cup down with as much elegance as his frozen fingers allowed.

“No?” Eruhaben mused. “Then why do you look so steamed and ready to explode?”

Rok Soo gave him the flattest look known to mankind.

He was never drinking tea with dragons again.

Eruhaben leaned back slightly, golden eyes gleaming with amusement as he observed the child—no, this curious little anomaly—sulk adorably into his teacup.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so… light. Serene, even. His days were usually spent steeped in ancient thoughts, calculations, and responsibilities layered like sediment across centuries. Yet here he was, sipping tea in the middle of a mountain lair with a scowling, shivering child who looked two sneezes away from declaring war on his furniture.

Truly fascinating.

‘I must be losing my touch,’ Eruhaben thought with a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He was bantering. Teasing, even. When was the last time he’d done that? Dragons were not known for their sense of humour—or rather, the world had long since failed to amuse him.

But now, with this sharp-tongued little mystery bundled in a cloak far too big, glaring at him like an offended kitten, Eruhaben found himself… entertained.

More than that—genuinely curious.

How could a presence so young feel so old? How could someone so small look so exhausted, not just physically, but existentially? There was an echo of divinity in his mana, yes, but also a haunting hollowness. As if this child had walked through more lifetimes than even he had.

And still—he pouted over being called a bun.

Eruhaben chuckled under his breath.

‘Am I bullying him?’ he wondered idly, watching as the boy tried very hard not to pout again. His expressions were too honest for his own good, like an open book that someone had tried to burn but never quite succeeded.

‘Yes’ he concluded dryly. ‘Yes, I am bullying him. Gently. Affectionately. Respectfully.’ [A/N: gasp! Goldy is not being tsundere??]

And—he didn’t want to stop.

Because for the first time in a long while, Eruhaben wasn’t acting out of duty or necessity.

He was simply enjoying someone’s company.

And in this age-worn life of his, that was rare… and worth protecting.

Rok Soo subtly peeked up at the ancient dragon, a slight furrow forming between his brows.

He had just finished explaining his so-called motives—or at least the half-truths he dared to share for now. Yet, the silence that followed made the air feel heavier than usual, and he couldn’t help but feel the weight of those golden eyes pressing down on him.

As if sensing the boy’s discreet glance, Eruhaben turned his head with practiced elegance. Their eyes met.

“So, Bun—ahem, child,” the dragon corrected himself with an amused smirk, “you’re saying someone sent you here… and even showed you the way?”

His tone was curious, but there was a flicker of subtle scrutiny hiding beneath the pleasant cadence.

Rok Soo gave a stiff nod, feeling the faintest prickle of nervousness crawl up his neck. He hadn’t yet revealed that Sherrit-nim—the dead-yet-not-quite Dragon Lord—had been the one to guide him here. She had told him her existence was sealed off to the outside world. Technically, she was dead. In a very complicated, ancient-dragon sort of way.

‘Ugh, semantics’ , he mentally grimaced, quickly pushing the thought aside before it made his expression falter.

Meanwhile, Eruhaben’s eyes sparkled with intrigue as he gazed at the shifty little creature before him. “Ho?” he chuckled lightly. “How very amusing. Not even the elder dragons are aware of my precise location—and yet you, a child from not even this world, wandered right in as if following a trail of breadcrumbs.”

His eyes crinkled with well-masked mischief. “So, who is this mysterious benefactor of yours? I must say, my curiosity is piqued.”

Rok Soo felt a shudder race down his spine. Those golden eyes were far too sharp for his comfort.

But he did what any capable, slippery angel trapped in a child’s body would do—he lied like it was scripture.

“They… never told me their name,” he said smoothly, feigning a touch of mystique. Then, placing a hand delicately over his chest with just enough theatrical flair to be convincing, he added, “As you must understand, Eruhaben-nim, I am an angel. We have our methods. Our secrets. Our sacred duties.”

His words flowed like silk, every sentence carefully molded to sound holy and half-true. And yet internally—

‘I am going to cry. That was disgusting. Who says ‘sacred duties’ with a straight face?’ Rok Soo wanted to claw at his own ears in second-hand embarrassment.

Still, he kept his expression saintly and calm, like he’d never spoken anything but divine nonsense since birth.

Eruhaben, of course, was no fool.

He stared at the child for a long moment, before letting out a low, knowing chuckle. ‘What an infuriatingly polished little liar,’ he mused internally, unable to hold back a grin.

And yet… he was entertained.

Terribly so.

In the end, Eruhaben sighed—deep and heavy, the kind of sigh one lets out when they’ve given up on logic in favor of fate’s ridiculous whims.

He couldn't deny this child.

The little bun… no, angel, had clearly been sent for a reason. The world tree's meddling, the divine traces of mana, the impossibility of finding him unless he allowed it—it all pointed to one conclusion. There was no escaping this mission.

Eruhaben turned his golden gaze to the child curled up on the other side of the couch, staring at him with large, expectant eyes. Eyes far too ancient for their youthful glow.

He still had questions—so many questions he could barely contain them all. But he also knew better than to force them out. The child had every right to remain silent. To lie. To not trust him.

And then a darkly amusing thought flickered in his mind.

‘Can an angel even lie?’

His lips curled, a dry chuckle escaping him. ‘If they can, this one’s probably already going to hell for the performance alone.’

He ran a hand through his golden locks, sighing again.

“Fine,” he said aloud, the word laced with both resignation and subtle warmth. “I’ll teach you how to use your mana—and everything else you’ll need.”

It wasn’t just for the child. It was for himself too.

He had lived too long with no one to pass his knowledge to. And now, fate had sent him a sharp-tongued, blasphemously adorable angel wrapped in a bun-shaped package.

As he watched the child visibly brighten, only to hastily compose himself a second later, Eruhaben snorted softly into his cup.

‘Still a child, after all’ he mused, taking a sip.’ Even if he talks like a little devil lawyer.’

Setting his cup down, he allowed himself a rare, amused smile.

“Can’t believe that in my final years,” he muttered dryly, “I’m stuck assisting an angel… and such a troublesome little bun at that.”

Rok Soo, meanwhile, felt something stir in his chest—pride, maybe? Satisfaction?

The lizard finally agreed. Good. One step closer to getting this over with this and go back-

He blinked.

Go back…?

To where, exactly?

To Sherrit-nim?

His hand paused mid-air, the cup warm against his fingertips. At that moment, a subtle flutter tickled his chest—soft, light, and unfamiliar.

Comfort.

‘What the heck… was that?’ He didn’t have time to dwell on it.

Because that’s when he heard it.

A cough.

Then another—sharp, cracked, and wet.

He looked up just in time to see the golden dragon turn his head slightly, pressing a hand to his mouth—

And crimson bloomed against his pale skin.

Rok Soo’s eyes widened, heart lurching. “Wha—”

“Liza-Eruhaben-nim?!” he cried, voice pitching an octave higher than he’d like to admit.

Eruhaben casually wiped his hand with a handkerchief that appeared with a flick of mana, utterly unbothered. “Mm. How noisy,” he muttered, as though he hadn’t just coughed out his internal organs.

Rok Soo stood up so fast he nearly tripped over his own too-short legs. “You—you’re bleeding! What kind of teacher coughs blood after accepting a student?!”

“I’m an ancient kind,” Eruhaben replied dryly, setting the stained cloth aside with all the elegance of someone discussing weather patterns.

“Ancient my foot!” Rok Soo snapped, brows furrowed in panic. “I thought you were just being dramatic!”

“I was,” the dragon admitted, reclining again. “Mostly.”

Rok Soo’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. He was caught somewhere between offended, horrified, and genuinely concerned.

Eruhaben watched him with half-lidded amusement.

‘Adorable.’ Like watching a kitten puff up to intimidate a lion.

Rok Soo stared at the dragon with wide eyes, utterly baffled.

The golden lizard had just coughed up blood—blood, of all things. And not just a tiny drop either, but a full, sickly blotch staining his pristine handkerchief.

Wasn't he supposed to be a dragon? A supposedly ancient, high-and-mighty, majestic creature of immense power and pride? A being hailed in legends for their immortality and indestructible forms?

‘Then why’ Rok Soo thought with a pang of confusion, ‘was he suddenly hacking up his insides like an overworked middle-aged salaryman with poor health insurance?’

It didn’t make sense.

But even more baffling than that—

Why was he reacting like this?

Why was he, Kim Rok Soo—who prided himself on being calm, composed, rational, emotionally repressed on purpose—suddenly feeling something twist in his chest?

It was unfamiliar, uncomfortable.

Was this… concern?

No. No, absolutely not.

He crossed his arms tighter, jaw set stubbornly, but his eyes still flicked to the golden dragon with thinly veiled panic. His brows furrowed deeply.

"This... this doesn’t make sense," he muttered under his breath. "Why would a dragon—a dragon—just suddenly cough blood like a cheap soap opera character?"

The absurdity didn’t help ease the faint tightness in his chest. He tried to scoff, tried to act indifferent, but his voice betrayed a little wobble.

And worst of all?

His mind kept screaming, Why am I reacting like this?!

He shouldn’t care. He didn’t care.

At least, he wasn’t supposed to.

This wasn’t his problem. He was just here for training, then poof—back to Sherrit-nim, back to the real goal. He wasn’t here to get attached to some smug, ancient lizard with annoyingly good hair and dangerously soft laughter.

And yet… here he was, glaring at said lizard like a scolded child about to cry.

Rok Soo scowled to himself and muttered under his breath, “Stupid emotional instincts… why couldn’t I just be heartless like usual?”

Meanwhile, Eruhaben calmly sipped his tea again as if nothing had happened, tossing the bloodied cloth aside like it were a mere napkin.

Rok Soo clenched his fists, teeth grinding softly.

‘He better explain’ Rok Soo thought darkly, ‘because if this lizard collapses mid-lesson, I am not dragging his shiny, golden corpse across the mountains.’

Not out of concern, of course.

Pure logistics. Nothing more.

Absolutely.

Probably.

Maybe.

Chapter Text

“Shit…”

The curse echoed in Rok Soo’s mind like a sharp crack against glass.

Everything was a mess.

He exhaled slowly, irritated more with himself than anything else. How could he have overlooked something so basic? He hadn’t even bothered to check the current date in this world. How careless. Sloppy, even. That sort of negligence was dangerous—deadly, in a place like this.

“Is this the demerit of this body…?” he mused, frowning as his hand raked through his dark hair in mild frustration. His thoughts spun, latching onto calculations, timelines, possibilities.

Two days.

Only two days until Harris Village would fall.

He clenched his jaw. The image of it flashed before his mind—flames, destruction, blood, the kind of merciless tragedy that no amount of preparation could completely erase. And yet, he had let the time slip by like sand through his fingers.

He clicked his tongue in irritation.

And as if the situation wasn’t already spiraling, Eruhaben—that old, glitter-obsessed, smug lizard—had just delivered a fresh dose of existential doom. The ancient dragon, with all his grandeur and pride, had calmly explained that his time was nearing its end. His lifespan, vast as it was, had finally begun to fray.

Now Rok Soo had two problems—no, more. He had to find a solution for a dying ancient dragon who seemed far too ready to surrender to death. He had to somehow get to Henituse territory in less than forty-eight hours. And, on top of it all, he needed to verify the novel’s storyline before it completely diverged.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing deeply.

‘This is chaos. No—this is lunacy.’

A part of him wanted to scream. The other part—the colder, more familiar part—was already dissecting strategies, aligning facts, constructing plans. That was how he functioned. Emotional collapse could wait; logistics came first.

‘I need to act. Fast. Efficiently. Logically.’

His gaze narrowed as he began ticking through his mental checklist, calculating what assets he had, what tools he lacked, and who could be used as pawns, shields, or anchors.

There was no room for hesitation. Not anymore.

Because if Kim Rok Soo was anything, he was a survivor. And survivors don’t crumble.

They calculate.

Eruhaben sat with a languid grace, his golden eyes narrowed in mild amusement as he observed the child before him—the ever-serious, perpetually scowling dark-haired bun known as Kim Rok Soo.

Truly, it was a spectacle.

The child’s face, far too expressive for someone who claimed to be composed, was contorting with such a variety of emotions—confusion, irritation, stress—that Eruhaben briefly considered whether he should hand him a mirror. How one person could pull off that many different expressions in under two minutes was beyond him.

With a sigh—half fond, half exasperated—he leaned forward, and with all the elegance of someone with far too much time and too little patience, flicked the boy’s forehead with a casual snap.

“Ack—!”

Rok Soo flinched, scowling immediately as he rubbed his smarting forehead. “What the hell was that for?” he snapped, caught entirely off guard, looking scandalized.

Eruhaben, barely restraining the smirk tugging at his lips, reclined slightly and huffed, voice laced with teasing amusement. “Oh? I was simply thinking this little bun of a face would get permanent crease marks if you kept scrunching it like that.” He gestured vaguely toward Rok Soo’s furrowed brows. “Such intensity—truly tragic.”

Rok Soo narrowed his eyes further, as if offended on a personal level.

This damned lizard.

Why was he like this? Was this some kind of ancient dragon hobby? Flicking children and making sarcastic commentary?

He huffed internally but didn’t respond. Arguing with a several-thousand-year-old dragon was like trying to out-snark the wind.

Eruhaben tilted his head then, golden strands falling into his face as his tone softened—not enough to lose his pride, but enough to give away the rare flicker of concern behind his words.

“Stop scrunching your face so much, little one,” he said, this time more gently. “You’ll wear yourself down before the world even gets a chance to.” He paused, letting the moment linger. “You’ve already lived a lifetime too long for someone in a child’s body. No need to age it faster.” Eruhaben can connect this many dots, there is no way angels only have one life.

It was the closest thing to parental affection the old dragon knew how to give—and it landed.

Rok Soo blinked, surprised at the sudden shift in tone. For a moment, his scowl lessened, just a little. Just enough to register the warmth behind the teasing.

He looked away, grumbling under his breath, “Tch… this damn lizard...”

Eruhaben merely chuckled. “Still adorable.”

Rok Soo nearly choked.

Rok Soo blinked, just once, as he looked at the ancient dragon before him.

His face remained carefully composed—he thought he was doing a decent job of it—but the subtle twitch at the corner of his brow gave him away. He was surprised. Not that Eruhaben was insightful—he was a several-millennia-old dragon, after all—but that he’d managed to read Rok Soo so easily.

It was… mildly disconcerting.

Still, like any master of denial and emotional compartmentalization, Rok Soo simply ignored that unsettling detail and redirected the conversation with cool nonchalance.

“So,” he began, voice as dry as ever, “shouldn’t we practice mana next?”

Eruhaben leaned back, arms crossing in a way that only smug ancient beings could pull off without looking ridiculous. A faint smirk tugged at his lips as he raised a brow.

“Oh? Who said we’re doing that here?”

Rok Soo stared.

Deadpan. Blank. Processing.

“…What?”

The ancient dragon gave a satisfied little hum, his smile widening ever so imperially. “We’re going to the World Tree,” he announced, as if it were the most casual thing in the world. As if visiting an ancient divine entity that governed life itself was equivalent to going out for afternoon tea.

Rok Soo, predictably, did not share that sentiment.

“What!?” he exclaimed, voice rising an octave as his composure shattered like glass against stone.

He blinked again. “Wait, what?”

Eruhaben looked thoroughly entertained now, golden eyes twinkling like a parent watching their overly serious child lose their cool. “You heard me, little bun. Time to stretch those legs and pay our respects to a divine relic. It’ll be educational. And fun.”

Fun?

The only “fun” Rok Soo could think of was staying very far away from ancient tree deities who might recognize him as someone who technically wasn’t supposed to exist in this timeline.

“I wasn’t mentally prepared for this,” he muttered under his breath, already regretting every life decision that led to this moment.

“You’re never mentally prepared,” Eruhaben replied cheerfully.

“…Shut up, you glittering fossil.”

The dragon only laughed, and Rok Soo knew—knew—this was going to be a long day.

~~~~~

It was an ashen day. As always.

Just blood… and orders.

Nothing new for Barrow.

Routine, stained in crimson and silence, flowed like a familiar painting on loop. A grim canvas in which he played no more than a lifeless puppet—a doll bound by invisible strings. One that neither smiled nor wept. One that simply obeyed.

His eyes lifted, calm and unreadable, and landed upon the boy seated across from him.

The so-called nephew.

Naru.

Delicate silver hair cascaded over his forehead, a shimmer of soft light in the dreary room. His violet eyes—sharp yet fluttering with childlike innocence—gazed quietly at the half-eaten cookie in his hand, while his small fangs nibbled with absent delight.

The image was almost laughably picturesque.

Barrow’s face remained a mask, as always, but inwardly, he scoffed.

Naïve.

He had shown this child nothing but a well-polished lie—fabricated affection, feigned warmth, counterfeit words dipped in honey. It was all an act. Every smile, every touch, every carefully measured expression… was nothing but a performance. And to think, this child—a vampire, no less—had fallen for it.

That alone should have been suspicious.

And yet, no matter how many times he observed, no matter how thoroughly he investigated, Barrow had found… nothing. No veiled intentions. No treacherous motive. No hidden bite behind the boy's soft smiles.

Naru was, infuriatingly, simply a child.

A vampire child. Innocent to a fault. Fragile, trusting, perhaps even fond of him in that sickening, unconditional way children gave their hearts without reason.

It made Barrow uneasy.

No child should be that trusting. Especially not with someone like me.

He shifted his gaze slightly, ever so subtly scanning for the smallest trace of threat behind those violet eyes. Still nothing.

Just a boy.

Nibbling on cookies.

A boy who called him “Uncle Barrow” with the sort of unguarded sweetness that made Barrow feel nothing, no affection.

He clicked his tongue silently.

How troublesome.

~~~~~~

Rok Soo felt hollow.

Utterly, unflinchingly hollow—as if someone had scooped out his insides and left a walking husk behind. If there were a pit deep enough, dark enough, undisturbed by mortals and their cursed curiosity, he would’ve gladly buried himself inside it and called it a day.

And yet… here he was.

Standing in the middle of an open clearing, surrounded by what could only be described as a swarm of ducklings. Ducklings with pointy ears, radiant skin, flowing hair, and a terrifying amount of sparkle.

Elves.

A whole crowd of them. Staring. Whispering. Gawking.

Rok Soo blinked slowly, dead-eyed.

He didn’t know whether to scream or collapse.

To his very reluctant credit, Eruhaben was standing protectively in front of him—an elegant golden barrier between him and the elven stampede. For that much, Rok Soo was grudgingly grateful.

But then again…

It was this damned lizard who dragged him here in the first place.

His jaw tightened.

‘Why, oh why, couldn’t things just speed up for once? Why must everything be dragged out like an overly dramatic period drama?’ He frowned, thoughts already spiraling.

Then, he noticed it.

Silence.

The air shifted. The soft rustle of trees, the earlier murmurs—gone.

Rok Soo slowly looked up.

And nearly flinched.

Hundreds of eyes were fixed on him. All wide. All unblinking. All staring.

For one brief, harrowing moment, it felt like he was back in Korea. That same bone-deep discomfort—the whispers, the sideways glances, the burning stares. But these were… different.

There was no disgust in their gazes.

Only… fascination.

Respect.

And—wait, was that craze?

Rok Soo barely suppressed a shudder, his hands twitching as he instinctively took a step back.

‘What the actual fuck.’

What he didn’t know, however, was that the wind elements—always too talkative for their own good—had already broken the first rule of secrecy and were excitedly gossiping about him to the elves nearby.

—“Hey! He’s finally here! He’s even more adorable in person!”

—“I expected someone grand and cold! But he’s so small! Look at his eyebrows!”

—“Rude! He’s trying his best! Don’t crowd him, he hates that!”

—“Isn’t he already miserable?”

—“Oh no, he’s pulling out the ‘I want to disappear’ face again—back up, back up!”

Meanwhile, Eruhaben, ever the picture of elegance, had already begun conversing with a certain elven elder—casually, of course—as if he hadn’t just dropped a highly-reactive, chronically exhausted bomb into the middle of a culturally intense forest gathering.

Rok Soo?

He closed his eyes.

Just five seconds.

Five seconds of peace.

Five seconds to pretend he was not the center of a fan club of sparkling tree people.

This was fine. Everything was fine.

He was lying to himself.

~~~~

In a realm that shimmered in darkness—where the void glittered like scattered rubies across an endless obsidian canvas—stood a lone figure, cloaked in shadow.

They hummed softly, a sound as haunting as it was melodic, eyes raised to the hollow expanse above. The rubies pulsed faintly, glowing like ancient stars trapped in stillness.

“How amusing,” the figure murmured, a slow smirk curling on their lips. “Everything is falling into place… faster than fate dared intend.”

The air around them whispered, as though holding its breath.

It was finally becoming interesting.

“Such tragedy,” they mused, voice laced with something between pity and amusement. “Every soul fractured, every heart quietly bleeding beneath layers of resolve. And yet…” they paused, fingers lightly brushing their chin, “it is the courage of the broken that decides the direction of the winds.”

A chuckle escaped, low and thoughtful, as they tilted their head.

“What if…”

They stepped forward, the shadows parting like silk at their feet.

“What if all a shattered soul ever needed… was another shattered soul to recognize its shape? To echo its pain? To remind it that even cracked glass can still reflect light?”

They ran a hand through their hair, movements unhurried, almost theatrical in their grace.

“Let’s see,” they whispered, their beautiful eyes gleaming like a dying star,

“how the pieces fall… and which ones choose to rise.”

Chapter Text

Cale stood by the window, his gaze drifting toward the distant hills bathed in the soft hues of the fading sky. The shield—it had been a while since he acquired it. The glowing, ridiculous, invincible silver shield.

And with it came… thoughts. Too many of them.

‘Ugh.’

He sighed quietly, leaning against the windowsill, arms crossed.

He had tried.

Really.

He had tried so earnestly to live as trash. To be the good-for-nothing eldest son. To keep a low profile, laze about, eat good food, and quietly fade into the background.

But no.

Even when he’d tried to be useless, it had somehow helped his family. Somehow, someway, it had always turned into “supporting Basen” or “protecting Lily” or “earning respect.”

He clicked his tongue.

“Ridiculous.”

Cale Henituse, the trash of the Count's family, was supposed to be just that—a harmless, lazy, unambitious noble with too much time and wine in his hands. Not… whatever this was now.

His gaze darkened.

He had wanted Basen to become Count. He had been planning for it quietly. Strategically.

But not like that. Not because of that incident. Not at the cost of his own peace of mind or his family’s safety.

He exhaled slowly and turned away from the window.

Inside the room, Ron stood silently, as if he hadn’t just shattered Cale’s carefully constructed perception of him.

The old man—white-haired, gentle-eyed, ever-smiling Ron. The ever-so-helpful butler who used to serve him tea like he had all the time in the world.

Cale’s lips twisted into something between disappointment and bitter amusement.

He used to think of Ron as a father figure. Calm, reliable, safe.

He never expected that “father figure” to be a legendary assassin with a blade sharper than his smile.

Seriously,

Was there even one person around him who was normal?

‘I can’t believe that old man was an assassin,’ Cale thought, turning away from Ron . ‘He’s got more wrinkles than I have excuses to avoid paperwork.’

And then there was his son.

Cale visibly shuddered.

Beacrox.

The man with an obsession for cleanliness, knives, and glaring at people as if they’d just stepped in mud.

What sort of chaotic cosmic joke was it that Ron, the perpetually smiling old butler, had that man for a son?

Cale shook his head slowly, rubbing his temples.

‘I just wanted to be at peace with my family.’

Really, was that so much to ask?

Apparently… yes.

Cale turned toward Ron, the old man standing ever so silently in the corner of the room, like a statue carved from shadow and routine.

Cale knew—he knew—he was about to do something foolish.

Something painfully against his own personal philosophy of “do as little as possible and stay far away from chaos.”

But for once, even he couldn’t ignore the growing weight pressing on his chest.

He needed help.

Specifically, the help of an elderly assassin and his disturbingly tidy son.

The thought alone made him want to curl up under a pile of blankets and never resurface.

‘Cale, you're too fast. You shouldn’t make decisions just because they’re good for your family.’

That familiar voice echoed in the back of his mind—chiding, disappointed, yet filled with unshakable concern.

He clenched his jaw and pushed the memory aside. This wasn’t the time for reflection. He had already made up his mind.

A deep sigh escaped him, and he raised a hand to rake it through his red hair, frustration bleeding into the motion.

“…Ron.” His voice was calm but laced with something sharp beneath the surface—hesitation, maybe, or something far more fragile.

The old man’s eyes flickered with interest, that ever-neutral smile ghosting his lips.

“Where is Beacrox?”

Cale didn’t meet his gaze. His other hand hung stiffly by his side, fingers twitching faintly—an involuntary reaction to just how much he hated asking for help out loud.

The words tasted foreign. Unnatural.

But necessary.

Because no matter how much he wanted to stay uninvolved, this wasn’t just about him anymore. There were too many threads—his family, the people, the future—and they were all tangled together.

He exhaled again.

‘Please don’t make this dramatic, Ron.’

Just once… could something go smoothly?

Cale highly doubted it.

Ron stood still, a picture of composed grace. Yet behind that ever-smiling face and calmly folded hands, a sharpened intuition flickered like a blade unsheathed beneath silken robes.

It had been a few days since the young master had begun acting…strange.

Subtle things.

Minor shifts.

But Ron had always been a man who paid attention to the slightest details—the quiver of a hand, the tightening of a brow, the silence that lingered too long.

The puppy-like young master, who once flailed and complained with dramatic flair at every little discomfort, now sipped even the most sour tea without resistance. He muttered under his breath more often, his tone low and clipped, as if unaware—or perfectly aware—that Ron could hear him.

It was… curious.

Almost endearing.

Almost.

Ron’s eyes crinkled as his ever-gentle smile curled at the edges. Perhaps the boy had finally inherited something from his mother—a fondness for shadows, a preference for secrets.

He didn’t press, not yet. Observation was its own form of interrogation.

Still, as Cale ran a hand through his hair, sighing in that exaggerated, exhausted way of his, and asked for Beacrox, Ron knew this was no ordinary whim.

There was something buried in that request.

Ron replied with perfect poise, voice smooth like aged wine, “He is currently preparing for the midday meal, Young Master.”

His smile lingered, unchanged, but his gaze sharpened faintly.

“And…” he tilted his head slightly, as though peering deeper into the space between Cale’s thoughts, “is something the matter?”

He watched carefully as Cale’s eyes averted, dodging contact like a child caught in mischief, lips drawn into a tight line.

Yes, something was the matter.

But Ron, ever the patient shadow behind the flame, would wait until the young master chose to speak.

Or until he no longer had the luxury of staying silent.

~~~

"Haaa..."

A sigh—dramatic, exasperated, and thoroughly disrespectful—escaped Rok Soo's lips, echoing like a whispered complaint into the wind. He stood rigidly behind Eruhaben, arms crossed in silent rebellion, face carved with annoyance, trying his utmost to ignore the intense and frankly unwelcome curiosity radiating from the crowd of elves nearby.

Of course, those stares were now pushed back, kept at bay by the golden dragon himself, who had only recently decided that Rok Soo’s-not so- mortal soul didn’t deserve to be spiritually trampled by a swarm of overly enthusiastic wind elementals and elven worshippers.

He still remembered—oh, vividly—when the entire situation unfolded.

He had been drowning.

No—suffocating in the weight of too many sparkling eyes, murmurs, and magical whispers. It had genuinely felt like his soul had prepared to vacate his body. That was how intense the attention had been.

And all the while, Eruhaben had merely stood there. Watching.

With that smug little twitch of his lips, like he was holding back a laugh, thoroughly entertained by his disciple’s social doom.

‘Sadistic lizard.’ Rok Soo gritted his teeth.

Now, it had been nearly an hour. An entire hour of standing like a poorly carved decorative statue behind the ancient dragon, while he chattered away with a high-ranking elf like they were long-lost drinking companions at a reunion.

What could they possibly be discussing for so long? The weather? Interdimensional wine? Philosophical interpretations of mana currents?

Couldn’t the old man at least glance back and see the barely concealed suffering written all over Rok Soo’s face?

Rok Soo’s legs had long gone numb. He didn’t dare shift them now. Experience told him that the moment he moved, it would feel like walking on needles dipped in vinegar. His balance would waver, his dignity would crack, and worst of all—Eruhaben would see it.

And he would laugh.

So, with the weight of all things miserable pressing down on his shoulders, Rok Soo sighed again. This time deeper, longer. The kind of sigh that deserved sympathy and a warm blanket.

“How did I end up in this absurdity again?” he wondered bitterly, eyes twitching as yet another elf glanced his way with a dreamy expression.

He was going to die.

Not from battle. Not from magic.

But from social exhaustion.

And that would be the most embarrassing end of all.

Finally—finally—as though Rok Soo’s internal cursing had struck the old lizard’s ancient conscience like a well-aimed spell, Eruhaben turned to face him.

But instead of relief, all Rok Soo felt was a deeper, heavier frown tugging at his face.

Because those golden eyes—usually smug, amused, or vaguely condescending—were serious. Too serious. That narrow, piercing gaze wasn’t just about training anymore, and that could only mean one thing.

His already bad mood was about to get worse.

Rok Soo scowled, arms still folded, chin tilted upward with practiced disdain. His expression practically screamed: “I am not emotionally available for a heart-to-heart right now.”

“What…?” he muttered, brow furrowing as he tried to decipher what kind of lecture was about to be dropped on him like a divine judgment.

Eruhaben let out a long, weary sigh. The kind only old men—or parents with emotionally constipated children—could produce.

That sigh was half disappointment, half patience, and a dash of “I raised you better than this.”

“You know why I brought you to the World Tree to train?” the ancient dragon asked, his voice calm, firm, and lined with unspoken weight.

Rok Soo scoffed immediately—loud and sarcastic, like a teenage delinquent too cool for emotional enlightenment.

“Oh, of course. To laugh at my misery. Obviously.” He rolled his eyes, voice thick with sarcasm and emotional constipation.

Eruhaben stared at him.

This punk. This sharp-tongued, sharp-eyed, chronically sighing child. The fact that this bundle of stress and scowls was supposedly a divine being chosen by the gods still gave him a headache every other day.

‘An angel?’ He looked at Rok Soo’s furrowed brows, his unimpressed scowl, the pure audacity of his sarcasm.

“Angelic” was not the word that came to mind.

More like: caffeine-addicted hedgehog with a superiority complex and social trauma issues.

Still, there was something oddly endearing about the boy. The kind of messy, reluctant fondness one develops for a stray animal that keeps biting your shoes, yet still follows you around in the rain.

“You’re unbelievably disrespectful,” Eruhaben muttered, rubbing his temple, “and if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were the incarnation of adolescent rebellion.”

He narrowed his eyes. “But you’re also someone who’s trying too hard not to care… which usually means you care too much.”

Rok Soo stared at him, unimpressed.

“...Are you done with the therapy session, Glittering foss-Eruhaben-nim?”

Eruhaben closed his eyes and inhaled deeply through his nose.

‘Patience. Patience. You're the adult here.’

He opened them again, golden and glowing. “No. I haven’t even started. Now walk with me, we’ve got training to begin—and perhaps some emotional excavation, if you’re lucky.”

Rok Soo groaned loudly, dragging his feet as if every step was a personal betrayal.

Why did all his problems come with lecture packages and parental dragons?

~~~~

Cale stared ahead, his gaze unwavering, fixed upon the duo standing before him—Ron Molan and his ever-stoic son, Beacrox.

Now that both were present, there was no turning back.

The room was silent, save for the faint clink of door and the hushed rustle of wind outside the window. The air felt heavier somehow, the kind of weight that settled before one dropped a stone into still waters.

Cale inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with a courage he wasn’t entirely sure he possessed. His voice, when it finally emerged, was calm—firm even—but it carried an edge. A quiet kind of tremor only a few would recognize as fear laced with reckless resolve.

“Ron,” he began, eyes narrowing with purpose. “I want to ask you something.”

Ron, ever the loyal shadow, nodded with that faint, unreadable smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Yes, young master?”

Across from him, Beacrox raised a single eyebrow, his typical poker face intact. He glanced at his father briefly, catching the subtle amusement that gleamed in those old, tired eyes. Ron looked far too entertained for what was likely to come.

Cale’s jaw tightened. He had already opened the gates—there was no stepping back now.

He exhaled and threw the question like a stone into a still lake.

“How did you meet my mother, Molan Patriarch?”

Silence followed, thick and sharp.

There. He had done it. Thrown himself into the mouth of the dragon—well, Molan—but it might as well be the same thing. His body was perfectly still, but his mind was anything but.

He could feel the sweat beginning to gather at the nape of his neck. A single bead traced a slow, traitorous path down his back like a countdown to doom.

He had said it out loud. To Ron. To Ron.

His heart was in his throat, but he didn’t let it show. Not on his face, at least.

‘I really just asked the former Molan patriarch about his life and help of his skills,’ Cale thought numbly. ‘I must’ve inherited my father’s insanity. There’s no other explanation.’

And just like that, another thought elbowed its way to the front of his mind:

‘Am I going to get beaten up… by the man who basically raised me?’

His lips twitched ever so slightly. It was absurd. And yet completely plausible.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he could almost hear his mother’s exasperated voice, echoing like a ghost from memory.

“Cutie, you’ve got your father’s idiotic bravery when it comes to family. Learn when to keep your mouth shut.”

He could practically see her sighing as she rubbed her temple, her expression a mix of fondness and exhaustion.

Cale, still stone-faced, braced himself for impact.

Chapter Text

Rok Soo stared ahead, unblinking.

There was nothing. No light, no shapes, no sound. Just endless, consuming darkness stretching out before him like an abyss. A void so vast it made him feel like he was sinking into nothingness.

‘What… was I doing?’

His thoughts swam sluggishly, like trying to grasp smoke with bare hands. He was supposed to be somewhere—wasn’t he? With someone? A name teetered on the edge of his mind, just out of reach.

‘Eruha—?’

‘Who?’

His chest felt hollow. Not in the way of simple loneliness, but a gnawing, aching emptiness, as if something fundamental had been carved out of him, leaving only a gaping wound where warmth should have been.

Rok Soo curled his fingers into his palm, but there was nothing to hold on to. No heartbeat to reassure him he was alive. No warmth, no weight—just an aching, suffocating void.

And then, like a cruel whisper from a past he thought he had buried, the memories surfaced.

Cold nights. Dark thoughts. Torn clothes.

Rok Soo closed his eyes.

He should’ve known. No matter how far he ran, no matter how much he suppressed, he could never truly escape.

A deep crease formed between his brows. His past was like a chain, one that refused to break, dragging him back—back to the days when he had nothing but his own will to survive.

He remembered the nights spent curled up in a corner, shivering from more than just the cold. The quiet of a house that should’ve been home but was only ever a prison. The heavy footsteps outside his door, the sound of a belt sliding through loops, the drunken slur of his uncle’s voice.

And the worst of all—

The looks.

Rok Soo clenched his jaw.

Those looks.

When he passed by people on the streets, they never stopped. Never spared him a second glance. And if they did—those eyes.

Disgust.

As if he were filth.

As if merely standing near him would taint them, infect them with whatever wretchedness they thought he carried.

Back then, he hadn’t understood.

‘Why do they look at me like that?’

He had been naïve. Too young, too hopeful. He used to think—maybe, just maybe—someone would help him. That if he just endured long enough, someone would reach out.

But the world had never been kind.

He had learned, painfully, that it didn’t matter if you were kind or strong or clever.

It was always about appearances.

If your clothes were tattered, if your hair was messy, if you looked broken—then you were filth. A stain to be ignored.

The first time he realized it, his heart had cracked.

But the moment that truly shattered him wasn’t the beatings. Those, he could endure. Those, he had grown used to.

No.

It was the day he saw a child crying.

Rok Soo remembered it vividly. He had been limping home, his body aching from fresh bruises, his ribs protesting with every breath. No one batted an eye. No one ever did.

And then he heard it.

A wail.

It wasn’t the harsh, bitter cries of someone in true agony. No, it was the small, pitiful sobbing of a child.

He turned his head.

There, on the sidewalk, a boy sat on the ground, his hands clutching his knee where a tiny scrape marred his skin.

Tears streamed down his round, chubby cheeks. He was clean, well-dressed, clearly from a good home. Yet he cried as if the world had ended.

Rok Soo stared.

‘Why is he crying?’

‘It was just a scrape. A tiny wound. Barely anything.’

‘Does that really hurt so much?’

Rok Soo had taken far worse. Kicks to the stomach. Cuts that bled for hours. Nights spent with an empty belly and a broken body.

Yet he had never cried like that.

No—he had learned not to.

Crying only made it worse. It made his uncle angry. It made people turn away even faster.

It was better to stay silent. To endure.

And at that moment, watching that boy sob over something so small, something inside Rok Soo twisted.

It wasn’t anger.

It wasn’t jealousy.

It was something far more painful.

It was realization.

That child could cry because he had people who would care.

Someone would come for him. Someone would pick him up, wipe his tears, and tell him it was okay.

And then—

She appeared.

A woman.

The boy’s mother.

She ran to him, worry written all over her face. She knelt beside him, her hands cupping his small face as she whispered soft, soothing words.

“Oh, my baby, are you hurt?”

Her voice was warm, gentle. Her touch tender.

The child, still sniffling, nodded. “It hurts, Mama.”

And she—

She kissed his scraped knee.

“See? All better now,” she cooed, pulling him into a hug. “Mommy’s here. Don’t cry anymore, okay?”

Rok Soo’s fingers twitched.

He stood frozen, watching, feeling something tighten in his chest.

That was it.

That was all it took to comfort a child. A soft voice. A warm embrace. A simple touch.

Something so simple.

Something he had never had.

Something he had never even realized he wanted.

And yet—

His heart ached.

His throat felt tight, but no sound came out. His hands felt cold, but he didn’t shiver.

There was no sadness on his face. No jealousy. No longing.

Nothing.

Because he had long forgotten how to show it.

So he simply turned away.

He didn’t look back.

And he kept walking.

Because that was all he had ever known how to do.

Rok Soo sucked in a sharp breath, his lungs burning as if he had been drowning in the depths of an unseen ocean. His chest heaved, each inhale shallow, uneven. It was hard to breathe.

His body felt heavy—like a corpse sinking into the abyss.

His mind barely registered the sensation. He was used to pain. He had lived with it, carried it like a second skin. His usual backlash from using Records had always been fever—burning, numbing, consuming.

But this—this was different.

A tremor ran through his fingers as he dragged a hand across his forehead, brushing away the cold sweat clinging to his skin. His vision swayed, his thoughts slipping through his grasp like grains of sand.

‘Where am I?’

‘Still, in that endless void.’

An abyss of nothingness.

He exhaled slowly, his breath barely making a sound in the oppressive silence.

Rok Soo had never feared the darkness.

No—never.

It had never been the darkness that terrified him. It was the people lurking outside of it. The ones who could see him. The ones who judged, sneered, whispered behind his back, or worse—pretended he didn’t exist at all.

The darkness had never done that to him.

It had never turned its back on him.

If anything, it had been his only solace.

Darkness was a quiet companion. It never judged, never demanded, never looked at him with eyes filled with disdain.

It did not pity. It did not pretend.

It simply was.

A cold, unfeeling embrace. A place to disappear. A place where he could hide his weakness, his vulnerability, his tears.

A place where he could pretend none of it mattered.

His breath hitched, his unfocused gaze shifting, searching.

Still nothing.

Only endless black stretching beyond his reach, swallowing him whole.

For a fleeting moment, his lips curled into something bitter. How fitting.

But then—

Something surfaced in the depths of his mind.

A memory.

A pair of eyes.

Deep, dark, and filled with something he couldn’t name.

One set—black as the abyss around him. Silent, unwavering, holding a weight he had never been able to decipher.

The other—brown, warm in a way that made the hollowness in his chest ache.

Those eyes—

They had haunted him.

Even now, even here, in the place where nothing should exist, they still lingered in the corners of his mind, a whisper of the past he could never outrun.

His fingers twitched at his side.

The hollowness inside him worsened.

And yet—

Rok Soo had never once wished to forget them.

Because no matter how much they hurt—

They were proof that once, even for a moment, something had been real.

Even if it had long since crumbled into dust.

Rok Soo took a shuddering breath, his lungs burning as if scorched by invisible flames. He forced himself to focus, to push away the suffocating weight of his thoughts, even as they clawed at him from the depths of his mind.

He needed to understand.

Where was he?

Was he dead?

The thought lingered, an eerie whisper in the hollow of his chest. He wasn’t a religious man. He had never believed in gods. Even if they were to manifest before him, he wouldn’t bow, wouldn’t pray, wouldn’t hope.

And yet—

As if summoned by his defiance, the darkness before him stirred.

A flicker of light.

Rok Soo’s body tensed instinctively, his stance shifting into defense despite the tremors in his limbs. Every muscle in his body screamed in protest, heat searing his skin, yet he gritted his teeth and stood his ground.

He had to be ready.

Then—

“Rok Soo, child.”

The words made him freeze. Not because they were familiar—no, he had never heard this voice before.

It was the way they were spoken.

Soft.

Adoring.

Like love itself had taken form and whispered his name.

His breath came in low, uneven pants, his fevered mind spinning, but he refused to let his guard drop.

“Oh, you sweet child of mine.”

Regret. Sorrow. A sadness so deep it seeped into the air, curling around him like a ghost of something long lost.

Light bloomed in the darkness.

A scent—fresh, sweet, something achingly familiar yet agonizingly distant—filled his lungs, making his breath hitch.

The figure stepped forward.

Pale green strands of hair fluttered in the nonexistent wind, their golden eyes shining like twin stars. They gazed at him with something so unbearably tender that Rok Soo’s entire body screamed at him to back away.

Because—

Because he didn’t know this person.

He shouldn’t know this person.

And yet, something inside him trembled at the sight of them.

His brows furrowed as sweat dripped down his temple, his breathing ragged.

‘Who were they?’

‘Why did their presence feel like a memory just out of reach?’

The figure smiled sadly, stepping closer. Rok Soo instinctively strengthened his stance, muscles coiling like a cornered beast.

“Rok Soo, my child,” they whispered again.

His frown deepened, confusion and wariness warring in his fevered mind.

Who—?

‘Who was this person?’

Who dared to appear out of nowhere and call him their child?

His throat ached, but he forced the words out.

“Who… are you…?” His voice was hoarse, each syllable a struggle. “I am not your child.”

The figure did not waver.

Instead, they smiled—softly—as if his rejection was expected. As if they had already accepted the weight of his disbelief long before he had spoken.

They reached out, their fingers glowing faintly with light, delicate threads of warmth weaving through the air like whispers of silk.

Rok Soo flinched but did not move.

He couldn’t move.

Something inside him—the part of him that had starved for warmth, for love, for someone—held him still.

The light touched his skin.

And for the first time in what felt like an eternity—

He felt warmth.

Not the kind that burned.

Not the kind that suffocated.

But a warmth that seeped into the cracks of his soul, a gentle embrace that did not demand or take, only offered.

Offered comfort.

Offered a place to rest.

The figure looked at him, eyes filled with endless sorrow and unshaken love.

“Life,” they murmured, “is something that fascinates all. A miracle that exists with purpose. But you, Rok Soo… your very purpose was broken, twisted beyond recognition.”

They hesitated, as if speaking would break him further.

But then—softly, so gently that it made his breath hitch—

They placed a hand on his head.

And he relaxed.

His body, which had been locked in resistance, relaxed.

As if every ounce of tension, every wall he had built around himself, could no longer withstand this one simple touch.

The figure patted his head, their voice carrying an ache that seeped into his very bones.

“For a life to move forward, one must remember,” they whispered. “The past is past. It is gone, far beyond your reach. And yet… look at you. You have come so far from it.”

A pause.

A sad, knowing smile.

“That is something to be proud of, my child.”

Rok Soo’s breath hitched.

The fever that had fogged his mind seemed to fade, the unbearable ache dulling into something more distant. His head felt lighter, his thoughts clearer.

And yet—

The voice.

That voice.

It was familiar now.

It was so familiar.

But why? Why?

The figure’s smile softened, their voice lowering into something impossibly gentle.

“My dear Rok Soo…”

The way they said his name—soft, aching, loving—made his chest tighten painfully.

“It hurts, doesn’t it?” They murmured, stepping closer.

“So cruel, my baby.”

Rok Soo stiffened.

The words—

His mind reeled, his breath caught in his throat, his fingers twitching.

When—

When was the last time—

When was the last time someone spoke to him like this?

Like a mother would?

Tears welled in his eyes before he even realized it. Hot, silent, overwhelming.

A broken sob wrenched itself from his throat.

His chest ached.

It ached in a way he had long forgotten how to feel.

Because—

Because when was the last time someone had been there?

When was the last time someone had held him like this?

The figure’s arms wrapped around him—gentle, steady, unwavering.

Rok Soo broke.

A choked sob escaped before he could stop it. His body trembled, his hands clutching onto soft robes, clinging like a child, like something fragile, like someone who had been alone for far too long.

The God of Life held him, their golden eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

They had waited.

They had searched.

And now, with their child in their arms, they could do nothing but mourn the time lost.

They tightened their embrace.

“My Rok Soo,” they whispered, voice cracking, trembling with raw emotion.

“You’ve been so strong.”

A single tear slipped down their cheek.

“I am so proud of you, my child.”

For the first time in centuries, the God of Life cried.

Rok Soo clung tighter, his fingers digging into their robes as his broken, fragile voice whispered through his sobs—

“Eomma… it hurts…”

And the God of Life held him tighter, shielding him from the world, from the past, from the pain.

As if they could somehow take it all away.

As if, for the first time, their child was home.

Chapter Text

“…hic…”

Cale stood still, his breath caught somewhere between disbelief and dread as he stared at the scene before him. Moments ago, he had simply asked Ron a question—where was he now?

Apparently, here.

And by “here,” he meant somewhere far removed from the present—tucked deep within the folds of memory. A memory not his now, but then.

His eyes slowly took in the familiar room—the faint floral scent of dried lavender still clinging to the corners, the gentle creak of the wooden floor under his feet, and the pale curtains dancing faintly with the breeze through the half-open window.

His mother’s room.

And there, just a few feet away, sat a child.

Him.

Or rather, a version of himself that felt like a ghost from another lifetime.

The child sat on the cold floor, his back pressed against the closed door as if it were the last thing anchoring him to the world. His head was bowed, his small frame trembling with every hiccuping breath that escaped him.

Cale's gaze softened in agonizing slowness.

The boy’s red hair—so easily brushed by their mother’s hand in the past—was now disheveled, as though no one had cared enough to fix it. His clothes were slightly wrinkled, as if he'd dressed himself in a daze, lost in the numbness of grief.

Of course they were.

This was that day.

The day he had lost her.

His mama.

Cale’s heart gave a painful lurch. It was sudden and sharp, like someone had reached into his chest and gripped the core of him with cold hands.

He knew what this moment was.

He had buried it.

Locked it away behind countless layers of indifference, sarcasm, and distractions.

But the memory—like all ghosts—had returned.

And here it was.

That quiet grief, that unbearable silence that had screamed louder than any voice ever could.

The boy didn’t cry like other children did—he didn’t wail, didn’t sob uncontrollably. No, he simply trembled, little hiccups escaping between shallow breaths, as if he were too afraid even to cry too loudly.

As if even his grief needed permission.

Cale’s throat tightened.

He remembered this.

He remembered sitting there, too afraid to move, because if he did—if he left that spot—he might find out it wasn’t a dream.

He remembered the coldness that had crept into his limbs, not from the air, but from inside him.

The kind of cold that seeps into a child’s heart when the warmth that once cradled it is gone.

And no one comes.

No one holds him.

No one says, “It’s going to be alright, my dear.”

Cale stepped forward, then hesitated.

What could he even say to his younger self? What comfort could he offer that he didn’t receive back then?

Could he kneel and say: “You’ll survive. You’ll grow up strong. You'll learn how to bury pain so deep it forgets how to scream.”

No. That would be cruel.

The boy didn't need a future forged in pain.

He needed a mother.

And he didn’t have one anymore.

“…Mama…”

The child’s broken whisper shattered something in Cale’s chest.

He watched as the boy slowly turned his head, staring at nothing, eyes wide, red, and glassy—haunted.

Eyes that no child should ever have.

Cale swallowed the lump rising in his throat.

His hands clenched at his sides.

This wasn’t fair.

Why did a child have to look like that?

Why did he have to look like that?

So small. So lost. So utterly alone.

Cale slowly lowered himself, inch by inch, until he was sitting on the floor, facing the boy, though the child couldn’t see him.

Or perhaps… he chose not to see.

Because sometimes, when grief is too heavy, even memories choose to close their eyes.

Cale's voice, when it finally emerged, was a whisper meant only for himself.

“…You didn’t deserve that.”

And yet, he had endured it.

Alone.

Quiet.

Like a withering rose pressed between forgotten pages.

Cale reached out, fingers trembling, and hovered his hand above the child’s hair—but never touched.

Because memories aren’t meant to be rewritten. Only remembered.

And this one—this hollow, aching moment—was a scar etched deep into the soul of Cale Henituse.

“…You were just a kid.”

A kid who lost his mama.

And sat at her door, waiting for a warmth that would never return.

And yet, amidst all of it—the silence, the pain, the weight of memory—there was one thing that made Cale’s chest ache with a fiercer burn than all else.

It was the words he knew the child would say next.

Words that should’ve never been born from such a small, fragile heart.

He watched closely, his heart in his throat as the younger version of himself reached for a cloth nearby. Not his sleeves. Not the hem of his wrinkled shirt. No, not his clothes.

Because crying into his sleeves was something babies did.

And papa cried when mama left, doesn't he knows? Mama doesn't like us crying..

The same papa who had always knelt to wipe away his tears, was now ignoring his existence.

The same papa whose footsteps echoed in these halls near cale's room, never came to him later.

Cale’s hands clenched.

He wasn’t like him.

He swore—he swore he wasn’t.

I am not him.

His younger self gave a small, shaky sniffle, holding the cloth with trembling fingers as he wiped at his red-rimmed eyes, desperate to smother the evidence of heartbreak. His voice was hoarse, barely audible over the hollow silence that enveloped the room.

“…Well… Mama… will be… and I… I have Ron…” he whispered, almost like a secret prayer.

A hush fell after the words, so soft and yet heavy—laden with every drop of quiet faith a child could muster.

And Cale froze.

Those words—so simple, so faint—struck him harder than any blow.

Because behind them was everything the boy had left.

Ron.

Cale swallowed, eyes burning.

He couldn’t deny it.

Couldn’t lie to himself, not here—not in front of this boy.

That man… that old, deadly, ever-loyal butler… was the closest thing to a father he had ever truly known.

Not by blood.

But by presence.

By warmth.

By care.

Ron never said much. He never had to.

But he stayed.

He was there.

And sometimes, that was all a boy needed to keep from completely falling apart.

Cale bit his lip hard, shoulders trembling as he looked at his younger self—his heart, his broken heart—curled up in a corner of the past, clinging to the only remnants of warmth left in his life.

“…Ron…” he whispered, voice cracking.

He never said it out loud, not even now.

But Cale knew it—he knew it.

If Ron hadn’t been there…

If he hadn’t stood silently by his side, with his quiet patience and unwavering gaze…

Cale wasn’t sure that boy would’ve ever gotten up from that floor.

And maybe… maybe neither would he.

Tears rolled down Cale’s face, silent, unstoppable, as he stared at the child he once was. The child who had nothing but an old butler’s steady hand to hold onto.

“…You were so alone… And yet you still held on,” he whispered through clenched teeth. “You still believed…”

The younger Cale, unaware of his future self’s presence, curled further into himself with the cloth clutched tightly, whispering again,

“…I have Ron…”

And just like that, Cale broke.

His grief, long held behind steel and sarcasm, cracked open like a dam, spilling into the dark silence of the room.

He wasn’t that boy anymore.

But gods, how he still carried him.

Despite everything—despite the blind, stubborn faith he had always placed in him—Cale knew.

In the deepest, most forsaken parts of his heart, he knew.

Even Ron… even he would leave.

And he did.

That silent, steady father figure. That man Cale had once considered a lighthouse in the endless storm of his life… he left him.

He had turned away.

When Cale had been bruised and broken—beaten nearly to death—what did he see upon awakening?

Not Ron.

Never Ron.

But Hans.

The ever-dutiful deputy butler, wearing an expression full of pity and concern.

But not Ron.

No warm hand reaching out.

No cold scolding hiding worry.

Nothing.

The betrayal had cracked through his soul like thunder, ripping something vital away from him.

Again.

Again.

Why was it always like this?

Why was he always the one left behind?

First it had been Deruth Henituse—his blood—who chose silence over love, who watched his own son wither from neglect, only to later welcome another wife into the house like the first one never mattered. Like Cale never mattered.

Then, when Cale dared to believe—dared to hope again—it was Vicross. His “hyung,” his quiet strength, the one person he believed would never waver.

Gone.

And Ron—Ron—his last thread to the idea of a father…

Gone.

All of them… for him.

For the one who had raised his hands against Cale.

The one who had left bruises like accusations across his skin.

They all left him for the one who broke him.

The air in the room turned thick—suffocating, pressing against his lungs like invisible chains.

Cale’s gaze lowered to the floor, unfocused, empty, as something deep inside him hollowed out.

“…Was I really that unlovable?” he whispered.

The words didn’t even sound like his voice. They were the fragile cries of the child inside him—the one who still waited at the window for someone to come back.

Anyone.

Was he so difficult to love?

Was he such a terrible child?

He had given them everything. Everything he could.

All he ever wanted… was to be enough for someone.

For anyone.

And yet—what was he?

Cale let out a bitter, broken laugh, dry and sharp as glass.

He knew what the world saw.

“Trash of the Count’s family.”

He had heard it so many times that the words had carved themselves into the bones beneath his skin.

He dragged a hand across his face, tears slipping past his fingers unchecked. His voice trembled, more to himself than to anyone else, a confession laced in years of pain.

“…Yes… I’m not the same Cale they knew.”

His eyes darkened, shimmering with unshed tears and the shadows of everything he never got to say.

And perhaps, in that moment…

That was the most tragic part of all—

Because somewhere deep down…

Cale Henituse still wished—desperately, silently, pathetically—that someone would choose him. Just once.

And not leave.

~~~~~

Rok Soo stirred, as if awakening from the depths of a long, soul-deep slumber. Though his limbs felt drained and his mind fogged by the weight of tears that had long dried against his cheeks, a strange serenity lingered in his chest—like the lingering warmth of a dream too precious to forget.

He hadn’t forgotten.

He had wept.

He had called out—

Eomma.

The thought alone brought a faint flutter to his heartbeat.

The world around him was slowly returning—gentle and distant, as if reluctant to disturb his fragile peace. A warm, amber light filtered in through the slits of his barely parted eyes, casting long shadows over the forest floor. The wind rustled through the trees, their leaves whispering secrets to one another. The air smelled of bark and earth and morning dew, and it wrapped around him like an old lullaby.

And in that gentle lull of nature’s breath, her voice still rang in his ears, soft and echoing like a ripple in time.

“My sweet Rok Soo, you know… Like yin and yang in your Korea, there is kindness even within darkness, and darkness within kindness. They define each other—and they define you.”

He remembered how he had stared at him with a confused expression, brows furrowed like a child hearing riddles from a mother they did not wish to disappoint.

His golden eyes, shimmering like twilight stars, had only softened.

“I know you might not yet understand for yourself, Rok Soo. But someday you will. This truth—this paradox—it means that even in the darkest corners of your soul, there lies a kindness that others may never see. A strength born from suffering.”

And like any child seeking comfort rather than clarity, he had simply nodded.

“So remember those words. They will guide you to the truth—not just of who you are, but of who they truly are as well.”

And then—

He was gone.

His presence had dissipated like stardust on a breeze, leaving behind warmth in a place that had only ever known cold.

Rok Soo’s gaze lifted to the open sky above, the hues of dawn bleeding into the heavens like watercolour. His chest rose and fell, each breath steadier than the last. He didn’t know what he felt. Calm? Tired? Reborn?

Perhaps all of them.

And just as he was about to lose himself in those thoughts, a scoff cut through the quiet—dry, clipped, and tinged with poorly veiled concern.

“Finally thought to wake up, did you?”

The voice was familiar. Teasing. Gratingly fond.

Rok Soo blinked and turned his head toward the sound, a wry smile barely curling at the edge of his lips.

Even without looking, he knew.

Eruhaben.

The old man would never admit it, but Rok Soo could hear the unspoken worry behind his mockery—the tightness in his voice, the relief buried beneath irritation.

And in that moment, Rok Soo didn’t feel alone anymore.

Not entirely.

The darkness had not vanished, but neither had the light.

And in between… he existed.

Rok Soo.

Neither villain, nor victim.

Just him.

Chapter Text

Eruhaben inhaled sharply, his golden eyes fixed on the boy sitting up in front of him—far too casually, as if he hadn’t just collapsed cold and unresponsive for two full days, nearly giving the ancient dragon a heart attack.

Another breath. In. Out.

Composure.

He ran a hand through his platinum hair and asked in a voice far softer than he intended, “How do you feel?”

At the same time, Rok Soo blinked and tilted his head, entirely unbothered. “So, how long was I out?”

A silence—tense, stretched, and sharp—hung in the air like a blade suspended mid-fall.

Eruhaben’s jaw tightened as he stared at the boy, his aura flaring momentarily. The ancient mana surrounding him felt like it could crush a lesser being with the weight of a thought. Rok Soo stiffened under the pressure, goosebumps crawling up his spine. He could almost hear the accusatory silence screaming: Did you seriously just ask that?

To be fair, it was a reasonable question. More reasonable than panicking and wailing “Where am I?!” like some drama protagonist. He was being rational.

Still, Eruhaben let out a groan that was far too heavy for someone as elegant as he looked.

His eyes, usually filled with aloof wisdom, narrowed with sharp irritation—laced with concern he wouldn’t admit aloud. “Two days,” he finally muttered, each syllable as heavy as the responsibility sitting on his shoulders.

Rok Soo blinked again. “Oh.”

Eruhaben almost snapped. ‘Oh?! Just—Oh?!’

The dragon sighed, dragging a hand over his face. Of course. Of course he shouldn’t have expected anything remotely normal from this child. He had brought Rok Soo to the World Tree on its request, expecting maybe a vision or some cryptic nonsense. Instead, the moment the boy touched the tree—he dropped, unconscious, lifeless. No heartbeat spike, no warning, just cold and collapsed like a puppet with its strings severed.

Eruhaben had nearly set the sacred forest ablaze.

He hadn’t hesitated to threaten the World Tree. Divine or not, ancient or not—if it dared harm his child, there would be consequences, cosmic balance be damned.

Because Eruhaben was a dragon, and when a dragon lays claim, it’s absolute. Whether it was a treasure, a promise, or—yes—a stubborn, emotionally constipated child with a permanent frown, that was his.

His to protect.

His to rage over.

He muttered under his breath, “I shouldn’t have expected anything normal from him…”

Meanwhile, Rok Soo was busy taking in his surroundings—the wildflowers swaying gently under a soft breeze, bushes rustling in the distance, sunlight dappled on his skin like gold dust. It was all too peaceful, almost insultingly calm after what just happened.

And then—his breath caught.

His entire body tensed. He cursed silently, fingers curling into the soft dirt beneath him.

Sherrit-nim’s voice echoed hauntingly in his mind:

“Remember to return after two days. If not—well, don’t blame me for what happens next.”

He shuddered. Oh no.

Oh no no no no no.

He was doomed.

Eruhaben noticed the boy’s suddenly pale face and furrowed brows, but instead of asking, he simply raised a regal eyebrow. “Let me guess,” he drawled, tone dry as sun-scorched sand, “You forgot to tell someone you’d be disappearing into the void of unconsciousness for two full days?”

Rok Soo didn’t answer.

Eruhaben clicked his tongue. “You’re lucky you didn’t die. Again. Idiot child.”

There was no venom in his words—only exhaustion.

And maybe… a little affection.

Rok Soo stared at the golden dragon before him, absolutely petrified—his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and dread. “How… how do you know?”

Eruhaben tilted his head ever so slightly, a smug smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Let’s just say I may have received a little... call from someone.”

‘Call?’ Rok Soo blinked.

The ancient dragon’s smile deepened, fond exasperation flickering behind his golden eyes. He still wasn’t entirely sure how Sherrit-nim managed to connect her mana communication device to his own—it had come as a shock, to say the least. Even more so when he discovered the Dragon Lord, thought long gone, was not only alive but apparently tech-savvy in the arcane arts of mana devices.

The call had been… interesting, to say the least.

She had sounded lighthearted at first—asking if Rok Soo would be returning soon. Apparently, she wanted to try making something sweet for the child. A gesture so gently maternal that it had nearly warmed Eruhaben’s ancient heart.

But then he'd told her.

That the child was unconscious.

Unresponsive.

Two days, and still unmoving.

Let’s just say… the reaction he received was anything but sweet.

Eruhaben sighed internally as he gently gathered Rok Soo with a flicker of mana, lifting the startled boy off the ground as if he weighed no more than a feather. He began walking toward the elf village, calm and composed, like this was a stroll through a garden and not a disaster wrapped in human skin.

Rok Soo paled instantly. “W-Why are we still here?”

Eruhaben didn’t even glance at him as he replied, voice dripping with dry sarcasm. “Ah yes. Why indeed? Perhaps because someone decided to faint dead away beside a divine tree, scaring everyone to death—me included—yeah, maybe that.”

Rok Soo shrank into himself. ‘Not helping.’

He could already feel the storm gathering. Sherrit-nim probably knew everything by now—and not only that, she would be waiting. And he? Still stuck here, in the middle of the elves’ serene village, surrounded by strange magic, mystical nonsense, and very old, very pointy-eared beings who kept looking at him like a prophecy wearing boots.

He groaned under his breath, grumbling into his palm. ‘How wonderful… So this is my life now in a novel world. Utter chaos and judgmental trees.’

‘His eyes squeezed shut. And to top it all off’ he thought bitterly, ‘the protagonist arrives in Henituse City in two days… and I’m still stuck in leaf land.’

The world was falling apart. Again.

There was no getting around it—his carefully calculated plans were slipping through his fingers like sand, and no amount of cleverness could stitch them back together at this rate.

Eruhaben, unaware of the absolute meltdown unfolding in the boy’s mind, gave a small hum as he walked. “You really are trouble, you know that?”

Rok Soo didn’t respond.

Not because he was offended—no.

But because… he agreed.

With a sigh so soft it could’ve been a whisper, Rok Soo thought bitterly, ‘Trouble? That’s putting it nicely.’

~~~~

Cale stirred weakly, his body aching as though he hadn’t moved in centuries. A low groan escaped his lips as he shifted to his side, only to freeze when he felt it—a sharp, intense gaze piercing through the veil of his still-closed eyes.

Dread crept up his spine.

Reluctantly, with the weight of inevitability, he cracked open his eyes.

The moment he did, he was greeted with a collective gasp—a flurry of movement, of anxious hands reaching forward and teary relief lighting up familiar faces. The air was thick with the tension of worry unspoken and hope barely hanging on. Yet… none of them truly registered to him.

Because across the room, standing like a silent specter cloaked in guilt and unreadable emotion, was him—Ron.

Cale inwardly cursed.

Of course.

Of all people to be present when he decided to faint like a melodramatic extra in a third-rate play—it had to be Ron.

He had said it.

He had finally dropped that secret—the one he'd buried so deep in his chest it bled into his ribs. And then what? He collapsed. Like a fool. Like some fragile porcelain doll unable to handle the weight of truth.

How was he supposed to summon that kind of courage again?

His thoughts, tangled and wild, circled like vultures in the skies of his mind. He felt caught in a strange space—part reality, part remnants of the dream he had just escaped. It still clung to him, ghostlike, a haze of loss and tenderness that dulled the edges of his awareness.

In front of him, seated at his bedside with worry etched deeply into his features, was Count Deruth Henituse. His hand rested softly over Cale’s, trembling faintly—whether from relief or fear, Cale couldn’t tell. Beside him, ever graceful and composed, sat Violan, her presence as grounding as it was formidable.

Deruth’s voice, low and unsteady, broke the silence. “Is he still dazed…? The physician said he should be fine, but—” His words were strangled by emotion he could no longer contain. His treasured firstborn had simply collapsed—no warning, no explanation, and no signs of waking for two entire days.

Beside him, Violan gently placed her hand on his shoulder—a silent pillar of strength. “Calm down, dear. Give him time. He only just woke… it’s been two days.”

Deruth exhaled shakily, nodding as he squeezed his eyes shut, as though doing so might hold the fragile moment together.

Cale stared at them quietly, something twisting in his chest—guilt, resentment, confusion… affection? He didn’t know anymore.

But one thing was certain.

The moment he locked eyes with Ron again—he would have to finish what he started.

Even if his heart refused to stop trembling.

Chapter Text

Rok Soo grumbled under his breath, the low sound muffled by the stillness of the lavish chamber. He sat hunched on a plush velvet seat in the Castle of Light—grounded. Grounded, like some wayward teenager. Why?

Because he hadn’t returned home when he was supposed to. Sherrit-nim’s voice still echoed in his ears, her fury enough to wither a thousand-year-old flame. He’d been scolded for over an hour—no breaks, no mercy. Of course, he hadn’t gone down alone. He’d dragged the old man—the dragon, he corrected bitterly—into it too.

Some small, vindictive part of him felt satisfied.

Running a hand through his tousled black hair, Rok Soo muttered, “I still need to leave...” His voice was quiet, almost calm, but urgency pulsed beneath the surface. He had a mission—he was supposed to be at the Henituse territory by now. And more importantly—the fall of Harris Village was drawing near and the madness of Choi han.

He was late.

Clicking his tongue with frustration, he cursed under his breath, “If that stupid lizard hadn’t—”

“Care to repeat that, bun?”

Rok Soo froze. His spine straightened reflexively, like a soldier caught slacking.

There, leaning lazily against the doorway with an infuriatingly smug smile, stood Eruhaben. His golden hair shimmered in the light, but his expression was all teeth and sarcasm.

“Is being grounded not enough to fix your foul little mouth?” the ancient dragon asked with faux sweetness that made Rok Soo's eye twitch.

Rok Soo scowled, brushing off the jab. “What, came to extend the sentence, old man?”

Eruhaben scoffed, amused. “You wish.”

Rok Soo rolled his eyes so hard he swore he saw stars. He knew he was acting like a brat. He knew. But… with Eruhaben, he couldn’t help it. There was something about the dragon’s presence that allowed him to lower his guard—to act the age he never got to be. It was strangely comforting, this sharp-tongued back-and-forth. Being spoiled, just a little... it was like exhaling after holding your breath for years.

Still, guilt tugged at the corners of his heart. He glanced toward the door, the golden figure still framed by the soft light. He hesitated, then called out more gently, “So… Eruhaben-nim…”

The old dragon raised a brow, clearly intrigued by the change in tone. Was the brat finally softening? Eruhaben found himself standing a little straighter. Perhaps the boy was about to open up—say something honest. Finally, some progress.

“Hm?”

Rok Soo cleared his throat, gaze flickering toward the floor. And then—

“Will you leave now? I used cooling magic in here, so stop turning the place into a sauna. And close the door.”

A pause.

A heartbeat of silence.

Eruhaben blinked, utterly blindsided.

The little rascal.

The boy had been on the verge of becoming sentimental—and then slammed the door shut on the moment like a particularly dramatic stage play. The dragon let out a long, exasperated sigh and turned, muttering, “Whatever... brat.”

The door shut behind him with a soft click.

Rok Soo stared at it for a moment longer, fists clenched in his lap, jaw tight.

‘What am I doing?’

He scolded himself inwardly. He couldn’t afford softness. Not now. Not when things were falling into chaos and time was slipping through his fingers. He couldn’t afford for them to find out. Not yet.

But still...

It would’ve been nice, a small part of him whispered, to talk. Just a little longer.

~~~~~

Rok Soo let out a wheezing breath that sounded somewhere between a dying animal and a boiling kettle. His legs burned, his lungs screamed, and yet—he ran.

Technically speaking, it wasn’t running. It was a “brisk walk,” as he had told Sherrit-nim, a casual request for a “small stroll outside to clear his head.” Yes. A stroll.

In reality, he was bolting through the forest like a fugitive in a bad historical drama, every footstep slapping the earth with the desperation of a man who knew death—or worse, lecture—awaited him if he was caught.

He was well aware this was suicidal.

But still—he had to.

Choi Han.

The thought alone kicked adrenaline into his veins.

He couldn’t let him drown in gried. Not to be hitted by the emo protagonist. Not when he knew what was coming. The fall of Harris Village, the turning point of the entire world—the ignition of the protagonist’s resolve. And Rok Soo needed him. Desperately.

Not just because Choi Han was important to the story, but because he was a stabilizing force in the storm of insanity that was unfolding. Because if Cho han got senile from grief, this world is doomed, and his darned angel instincts are not helping!

So yes, Rok Soo ran.

Fast. Silent. Determined.

And also entirely screwed.

His brows twitched as the intrusive thought struck: They probably already know I ran.

Of course they knew. Sherrit-nim was the freaking Dragon Lord, and Eruhaben was older than dirt and twice as stubborn. They could probably smell his guilt halfway across the continent. They likely knew the exact temperature of his guilt-ridden sweat.

He grimaced, staggering slightly on a rock. ‘I am so, so doomed.’

The ancient dragon was going to kill him. Or worse, lecture him. For hours. Maybe eternally.

He winced. “Ugh... I didn’t even leave a note.”

Maybe he should’ve faked his death. Set up some dramatic scene with ashes and a shredded cloak. Leave them a tear-stained letter: ‘Don’t cry. I had to go. The wind called to me.’

He nearly tripped from how hard he rolled his own eyes.

‘Focus, idiot.’

The forest blurred around him, moonlight streaking between the trees as he powered through. Leaves scraped at his arms, roots clawed at his ankles—but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

His thoughts were racing faster than his feet.

If I got caught today, I am gonna be scolded, again!

He’d face the dragons' wrath later. For now, Rok Soo had a mission.

And nothing—not fear, not fate, not two incredibly terrifying ancient beings—was going to stop him from rewriting that tragedy.

Well. Hopefully.

Maybe.

...He was so unbelievably screwed.

~~~~

Cale darted through the cobbled streets, the heels of his boots echoing softly beneath the sun-drenched rooftops. His red hair glinted like flame under the late morning light, his gaze flickering from alley to alley with an expression of sheer, focused exasperation.

What was he doing?

Well—trying not to die.

More specifically, trying not to get beaten by a certain overly enthusiastic, sword-wielding, emo nightmare named Choi Han.

Which brought him here. Sneaking out like a second-rate thief, just to procure another sword for self-defense.

The first one? Confiscated.

By none other than his overprotective father—Count Deruth, who had taken one look at his recently fainted son and decided the best course of action was to remove any and all sharp objects within a ten-meter radius.

Cale scoffed beneath his breath, muttering a symphony of complaints.

“…Really now, one fainting and suddenly I’m made of glass?”

His shoulders tensed slightly as he caught sight of the familiar city guards tailing him discreetly from a distance. Their expressions practically screamed: ‘We disapprove, but we can’t defy the Count’s orders.’ Which, fair enough, but also—annoying.

Still, Cale was used to this. The stares. The hushed whispers. The murmurs of “trash” that fluttered like dead leaves behind him.

He didn’t flinch. Not anymore.

He had worn those words like armor before. Now they slid off his back like water.

But then—something new.

A scent.

Sweet. Warm. Rich with sugar and nostalgia. It drifted across the street like a siren’s call, nestling into the corners of his senses before he could even process it.

“…Oh?”

Cale blinked, pausing in his purposeful stride. His stomach gave a subtle, traitorous grumble. He turned his head, nose twitching, eyes narrowing toward the source.

A bakery.

A quaint, unassuming little shop with warm panes of glass glowing with sunlight and soft curls of steam drifting from the doorway.

For a moment, Cale just stood there, his mind fuzzy.

It had been so long since he had sweets.

His days were filled with dull meals, stronger drinks, and Ron’s abominable sour tea that was brewed for the sole purpose of punishing his tastebuds. He had almost forgotten what comfort tasted like.

Without thinking, he veered off the path and wandered toward the bakery, hands stuffed in his coat pockets like a rebellious schoolboy. The scent grew stronger, wrapping around him like a blanket.

He muttered to himself, voice dry and deadpan, “...Just one. For blood sugar. Self-defense requires energy.”

Yes. That was his excuse. Perfectly reasonable. Definitely not emotional weakness brought on by a puff pastry.

Definitely not.

The small bell above the door chimed with a soft ding, announcing his arrival as Cale Henituse stepped into the warm, fragrant air of the bakery.

The shopkeeper—an aging man with flour-dusted sleeves and an ingrained smile—turned with the usual practiced cheer. “Welcome to—”

The words died halfway through his throat.

The smile froze, then dropped like a fallen soufflé.

His eyes widened ever so slightly as he took in the unmistakable figure of Cale Henituse—red hair tousled, eyes half-lidded with indifference, posture relaxed yet strangely intimidating, like someone too used to chaos to be fazed by anything else.

The shopkeeper began to sweat.

‘Is… is he here to cause trouble?’

Cale saw it. Oh, he saw it. That flash of panic in the man’s eyes, the way his hands twitched nervously behind the counter.

He sighed. Not out of surprise—no, this was routine. Expected. A part of the day like brushing his teeth or tea time.

“Of course,” Cale muttered under his breath. “They think I’m about to rob the place or declare war on pastries.”

He crossed the small shop with a nonchalant huff, casting a cursory glance at the display case. Rows of golden crusted pies, glossy fruit tarts, and silky chocolate pastries glistened behind the glass like treasure.

He pointed lazily.

“Pack two apple pies… and that chocolate pastry,” he said, tone as flat as his expression.

The shopkeeper flinched like a startled rabbit and stammered, “R-right away!”

Cale resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He stood there silently, gaze drifting to the ceiling. Was it really so hard to believe he just wanted some sugar?

‘Tch. Am I a terrorist with a sweet tooth now?’

He glanced toward the door behind him, already imagining the guard shadows loitering somewhere close.

“Not like I’m buying explosives,” he muttered to himself, then added dryly, “Unless the chocolate pastry counts.”

~~~~~

Evening had long since dipped the skies in hues of violet and ash, the first stars peeking out like shy secrets whispered between clouds.

Cale sat quietly on a secluded patch of grassland, finally—miraculously—free of the ever-hovering guards. He had evaded them with the finesse of someone far too used to disappearing acts, and now sat cross-legged under the dim sky, far from the bustle of Henituse County, which shimmered softly in the distance like a memory.

His gaze softened as he took in the golden lights scattered across the hills below. They looked like fireflies caught in a dream. A hush blanketed the air, and for the first time in days, Cale felt... calm. Maybe even content.

He reached into the small box at his side and pulled out an apple pie, biting into it with a muffled crunch. The sweet, spiced flavor spread warmly on his tongue, and a low hum of approval escaped him—almost unbidden.

Thank the gods this place was cloaked in darkness. No one could see him looking like this—like some pie-devouring hermit enjoying a peaceful sunset. That would ruin his carefully curated image of indifference.

Then, suddenly—a rustle.

Cale froze.

His instincts flared as he turned his head swiftly toward the sound, wary of everything from assassins to overzealous butlers. But what met his gaze made his breath catch in surprise.

Two tiny figures emerged from the nearby bushes. One kitten was cloaked in silver fur that shimmered faintly in the twilight, the other bore scruffy red fur that matched the fire in Cale’s own hair. Both were thin, filthy, and hesitant.

Cale blinked, mid-chew.

“...Cute,” he murmured before startling at his own voice. Did he just call something cute out loud? His brow furrowed in disbelief at himself.

But he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the kittens.

The silver one stood protectively in front of the red, its ears perked, posture tense and wary. Meanwhile, the red-furred kitten’s tail swayed in curiosity, its eyes locked onto the half-eaten pie in Cale’s hand.

He sighed, glancing down at the warm pastries beside him.

“Well, I can’t just leave them,” he muttered under his breath, already surrendering to the tug in his chest. He reached in and pulled out another apple pie, carefully tearing it into bite-sized pieces and laying them gently on the clean grass a short distance away.

Lowering his voice to a gentle hush, he spoke, “Hey... are you hungry?”

His tone, softer than he thought himself capable of, barely carried on the breeze.

The red kitten’s eyes lit up, and with a delighted chirp, it scampered forward. The silver one let out a low, defeated mewl but followed closely, unwilling to leave its sibling unguarded even in pie-based temptation.

Cale watched as the tiny mouths nibbled eagerly, and something subtle in him eased.

The lights of the county still glimmered ahead, but now his eyes lingered on the two fragile forms at his feet. His voice barely a whisper in the twilight, he murmured, “Well... it’s not that bad, is it?”

And for the first time in a long while, the loneliness didn’t feel quite so heavy.

The hush between them felt sacred.

The two kittens, now nestled closer, continued nibbling at the pie crumbs with timid glances toward Cale—curious, cautious, and slowly warming to the still figure before them. Cale, for his part, sat unmoving, eyes lowered to the ground, his expression touched with a quiet, bitter sadness that seemed to deepen with every passing second.

The apple pie in his hand had long since gone cold, forgotten.

A faint breeze rustled through the grass, carrying the scent of cinnamon and memory.

It’s calm, he thought.

Too calm.

And calm never lasted long.

He knew what loomed ahead—what fate hung heavy over the horizon. Choi Han would come soon. The fall of Harris Village would follow. That cruel spiral of blood and fire would begin again, and this fragile moment would shatter beneath the weight of destiny.

His gaze remained fixed on the dirt between his knees, his chest rising and falling with a sigh heavier than the sky above.

He didn’t want to witness that again.

Not the screams.

Not the loss.

Not the despair.

The red-furred kitten, sensing the tremor of sorrow in him, hesitated—then took a step forward. It let out a soft mewl and placed its tiny paw tentatively on his knee, as if offering comfort from a body too small to carry such intent.

Cale blinked down at the kitten, lips parting in stunned silence. Before he could reach for it—

Crash—

A sudden rustle tore through the bushes. The serene night cracked open.

A figure burst through the thicket like a wild gust, tumbling helplessly down the slope. Grass and dirt kicked up in chaos as the form rolled toward them with a startled yelp. The kittens leapt in fright—right onto Cale, who nearly toppled backward in sheer shock, blinking in disbelief at the mess unraveling before him.

The figure finally came to a stop at the foot of the slope, groaning as it pushed itself upright. A tattered cloak slid from its shoulders, revealing windswept dark hair and wide black eyes that glinted beneath the silver of twilight.

Cale stared.

The kittens stared.

Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

Those dark eyes blinked, and a sheepish hand rubbed the back of a neck. Then, with all the elegance of a fallen leaf pretending it didn’t trip out of the sky, the stranger spoke:

“Uh... Hello?”

Cale’s mind stalled, like a cart missing a wheel.

‘Who trips into a heartfelt moment? Who rolls down a hill like a misplaced snowball and greets people like it’s a casual Tuesday?’ He blinked again.

The kittens slowly slid off his lap, equally startled and judging.

Cale opened his mouth, shut it, then settled for a deadpan sigh.

So much for peace.

Chapter Text

Rok Soo let out a sharp huff, brushing the dirt from his cloak and running a quick hand through his tousled dark hair. He straightened with an awkward bounce in his step, ready to pass off his grand entrance as a casual stroll gone wrong. That is, until his eyes properly met the person sitting before him.

And in that single moment—he froze.

His breath caught. Not because of fascination.

Not awe.

Not even the cheesy nonsense people call love at first sight.

No.

It was pure dread.

Because the person sitting cross-legged on the grass, blinking at him with a face of stone and narrowed suspicion, was none other than—

Cale Henituse.

The infamous minor villain. The walking red flag in noble form. The man destined to get beaten to the brink of death by the protagonist.

Oh no.

Oh hell no.

Rok Soo stiffened like a deer caught under a divine spotlight. His lips twitched. His stomach dropped.

Cale Henituse is staring at him like he just rolled up to rob him blind and possibly steal his dignity too.

That glare. That judgment. That “why is this idiot breathing near me” expression. All of it screamed red alarms in Rok Soo’s mind.

"Ahaha..." he gave a weak laugh, dusting his cloak again like it would help his crushed pride.

He tried to calm himself. ‘It’s okay. It’s fine. I used magic to change my appearance. I look different. I’m not some relative looking redhead right now—I’m just some dark-haired traveler with suspicious timing. It’s fine—’

That comforting thought tripped over itself like he had just moments ago.

Wait.

If Cale is here...

Then that means—

His eyes widened in horror.

Choi Han can’t be far behind.

He slowly, mechanically reached up to touch his hair.

‘Dark hair...? Dark eyes...? Wait—WAIT—DID I FORGET TO—?!’

His thoughts collapsed into full-blown panic.

He forgot to change his hair color.

His real appearance.

He might get strangled by Choi Han in his craze for being suspicious?-or is his mind of a child now being a mess in panic?

The icy realization sank in like a cold bucket of water, and Rok Soo physically staggered a half-step back. His mouth opened and closed, trying to conjure an explanation, a distraction—a miracle.

All he could manage was a strangled internal scream.

‘I am so completely, cosmically, stupid.’

Cale blinked.

Once.

Twice.

The kittens in his lap blinked with him.

A red and a silver puffball clung to his legs like two fuzzy accessories, their wide eyes trained on the sudden intruder who had burst out of the bushes and tumbled onto the grass like a failed circus act.

Cale’s brows furrowed as he looked at the boy—or rather, teenager—standing awkwardly, clothes ragged, hair wild, posture somewhere between run and apologize for existing.

What the hell?

'Why is a kid here? And dressed like he just survived a monster stampede?'

A brief flicker of cold anger twisted in Cale’s chest—anger not directed at the boy, but at whoever the hell had let a child wander into these woods in such a state. He clenched his jaw. If someone had abandoned him, he’d personally hand them a bill for breathing too much air and a punch to the face.

…Or, maybe, the kid ran away on his own?

Cale sighed, brushing imaginary dust from his shirt as the kittens let out quiet, confused mews, tilting their heads as if questioning his intent. He gave them a brief glance—soft, warm—and then returned his gaze to the teen, who still stood there like a statue mid-processing a software update.

To be honest, Cale couldn’t help the unease in his stomach. The kid’s hair was dark. So dark, it stirred half-forgotten memories of his own many, many past beatings by one particular black-haired sword fanatic.

But this wasn’t that brute.

No.

This one looked more like he hadn’t eaten a proper meal in three days and had just tripped into someone else's backyard during a mental breakdown.

Cale exhaled.

With that same tired elegance and faint civility of a noble who had been traumatized too many times for this nonsense, he took a step forward.

“Who are you?” he asked, voice calm—softer than expected, almost cautious. “And… did you get hurt?”

A simple, harmless question.

So why did the kid just stare at him like Cale had just revealed himself to be the God of Death offering free coupons?

Cale tilted his head, faintly annoyed. Really? Did his face still scream local trash villain, destroyer of kittens and hoarder of property damage?

He gave an unimpressed blink. “What? Do I have a second head?”

Because honestly, at this point, he wouldn’t even be surprised if that was next on the list of strange things he inherited from this messed-up world.

Still, Cale stood there, the wind gently brushing through his red hair, two kittens curled against his boots, and a boy before him—one who looked far too startled for someone who had just tripped over nature and found pastries, kittens, and an exhausted noble.

‘Well’ Cale thought dryly, ‘at least he didn’t faint lke his complexion..’

Rok Soo blinked.

Hard.

Had—had Cale Henituse just asked if he was hurt?

Cale Henituse. The infamous trash of the Henituse County. The noble failure with a talent for wine, destruction, and worst timing possible moments. That Cale Henituse?

Was… checking if he was alright?

‘What is happening in this world?’ Rok Soo thought, momentarily considering that maybe he had accidentally transmigrated into a different timeline—one where Cale was a kind older brother-type instead of the chaos-inducing menace he remembered reading about.

He shook his head subtly. No. He didn’t have time for this. He wasn’t here to analyze Cale's emotional growth arc in real time. Choi Han would arrive in Henituse by tomorrow, and with that, the entire plot would snowball into blood, tragedy, and uninvited dragons.

‘Focus, Rok Soo. Focus.’

He glanced down at the two kittens still pressed against Cale’s legs like curious guards. The silver one eyed him suspiciously, ears twitching like a tiny soldier on alert. The red one tilted its head in interest, perhaps debating whether Rok Soo was a friend, foe, or walking snack provider.

Clearing his throat softly, Rok Soo answered, his voice a little hoarse from the earlier sprint, “It’s Rok Soo…”

Cale blinked at the response. Then, to Rok Soo’s absolute disbelief, the noble nodded, solemn and calm, as if they were politely exchanging names at a tea party and not suspiciously eyeing each other in the middle of nowhere while hiding kittens and runaway status.

“Rok Soo,” Cale repeated softly, thoughtful. “Alright.”

There was a beat of quiet before Cale tilted his head slightly and asked the next, perhaps obvious, question.

“What about your parents?”

It wasn’t an intrusive tone. There was no condescension, no sneer. Just a quiet question—meant to gauge, to help, maybe even offer support.

Rok Soo froze.

Ah. Parents.

Well, he could hardly say: ‘I don’t know, because I just hijacked this body like a protagonist in a B-grade transmigration novel.’ That would absolutely get him carted off to the nearest church for exorcism.

So instead, he bowed his head slightly and whispered, just barely above the evening breeze, “I… I don’t know who they are.”

He let the words hang in the air like a delicate lie painted with enough truth to pass inspection.

His voice wavered, not from performance, but from genuine nerves—because he was about one divine beast and half an ancient dragon away from being very painfully dragged back to where he was supposed to be.

Cale tensed.

He hadn’t expected that.

The breath he took hitched faintly in his throat as he stared at the boy—no, the teen—with that familiar hollowness in his eyes. It was an expression Cale knew all too well. One that echoed memories of a past he didn’t ask for and burdens too heavy for a child’s shoulders.

'Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant, Cale,' he chided himself, rubbing the back of his neck in silent frustration. 'You’ve officially stepped into an emotional landmine with your dumb noble instincts.'

The kittens, as if sensing the shift in air, huddled closer. The silver one narrowed its eyes at Rok Soo with the air of a bodyguard while the red one made a soft, questioning mewl.

Even the cats had furrowed brows now. That’s how tense the moment was.

For a long second, no one spoke.

Then finally, Cale sighed—softly. “...I see.”

The words were quiet. Not pitying, not overbearing. Just an acknowledgment.

A shared silence passed between them—not uncomfortable, but understanding.

The breeze rustled the grass softly, tugging at their hair. Somewhere far behind them, the lights of the Henituse estate glimmered like stars tethered to earth.

And in that stillness, a disgraced noble and a displaced soul stood quietly, surrounded by cats, secrets, and the strange, delicate beginnings of something that neither of them quite understood.

With an awkward sigh that sounded far too weary for someone his age, Cale adjusted the kittens in his arms. The tiny creatures let out soft mewls in response, curling into the crook of his hold like they’d decided to claim his arms as their rightful throne.

He didn’t mind. Not really. But the longer he stood in this strange silence, with a confused teenager blinking at him like a startled deer, the more the atmosphere began to feel suffocating.

He exhaled slowly, casting a brief glance at the boy. “Follow me,” he said, curtly—too curtly, perhaps—but what else was he supposed to do? Let a half-lost, suspiciously silent kid just wander off into the woods? No thanks. Cale already had too many nightmares to add ‘abandoned orphan child’ to the list.

Rok Soo blinked. “Huh—?”

A dumb noise escaped his lips before he could stop it. Reflex, really. He hadn’t been expecting orders.

Cale’s brow twitched. “Did I stutter?” he deadpanned, snapping the words without much venom but with all the authority of a noble annoyed by his own sense of moral responsibility.

Almost instantly, he winced internally. ‘Ugh. That sounded bratty. Again.’ His habits really were hard to kill. Maybe the trauma gave him some kind of permanent noble snark reflex.

Rok Soo, however, definitely flinched.

It was a barely-there twitch of the shoulders—a sharp reflex honed by too many sudden tones and too many bad memories. He wasn’t even sure why he reacted. This wasn’t his past, wasn’t his real life… right?

Still, the instinct remained.

He nodded stiffly and trailed after Cale without a word. The silence between them was thick, awkward, and heavy—like a soup made of unsaid things and mismatched expectations.

‘Guess I’ll follow... I don’t want to get hit by a bottle,’ Rok Soo grumbled internally, shoving his hands in his pockets as he trudged behind.

He had, after all, read quite clearly in the novel how “Trash Young Master Cale” had the charming habit of yeeting liquor bottles at thugs like he was auditioning for a medieval bar fight. Frankly, if this version of Cale even glared too hard, Rok Soo didn’t want to test what else might come flying.

‘Still, this felt… different.’

The cats—no, kittens—were snuggled against Cale’s chest like they belonged there. And Cale wasn’t dragging him, wasn’t yelling. Just walking, silent and slow, as if waiting for him to catch up without pressure.

And for some reason… that made it worse.

Because Rok Soo wasn’t sure whether he was being helped, pitied, or pitied and helped, which was perhaps the worst combo for a runaway soul in a teenage body.

He sighed, low and under his breath.

'This is fine. It’s all fine. Just walk quietly, don’t trip, don’t cry, don’t mention dragons, and absolutely do not bond emotionally.'

It was shaping up to be a long, long night.

~~~~~

In the heart of the Castle of Light, serenity reigned—at least on the surface.

Sherrit-nim sat in a poised manner, her expression utterly neutral as she delicately sipped from a porcelain teacup. Whether a soul like hers, bound in such a unique existence, could even taste or truly enjoy tea remained a mystery. But she held the cup with an elegance that made the moment feel painfully human.

Across from her, Eruhaben sat considerably less composed.

The ancient gold dragon, powerful and revered, could feel a single bead of sweat trail down his temple like a silent scream. He lifted his own teacup with a tight grip and forced a sip down, barely registering the warmth of the drink.

It had been hours—hours—since Rok Soo had vanished. Or rather, since the brat had run off.

Eruhaben had been ready to go hunt him down immediately, to haul the child back by the scruff like an unruly hatchling. But Sherrit had simply… stopped him. With one quiet gesture, one glance, she had commanded him to stay.

Now, he wasn’t sure if that mercy was for Rok Soo’s sake or his.

Because the stillness in the room… wasn’t peace.

It was the silence before the eruption. The calm of a mother—wounded, furious, and waiting.

“Sherrit-nim…” he ventured, carefully.

Her gaze rose slowly to meet his, as if he’d just confessed to setting the castle on fire. “Yes, Eruhaben-nim?” she replied with a voice that was calm—too calm. Not a hint of irritation touched her tone, but the darkness in her eyes told a different tale.

Eruhaben cleared his throat. May the gods protect him.

“The brat—I mean, Rok Soo… why did you let him go?” he asked, words tumbling with hesitant tact. “You stopped me from chasing after him, yet he clearly—ran.”

Sherrit set her teacup down with a soft clink. A delicate sound, almost imperceptible—but Eruhaben winced.

The porcelain had cracked.

She folded her hands neatly in her lap, her expression unreadable. “Because I cannot keep him here forever,” she said softly, her voice threaded with something… far older than time. “As much as I wish I could shield him within these walls, I know this place was never his final destination.”

Her eyes flicked down briefly to the cup, now with a spiderweb fracture blooming near the rim.

“I know it,” she murmured. “But…”

She picked the cup back up, her fingers curling just a little too tightly around the handle.

“…He could have at least left a note.”

Her voice wavered—not with anger, but something far more fragile.

Disappointment. Hurt. A quiet kind of ache only a mother could understand. Because despite her strength, despite knowing the inevitable, she had hoped—wished—that he would say goodbye. That he would spare her even a single word before walking away.

The betrayal was not in his leaving—it was in the silence he left behind.

Eruhaben, for once, found himself speechless. He glanced at the cracked cup, then at the gleam of sorrow buried in her otherwise impassive face.

He sighed inwardly. Rok Soo was so grounded.

And this time, not even the ancient dragon was going to save him.

~~~~~

Far from the reach of mortals, tucked within a realm untouched by time or decay, stretched a boundless grassland kissed by eternal spring. The sky above shimmered with hues not found in earthly palettes, and the wind carried the soft lullaby of the cosmos itself.

Amidst this otherworldly beauty sat a being just as ethereal—Phanes, the God of Life.

His long, pale green hair was tied loosely at the nape, the ends curling gently like the tips of young vines in bloom. Golden eyes, soft as sunlight on dew, swept over the vast sea of grass with a faint, wistful glow.

“How serene...” he whispered, his voice like the hush of dawn.

But it was too serene.

Too quiet.

In his mind’s eye, he could almost see a familiar figure running across the field—Rok Soo, his child. Laughing, smiling, stumbling through the grass with the vitality only a soul chosen by life could carry.

And if—just if—that child were to call again…

“…Eomma,” he murmured beneath his breath, clutching his arms around himself.

A sigh left his lips. “How unfortunate…”

But as if summoned by the weight of that melancholy, the opposite force to life itself approached with silent steps—Thanatos, the God of Death.

White hair tousled with casual disarray fell softly around his face, giving him an appearance more akin to a dreamy scholar than a deity of endings. His robes, like Phanes’, held an otherworldly elegance—flowing with weightless grace, as if spun from the fabric of twilight itself.

“Phanes…” came Thanatos’s voice, low and hesitant.

Phanes turned, blinking in surprise. “Ah—Thanatos?” A soft lilt of confusion played on his lips. “What brings you here?”

Thanatos cleared his throat, his crimson gaze glancing aside in practiced disinterest. “Well…” he began, brushing a hand through his unruly hair. “I thought I’d drop by… see how the thief was faring.”

His tone carried a feigned scoff, laced with teasing scorn—but the corner of his mouth twitched, betraying his own fondness.

Phanes blinked once, then let out a delicate, amused chuckle.

“Pfft… well, this thief is doing quite well,” he replied, a gentle smile blossoming on his lips, the sadness briefly scattering like mist beneath the sun.

Thanatos stole a glance at him from the corner of his eye, then looked away again quickly, as if caught. “Hmph… I suppose it was foolish to come here thinking I’d catch you not secretly watching my child from afar.”

He muttered the words in a grumble, a tsundere gruffness masking the clear concern woven into every syllable.

Phanes tilted his head slightly, eyes glimmering with mirth. “Well… he is my child, Thanatos,” he answered warmly, placing a hand over his own heart, as though to soothe something deep and ancient within it.

A pause hung between them.

Then, softly—barely audible above the breeze—Thanatos remained quiet.

‘Ours’ he thought silently, gaze softening as he looked at Phanes from the corner of his eye. But he said nothing.

Chapter Text

Hello my dear readers, how it been for you all? And don't even try to dodge my question and not answering in comments, you better do so(⁠ノ⁠｀⁠Д⁠´⁠)⁠ノ⁠彡⁠┻⁠━⁠┻ . Do you understand?

Also, it's been a hassle, I just loved detective Conan and I am obsessed, I had only read by 200 chapters and now I feel so conflicted in my free time. That should I write or watch anime. This is so annoying, I wanna do both.

Then I had noticed, I feel that this is gotten bit awkward by the last chapter, I mean come on, the awkwardness I felt when I wrote that chapter (⁠ಠ⁠_⁠ಠ⁠ノ⁠) . So i gonna give the decision in your hands. 

Should I rewrite this fanfic? Or should I continue this one? This choice is yours.

Also! I got a thought to make a fanfic that I'll be making soon, now I feel like making another fanfic with cale in detective Conan but better watch anime to write that, so that'll be in my list.

You guys better answer you know, it's not good to leave your author like that 😃

Have a great day/evening/morning , may Cale-nim bless you 😆

Chapter Text

Eheh..hello? Ahem, here I am back after a month of asking..?

Well things came up or more like i didn't have thoughts of what to write, and today? I was going to write a new chapter, when after reading the trash's angel fanfic noew chapter,? I am dying for why I didn't do rockcale ｡⁠:ﾟ⁠(⁠;⁠´⁠∩⁠`⁠;⁠)ﾟ⁠:⁠｡

I wanna write rockcale so bad, but i cant cause apparently rok soo is a teenager here and Cale a adult 😃 now I what I wanna do? Well I wanna do want i did, I had wrote bit of this fic with rok soo being the angel of life and death but also getting him with cale.

And if you say that i should continue this one like this? Well, if I tell you the truth? I kinda don't wanna, this fic you see in few chapter been I feel like something is worng and I have an itch to just rewrite whole .

So yea, these are my thoughts.