Chapter Text
“My favorite color...hmm...red! Like the shade of your hair.”
“Promise we'll stay together forever?”
“...Farewell Cale Henituse. Let’s never meet again.”
“People with red hair are always trustworthy. After all, all my saviors have red hair!”
“I thought you hated me.”
(“Wasn’t this what you wanted?”)
(“You wanted me gone, didn’t you?”)
(“You caused this.”)
(“You killed me, Cale.”)
“Can we be friends again?”
“Can I stand beside you again?”
“If we were to meet again, someday...would you finally eventually show me you love me back?”
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry—
Cale’s hands tightened on his sword. He was exhausted to say the least. His body was not going to hold on for much longer with the strain and overload of divine energy flowing through.
Two pair of reddish-brown eyes glared at each other. Their hair was tousled by the wind, grimy and dirty, almost hiding the red color underneath. The stench of rotting flesh and blood was swept away by the permeating pheromones clashing in the air. The cries of soldiers all around were drowned out by their silent exchange. Comrades died. Allies clashed. Blood dripped down their wounds, mingling with the other stains on their clothes.
None of that registered to the two alphas locked in battle.
The White Star’s face was bare—his white half mask had been knocked off by Cale—and his gaze was filled with cold fury. His eyes lacked light. The Sword of Disasters burned brightly against Cale’s silvery blade. The combined light of their blades reflected throughout the battlefield. The scent of death, unwelcome and irksome, whirled around them and only fueled their muted anger toward each other.
Their time was crumbling apart.
“Is that bothersome god of yours going to interfere again?”
“You’re one to talk.”
Cale’s blade slipped from the White Star’s and they both jumped back, circling each other with a slow pace. Both were drained of strength—their bodies broken beyond repair at this point.
Another failure.
Cale scoffed at the same time the White Star clicked his tongue.
“It was always you who stood before me as the final hurdle to godhood,” the White Star said, “so I’ll ask you. Surely, it was you who was the luckiest one this time around, no?”
“Cryptic messages as a dying man to another? That’s so not your style, you demigod bastard.” Cale scowled as he wiped away blood from his chin.
He bit his tongue hard enough to draw blood as the fiery sword pierced through his leg. The White Star frowned as Cale’s blade pierced through his shoulder.
“Cale Henituse,” the White Star spat, his voice full of contempt and venom, along with his pheromones going haywire, “Where is he?”
What?
For a moment, time stopped. Cale’s body went cold despite the flaming sword in his flesh. His pupils trembled.
There was only one person they both cared for.
For years, Cale had simply lived with the cutting fact that he’d been too late, again.
But this…?
“You...you don’t have him either?”
The White Star halted. His eyes widened ever so slightly before he hardened his gaze once more. “I see,” he said, “This lifetime had been doomed from the start then. No matter, I can simply try again once you’ve died.”
“I’ll drag you to the fiery pits of hell myself before you get to him—!” was all that Cale managed to spit out before his world was engulfed by a familiar darkness.
“Cale Henituse—”
“Why wasn’t he there?”
The god of death stayed silent. He simply straightened out some documents before he continued, “You’ll find him first, this time.”
Cale paused at that, his fury dampening just enough for the words to fully set in. It had always been him who was too slow. But now, the god of death was guaranteeing he would be the first?
“...What did you do?” He couldn’t help but be suspicious. Such a deal was too good to be true without a heavy price to pay in turn.
“You’ll see once you return,” the god said, “Fret not, the price has already been paid by someone else.”
Cale raised a brow. He didn’t have much faith in the god—not after the ruined regressions from past rounds—but he couldn’t do much without the god of death’s help either.
“There’s no need for us to delay any further,” the god said, “...You’ll succeed this time.”
Cale woke with a startled gasp for air. His lungs stuttered as he heaved for air. Once more, his heart beat erratically as it adjusted two heart beats syncing into one. It hurt. It hurt a lot. Cale dug his fingers into the sheets, clawing at the fabric to ground himself into the present. The phantom sensation of a broken body and iron coating his tongue hammered against his senses as memories of a possible future trickled into his younger body’s mind. A ringing headache accompanied him in his misery at another failure. A side effect from decades’ worth of memories flooding back at once.
Even after everything, Cale still hadn’t gotten used to the sensation of being thrust back into the past.
When he opened his eyes, the still-blurry sight of his childhood bedroom greeted him. His migraine was still ever-present as he closed his eyes again, sorting through his thoughts and memories. Cale took a deep breath. It didn’t hurt to breathe. The sting of iron, fear and rot didn’t cling to his olfactory senses anymore. Slowly but surely, the adrenaline started to leave his body.
The assimilation of his memories finished and the tension in Cale’s body left. In one of his regressions, he had made the mistake of getting up before he finished the assimilation, and then had to deal with the consequences of doing so by laying on the ground helplessly for hours as his numb body had shut down from the memory overload. In the next few days, there was a high chance Cale would be plagued by headaches and phantom pains—which was fine; he had at least gotten used to that part of being thrown into the past.
Cale reopened his eyes, his sight finally clear again as he took note of his body. He slowly got into a sitting position, taking in the sight of his bare arms, without all the scars and muscles he’d built up in the past round.
...Wait.
Why were his hands so small?
Cale practically jumped out of bed and ran towards the nearest mirror available in his room.
Instead of being met with the appearance of his eighteen year old self, the reflection that stared back at him was much, much younger.
...
What the hell?
Just how far back did that god of death send him this time?!
After overcoming his initial shock of being eight years old again instead of eighteen, Cale decided that a regression to this far back was fine, actually. At the very least, this lifetime wasn’t filled with narrow time limits and problems that came with a god fucking up a regression. It gave him more time to prepare for the future, the ability to make greater changes and…
“I thought you hated me?”
...Cale still had the opportunity to prevent himself from making foolish decisions.
Cale Henituse was a selfish, selfish person.
He wanted perfect. Anything less than that wouldn’t do.
A perfect world for him would be his family alive and well, their territory thriving, a peaceful continent and that person with him, by his side.
And Cale was prepared to do whatever it took to make such a thing reality. Even if he had to dance to the god of death’s tune.
The estate was quiet as Cale walked through, his feet leading him through the halls on autopilot. His home was mourning. From the looks of his study and the memories of his body; his mother, Jour, had passed away not too long ago. Now, the coming hurdle was to make sure the Golden Turtle could keep standing until his father remarried. Deruth...his father—a beta with a resolve as steadfast as a turtle shell to those outside of the family, that crumpled like wet paper when it came to his loved ones—the one who had given him everything and nothing at the same time in his original life. Someone he hadn’t properly talked to in decades. Cale had long outgrown and outlived Deruth, multiple times. It felt odd to think about the disparity in his body and mind. Still, Cale’s feet had brought him to the count’s study, where Deruth was most likely burying himself in work and grief at the moment.
Once upon a time, his father’s unwillingness to look him in the eye had scarred his heart.
Now, however, Cale understood.
Far too well.
(“Count Henituse, forgive me for overstepping, but I’ve noticed you never seem to...be comfortable around Choi Han,” Rosalyn, the red-haired alpha mage from the heroes’ party had started talking to him. She wasn’t being patronizing or baiting him into a reaction—many nobles in their cushy cowardice had plenty to say about so many unmated and volatile alphas so close together while leading a battlefield—it was pure curiosity, true to her nature as a mage. “Has he done something to upset you? If you don’t feel comfortable telling him your troubles, I can mediate between the two of you.”
Ah.
Right.
He didn’t get beaten up this time around. The god of death had brought him back right to the night before that incident.
Choi Han and he were getting along in this lifetime.
At least, there was no reason for any animosity between them. The war didn’t allow for such a thing. The soldiers’ morale would be affected if the kingdom’s heaviest hitters couldn’t get a grip and started infighting.
...
Animosity, huh.
The petty anger and unresolved grief from his original life no longer meant anything to him. Back then he was just parading as an arrogant alpha with drinking problems to uplift Bassen—that incident had been a slip of the mask he placed on the grief he held for his first mother. He’d already lost so much more afterward.
Now, it was nothing more than a drop of water in the sea of warring against a lunatic.
“I have no problems with Choi Han,” Cale said.
Rosalyn’s eyes widened in a way that told him she was genuinely surprised by his answer.
“...Is it that hard to believe?”
“Well...yes. It actually is,” she sighed, frowning lightly, “Your scent, it...burns through the blank face you present. If there truly is nothing between the two of you, why do you keep staring at the back of Choi Han’s head as if he’s a ghost?”)
Like father, like son, he mused.
Cale stared at the doors to his father’s study. His fist had paused right in front, hovering before the wood, ready to start rapping against the door to announce his presence. Right now, the entire county was mourning the death of Jour. Perhaps that’s why the god of death had brought him back now instead of at an earlier time—Cale now had plenty of opportunity to weaponize this grief for himself—to formulate a plan to gain more power early on.
Huh.
Should he throw a tantrum to play up the dramatics of his act?
After all, who can refuse the requests of a child in mourning?
Certainly not Deruth.
...
Well then—
BAM!
“Father,” Cale had brazenly slammed the doors open, “I wish to speak with you.”
“C, Cale…!” Deruth rose from his seat, clearly shaken by his interruption. The study reeked of grief and bitter wine bordering on rot. “I, is something the matter? I’m—I’m afraid I don’t have the ability to spend time with you right now—”
“I want to go to church.”
“—been swamped with work—huh?”
“The temple of the god of death,” Cale said, “I want to go there.”
“What? Cale why would you…”
“Father.” Cale stepped forward and placed his hands on the desk. “Mother is dead—” he ignored Deruth’s flinch to push out his own pheromones and emphasized the hope in his scent, “—so that means I can be closer to her if I go to a temple of death, no?” Cale made sure to widen his eyes and stand on his tiptoes for full effect. “If I pray hard enough at a temple, she might come back to spend time with me, right?”
Understanding dawned on Deruth. A flash of hurt passed through his gaze before he squeezed his eyes shut. He forced out a silent breath. “Y, yes, of course Cale. I—we can—you can go to the temple and...and spend time with your...mother that way.”
Cale smiled brightly. “Thank you, father!”
He needed to converse with the god of death as soon as possible. The regressions were not perfect. Even for a god, it impossible to recreate every choice, every action and every thought the people in the world had ever had. The lacking presence of a playmate told Cale enough about the beginning of this timeline. His mother had never introduced Cale to his first love in this life.
The sooner he knew which and whose fates had changed, the sooner Cale could devise a plan to deal with the White Star.
“I’ll...tell Ron to prepare the carriage and some servants to accompany you, then,” Deruth said. His grip on his pen tightened. “Cale...how...no, when did you start thinking about going to the temple of death?”
“Hmm,” Cale seemed to absentmindedly trace patterns in the wooden desk with his finger. How convenient his father asked. “It just came up suddenly,” he said, smiling brightly. Now, so he could lay down the groundwork. “I don’t know why, but I got this urge to go there—gasp!—do you think it’s mother’s way of telling me to go talk to her, father?”
“A sudden urge…?”
“I’ll go and prepare myself for the trip!” Cale hopped away. “I’ll make sure to tell mother lots of stories while visiting!”
“C, Cale—wait…!” Deruth’s hand reached into the air uselessly as he watched Cale run off. He sank back into his seat. “...A calling to go to the temple of death?”
The ride to the temple wasn’t noteworthy. As usual, the servants and soldiers from the Henituse were nothing but efficient and loyal. They made sure to keep Cale safe on the road and the few servants who followed him through the temple made sure no one but the priests could talk with him. Ron included.
Cale looked around for a bit before he tugged on Ron’s sleeve. “I want a private room. I don’t want anyone to interrupt me talking with mother.”
“Ah, I’m unsure if that’s wise—does the young master know how to pray?” the priest asked. They were clearly unhappy with the idea of leaving a child completely unsupervised in a place of worship.
Ron pulled out a small pouch filled with coins—the funds Deruth had given in case Cale desired something—and that was that.
Cale sighed as he stared at the empty prayer room. His servants were patiently waiting outside. Ron was most likely listening in, but that was fine. It was for safety and on his father’s order. Besides, there was nothing to eavesdrop on for the servant.
Cale clasped his hands together and knelt on a soft cushion at the foot of a statue depicting the cloaked figure of the god of death. Unlike the Holy Maiden or Saint, Cale needed to gain his power directly from the god of death due to his regression.
He started his prayer—a thing he could do in his sleep at this point—and waited for the god to reach out.
‘Cale Henituse,’ the god of death began, ‘will you accept my blessing? Will you cut out the rot in the name of Death? Will you prevent Despair from claiming this world?’
‘I will. Until my last breath is claimed and I return to the Eternal Rest. Until my existence is forfeit and Death has lost Meaning. Until I am discarded by both the World and mortality.’
‘Then, shall you become my emissary and accept your role as a blade?’
‘I shall.’
The god’s power began flowing into the room, the scent of death overpowering all else. Divine energy started flowing through Cale’s body—a cold, foreign, yet familiar sensation—easing up the leftover pains from his regression.
‘From this moment on, you—Cale Henituse—are a Knight of Death.’
The trip back to the estate was made in silence. When Cale had finally left the prayer room, several priests were being held back by his servants. It was obvious something of importance had happened while he had been praying. Unfortunately for the priests, Cale did not care for their attempts to fish for more information—especially now that he, by technicality, outranked them all—and simply deflected their questions and flattery with the ease and nonchalance any clueless young master had.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about—I wanted to talk to mother, but instead I heard someone else’s voice. It was sooo disappointing! And annoying!” Cale sighed, dramatically and loudly. He sniffed as he stomped his foot. “Ron! I want to go home! This trip was useless!”
“Young master wait—please tell us what that voice said—”
Ron blocked the priest’s way with a sharp smile. “The young master wishes to return to the estate. It would be best for you to let him.”
By the time Cale was back in his room, he was certain Ron had a whole slew of reports to make to his father. He wasn’t worried about whatever conclusions Ron and his father were going to draw. The groundwork had been laid down. As long as even a single seed could start sprouting, then Cale could carefully maintain whatever rumors that would bloom from the gossip about him. The unneeded would be nipped in the bud and the worthwhile could grow.
A trashy persona was fine, but it gave him nothing in terms of political power. However, a trashy young master with ties to the church of death? Someone capable of conversing with that very god? Now that was something interesting to keep an eye on.
Deruth could keep the rumors quiet within the Henituse territory, but nothing could be done about the rumor mill running amok within the temple. It was the perfect fuel for the temple of death to gain power once more with them lacking a Saint unlike the church of the sun. Cale had no doubts his father was going to do everything possible to keep him away from the church’s grasp—which in turn would give Cale enough time to hone his swordsmanship until he was capable enough to step onto the board as a pawn, one valuable enough to change the political landscape.
From what Cale could recall, the Empire’s Holy Maiden and Saint would die early. Whether through a coup or a targeted attack—one of the two would die from dead mana poisoning and leave the other behind. With the strongest source of divine energy incapacitated or dead, the threat of dead mana would cause an uproar during the war. The paltry powers of the priests from the church of the sun were nowhere near enough to prevent people from succumbing to dead mana poisoning.
That was why Cale and Kage had become key figures in the war.
Still, even with their combined powers, it was difficult to keep the casualties low. There had just been too much dead mana to purify.
Cale had to prevent the deaths of the sun god’s Saint and Holy Maiden. If he managed to come in contact with them, and discover why or how they were going to be assassinated, he could devise a plan to save them and bring them to his side.
The pride and joys of the Mogoru Empire were all corrupt. Whether it was the church of the sun that had forsaken their teachings in order to amass wealth or the Bell Tower’s inhumane experiments or the Imperial Family’s ties to the White Star—all of it needed to be torn down.
But first things first, Cale needed to restart his swordsmanship lessons.
The rumors were running wild.
Though no one inside the estate was gossiping, Cale knew that the rumors about his possible ties to the church of death were a source of trouble for Deruth. The silence about the gossip was the loudest proof. There were subtle jabs here and there about Cale’s opinions and thoughts from servants and guards alike about the church of death, but he deflected all of them with ease. Even his father had asked him about ‘experiencing any strange sensations’ but that conversation had died just as quickly.
Courtesy of Cale, of course.
His status as the center of attention within the circles of the aristocracy was pushed to the back of his mind as he focused on regaining his former swordsmanship skills. His teachers praised him for being quick on the uptake. His adult mind thought of it as embarrassing. His younger body basked in the praise.
The weeks passed, and before Cale realized, his father had met Violan.
Their courtship progressed just as steadily as it had in other regressions. Cale didn’t mind. As much as it hurt to admit, he had spent more time with Violan as his mother than he had with Jour.
Back before Cale had been born, Deruth and Jour had met at the Academy. It had been a longstanding courtship. Their marriage had long been coming from the very moment his parents had met. There were plenty of other nobles who turned up their nose at their arrangement—an alpha from a fallen aristocracy entering matrimony with a beta from one of the wealthiest families in the kingdom?—the pair had been brutally scrutinized and gossiped about for ages until Cale had been born. The rumors eventually died out, and any mentions of Jour’s maiden name and family was erased until only the image of a perfect couple and their child remained.
Then, when Jour died and Violan entered the picture, the focus of rumors shifted to her. There were plenty of things to be said about a beta with a ‘commoner background’ marrying into a noble family—becoming the Lady of the territory, even—and the extended family descended onto her and Bassen like vultures. Cale took up the task of redirecting the rumors to himself, and became a trashy lout to give Violan and Bassen grace.
The talks behind his father’s back, the criticisms Violan would face, the bullying Bassen was going to experience—Cale would make sure none of it would harm them.
“Cale, will you permit me to marry Violan?”
Cale blinked. “Permit…?”
Deruth folded his hands together on his desk. His health appeared to have had an improvement after he met lady Violan. “I understand if it feels sudden. Or if you don’t know what to feel,” his father said, “which is why I want to ask you to...get to know Violan and her son, Bassen, a bit better.”
“You want me to get to know them better…?”
“It’s an important decision for the both of us, and I…” Deruth paused, “...I don’t want you to feel like you’re being backed into a corner. In these past few weeks, I’ve...come to realize that, despite our turtles’ sturdy shell, it might not be enough to protect you from all that can harm you in this world.”
“So I want you to give Violan and Bassen a chance. On your own terms.”
“Is...is there any need for my permission?” Cale asked, dumbfounded. His opinion on their marriage had never been needed before. Cale had gotten used to Deruth and Violan being a couple as fact.
A wry smile formed on his father’s face. “Cale, you might not have noticed but,” he said, “your scent has gone mute. You no longer show your emotions to us.”
…!
Cale hadn’t noticed at all.
“I understand it’s a brazen request but—”
“Father.”
Deruth stared at him. A myriad of emotions were in his father’s gaze. A myriad more than Cale could remember from his original life. Perhaps, if he had been several decades younger, maybe then he would’ve been ecstatic about this turn of events. That young, naive mind of his would have found closure in it. That child would’ve been able to pry open the inner workings of their family and fix up his own broken pieces with the answers he’d find—if he had been the one to be asked. Alas, Cale had long grown past such grievances.
Even so, the fact that—in this life—his father had taken the time to look back to Cale...
“It’s not that I’m avoiding Violan or Bassen because of discomfort, father.” Cale smiled. It was a soft smile. One that showed the sincerity in his words and thoughts. “Bassen, well, I adore Bassen—the thought of him becoming my dongsaeng is something I’d love. And I can tell that lady Violan is a good mother from how she’s raised him.”
“So you would accept them into our family?”
“I already think of them as part of it.”
“So there’s no need for you to hesitate on your decision, father.”
Ron Molran—the head of a fallen assassin family and someone who had fled the Eastern Continent with his son in the hopes of laying low and living a peaceful life until the time was right to enact revenge. Someone he had once looked up to as a second father. Someone who had originally left him. Cale didn’t blame the man. He would have made the same choice if their positions had been reversed. What use was it to stay and care for an unruly and nuisance of a man-child if the scent of danger approached the horizon? The better choice had been to leave. And so Ron had. With Vicross and Choi Han.
In the past, Cale had resented him for those choices.
Later on, when they crossed paths again because of the war, Cale had grown to understand those very choices.
Their relationship did not regain its former stability, but, Cale had learned to let go of the resentment he held.
Then, the regressions happened, and Cale never experienced Ron leaving the territory. At least not as suddenly and quietly as he had in Cale’s original life.
Right now, however, none of those things had happened yet. The timeline was too far back for Ron to decide leaving was the best option for him and his son. At the moment, he was still the no-nonsense servant who followed orders as perfectly and efficiently as possible—along with an obsession of maintaining his daggers in top-form—and someone who saw Cale as nothing more than a puppy young master who had yet to learn how to properly sink its teeth into prey.
Cale was going to shatter that conception as thoroughly and methodically as possible.
If there was one thing he knew about Ron Molran, it was that the servant knew how to keep his mouth shut and perform unsavory tasks without leaving a trace. And, as long as he was interested enough—Ron was willing to turn a blind eye and forgo his reports to Deruth.
“Lady Violan and Bassen will be criticized by the extended family, and many other nobles, won’t they?”
Cale watched as Ron silently continued cleaning up the refreshments. The calm stillness in Cale’s study remained present. He kept scribbling on his paper, as a normal, bored and innocently oblivious child would.
“Ron.”
“Yes, young master?”
“My teachers are in need of change,” Cale said as he wrote down and scratched out several names, “but compared to me—a child who knows nothing of the world—they know how to talk themselves into circles just well enough to keep their positions even though their tongues should be ripped out for talking down on the matriarch of this family.”
The soft clink of a cup shattered the silence in the study.
“So I started thinking,” Cale said, “what would I need to do to get rid of them?”
Ron stood before his desk, the picture-perfect image of an intrigued listener.
Cale smiled. “Would you like to know what I thought of, Ron?”
Cleaning house wasn’t a fussy affair. All it took was a few acts with Cale ‘getting hurt physically in a fit of rage by his teachers’, dredging up old ledgers—courtesy of Ron’s skills—to prove corruption and several acts of embezzlement, and a teensy tiny bit of pulling on Deruth’s heartstrings. And in no time, the rot had been cut out.
Cale was quite pleased.
He smiled to himself as Ron placed a fresh cup of tea on his desk. The silence stretched on as he enjoyed some cookies.
“Was it an amusing affair to you, Ron?”
The servant inclined his head. “This Ron was thoroughly entertained with your acting, young master. It has been a while since I’d last hunted in such a way.”
Crunch. Crunch.
“You aren’t going to ask anything?”
“This Ron shall refrain—it had been this servant’s own misconceptions that lead to surprise, after all.”
Crunch. Crunch.
“Heh, ‘cause you thought of me as a harmless puppy, no?”
Ron smiled. “It is difficult to be intimidated with those crumbs on your cheeks, young master.”
Ugh.
Screw Ron and his insistence on seeing him as a puppy.
Well, that view of him was going to change in the future once the war started.
Cale wiped off the crumbs and dusted his hands. He waved the servant closer. “Since you helped me with this, shall I reward you with a secret?” he grinned, “It’s something everyone’s been dying to know.”
Hah. Good one.
“Color this Ron intrigued.”
“I’m planning on doing something very, very fun in the future, Ron,” Cale said, “and if you keep this secret, I’ll let you help me render an entire kingdom speechless.”
The young master and servant pair smiled.
Despite all the things going well for Cale, there were still plenty of things that caused him trouble. The god of death—to single him out for the express purpose of calling him a pain in the neck—was the biggest contributor to his dismay for the world. Whether the god would contact him again with good or bad news was entirely dependent on the god’s competency, and, due to the major screw ups from the past regressions, Cale’s faith in him had broken past rock bottom. The bar was in the underworld.
So when Cale felt the telltale sign of a stinging pain in his head, he had been prepared for the worst.
He was alone in his study, with no one around to needlessly worry about any strange or sudden behaviors from their young master. Cale sighed and leaned back into his chair.
‘Weston City, two weeks from now, afternoon. You will find your greatest ally there.’
‘The past futures are yours. Provocations can revive repressed memories—do not let the White Star gain access.’
‘Two allies from beyond this world will lend you their assistance. They work for me. You are not meant to cross paths.’
‘The god of balance has run out of patience. This is your last chance, Cale Henituse.’
The ringing in Cale’s ears finally stopped. He tightly squeezed his eyes shut. His last chance. The final regression. Either he killed the White Star before the lunatic attained godhood, or the world was going to end. For certain, this time.
He took in a deep breath.
He had gotten so, so close last time. He could do it again. Go even further than the last regression and finally put the White Star in a permanent grave.
Cale breathed out.
...
Damn gods.
No matter. It was about time Cale visited his mother’s grave anyway.
If Cale were to be fully honest, he didn’t remember the last time he visited his mother’s grave without the purpose of taking the Ancient Power she had left behind for him in it. There weren’t many moments that had allowed him to ruminate on his feelings, nor the grievances he held for her. The war took priority over grief. Still, faced with her grave—new and just as pristine as it was going to be even in a week, a month or years—Cale couldn’t ignore the pang in his chest nor the steady souring of his scent. It had been decades. Lifetimes, even. And he was still that small child who couldn’t process that his mother was never coming back.
The traced the letters on her grave. Were the engravings the same as they had been in his original life? Did details like these change, even if they were insignificant in the eyes of the gods? Would Cale even notice? Could he even notice if anything had changed? He’d already lived through three lifetimes. Who’s to say it wasn’t Cale who had changed the most out of everyone who had been revived over and over without notice?
Jour would have been fascinated. Cale was certain of it.
Even though the Thames family had long fallen, his mother had still kept whatever research she managed to salvage and even furthered the theories in the time she had been alive. With her Ancient Power, she had even managed to peek at Cale’s fate. Whenever he took the remaining half of her Ancient Power, her diary had contained many, many messages for him. He had never read through the diary in full focus. The grief had been too much at that point. Freshly brought back from the dead and covered in dirt from desecrating his mother’s grave—there was no way Cale could’ve properly recovered from that mental shock enough to process whatever letters were on the pages.
Now, Cale had a clear head. His body was much younger, but his mind was older and more mature. Even if he couldn’t control his own physiological reactions, Cale was capable of calming himself down to read the diary later down the line if he desired to. He had the time for that one indulgence—for that one weakness.
His hands trembled as he dug his fingers into the dirt. He took a deep breath. Breathed in. Breathed out. Cale began digging up his mother’s grave.
It was a methodical process. He didn’t waste any movements nor did he disturb more than was needed. By the time he reached the box with the diary, an hour had already passed. Or perhaps longer. Cale couldn’t tell. He didn’t care to keep track. He only had the single-minded focus to recover the diary and the Ancient Power.
His fingers embraced the diary.
The red tree sprouted from the soil. It was just as beautiful as the first time he’d laid eyes upon it.
“Oh my! What a cutie!”
His mother’s young voice filled his ears.
“With a face like that, you have to be my child, no?”
Cale smiled. “...Yeah. I am. It’s...good to see you, mother.”
“Ah, you must’ve inherited those tears from Deruth then! The perfect mix of both worlds. Our little treasure, right?”
The phantom of her hand pressed against his cheek, but couldn’t wipe away the tear that trailed down his cheek.
“...You must’ve gone through a lot.”
Cale laughed wetly. “You have no idea.”
“I hope my power will be of use to you. Even if the world forgets, I hope I can help you stay afloat. You don’t need to bear everything alone, alright?”
“…”
“Tell me, what’s your name, dear?”
“...Cale. You named me Cale, mother.”
“A wonderful name, as expected. My dear Cale, I don’t know what the future holds, but I hope you’ll regain all that you’ve lost.”
Jour’s ghost left, and Cale gained her Ancient Power.
The leaves swayed in the wind. They rained down on the soil, covering it in a sea of red.
“...I want to, mother. I really, really want to.”
“Noonim’s hair is a pretty shade of red too, even if I prefer a different one!”
Choi Han’s gaze burned into the side of his face.
Rosalyn was silent as she stared at the cell.
“...It was never Choi Han you saw walking away from you, was it, Count Henituse?”
In the far, far past of his original life, Cale Henituse had met his first and last love. Back then, his mother had introduced the two. He was the child of a recently passed baron and baroness who had been close friends with her. She had taken him in to protect him from the family’s infighting regarding his parents’ inheritance. There had been no proper will—no one expected the couple to die so soon and so young—leaving behind a shaky foundation for their yet-to-be-of-age heir and only child. Jour had treated it as a favor for her old friends.
She had told Cale to treat him with care, and that they would be spending a lot of time together from that day on. A playmate, as she called it. Someone he could depend on as a friend. Different from how Cale treated his family or the servants.
It was love at first sight for him.
Charcoal colored hair as soft as a crow’s feathers. Autumn tinted eyes, clouded with rain, yet sunlight still shone through every now and then. A demeanor that spoke of distant kindness—like a spruce tree sheltering birds from a winter snow. His hands spoke of a humble life despite his social standing. He looked like a doll. Or a fairy tale figure. He always embraced grief—as if it were his duty to do so. He smelled of bitter frost, of forests and of old aged wood.
Cale had declared his claim on him then and there.
They were going to get married in the future, and Cale would make him the happiest person in the world. He had promised that.
Innocent and naive. A promise made on a child’s whim.
...
Nothing came out of it, in the end.
Those bygone days went up in flames the moment his mother died. The funeral. The grief. The ever-growing distance between him and his father. That empty, empty feeling inside his chest.
And then…
And then...
Nothing.
So far, Ron had yet to find any concrete clues about the barony Cale had ordered him to look into. There was nothing about the family’s current structure or any inheritance struggles. The most notable intel he had found were bits and pieces about the barony’s steady decline and possible bankruptcy. Had that been the case in past regressions? Cale...hadn’t paid much attention to the barony after his mother’s death. It sure came back to bite him, now.
He pushed the matter aside for later. Two weeks had passed. It was about time Cale went into the city to find this supposed ‘greatest ally’ the god had guided to Weston. The god of death hadn’t given him many clues, but Cale figured he’d be able to sense the residual traces of divine energy on whoever he was meant to find.
Ron accompanied him on an otherwise unassuming walk. Though the servant had been clued in on a few details, he hadn’t been told everything. Cale knew he was holding his tongue. There were plenty of questions to be asked and concerns to be raised—all which went unvoiced. Both Cale and Ron knew those things were unnecessary. If the servant wanted to back out, he would do so without a moment’s notice.
The pair walked through the streets. There was nothing noteworthy. They passed by bakeries, bars and other various shops. The clock struck. It had become afternoon. Cale approached the seedier parts of the city. Ron followed suit.
There, in front of a bar, Cale found the god of death’s traces. He was busy sweeping the street in front of a rundown bar. Cale’s steps slowed until he stood in front of the person the god had brought to him.
Black hair unlike anyone else in the kingdom. Reddish-brown eyes the same shade as his. His skin mottled with various scars. He looked frail and skittish—like a stray cat ready to bite. He looked nothing like the buried dream Cale had abandoned in another lifetime.
In fact, he looked confused at Cale and Ron’s presence in this part of Weston City.
But that scent.
That frost-like quality, the pine and spruce, that ancient wooden undertone—
Cale could recognize that scent anywhere.
In any life.
In any world.
The god of death had brought Roksu back to him.