Chapter Text
“Cale, you must attend the Academy this year.”
“Alright.”
“I know you don’t—huh, what?” Lord Deruth blinked, once, twice , as if his mind struggled to process an impossibility. He patted his ears lightly, suspecting a fault in his hearing.
As if understanding his father's disbelief, Cale repeated, calm as ever, “I said, I’ll attend the Academy this year.”
“... Cale? A-Are you serious, son?”
Cale’s gaze remained flat. “Isn’t that what you asked of me?”
“Ah, of course, of course! You’re right! You’ll attend the Academy this year!” Deruth wiped the slight dampness from the corner of his eyes—an action that nearly made Cale roll his eyes. "I'll write a confirmation letter to the Academy right away. You may return to your chambers."
“Understood. I shall take my leave.”
After a small bow, Cale turned and quietly exited his father's study.
Before the door closed, he caught a glimpse—his father's brilliant smile, and the way he dabbed his nose with a handkerchief.
He’s overreacting again , Cale thought. Yet, the faint curve lifting his own lips betrayed him.
***
Second chances were never something he had dared to believe in.
The thought alone had never brushed the edge of his mind.
And yet—when Cale opened his eyes, he found himself in a room long lost to him: his childhood bedroom, the sanctuary he had so often yearned for.
It took long, silent minutes before his mind accepted that this—this was no dream.
A miracle?
No matter how hard he pinched his cheeks, deep enough to bruise, he did not wake.
This is real.
Even the startled face of Ron when he entered, the gentle touch as he applied ointment to Cale’s bruised skin—it all felt achingly, painfully real.
Real.
This was all real.
And his family ….
Were they ... truly alive?
Cale remained mute, even as Ron helped him change into fresh clothes.
He walked silent corridors, lined with familiar faces—servants who watched him with wary eyes, mingled with concern as they noticed his sudden quietness and the mark on his cheek, a wound he himself had inflicted—but none of them knew.
The dining hall—the only place where his family gathered—lay just beyond the grand door.
When it opened, Cale nearly fell to his knees.
There they were.
His father, younger and full of vigor, seated proudly at the center. His stepmother, her hair pinned in its familiar, graceful coil—stern-faced, but with a heart so gentle Cale had once wept for it.
His beloved siblings—Basen and Lily.
Basen, still whole, still standing tall, his legs unbroken by fate. Lily, sweet Lily—still alive, her shy, wide-eyed stare as endearing as ever.
“Cale?”
The voice of his father pulled him from the whirlpool of memory. Cale blinked twice—this voice that had haunted his dreams was now crystal clear.
Not a dream.
Real.
“My goodness, Cale, are you alright? What happened?” Deruth was on his feet, reaching for him with a trembling hand, cupping Cale’s cheek with fatherly tenderness.
So warm.
It feels different when Cale hugged his cold corpse back then.
"I’m fine," Cale forced the words out, keeping his voice from quivering.
"You look pale," Violan said, her hands folded tightly in her lap, eyes sharp with worry. "Are you sure?"
Cale dropped his gaze. "...Yes. I’m fine."
"You sure?" Deruth asked again, placing a palm against Cale’s forehead, feeling for fever "Perhaps you should rest a little more. I'll have Ron bring your breakfast to your room."
It’s a good idea, actually.
Cale nodded, afraid that if he lingered longer, the dam of tears would break.
Two decades.
Twenty years of battling, of surviving.
At eighteen, Basen had lost a leg. At twenty, war devoured Henituse’s land. His parents fell on the battlefield. Lily ... sweet Lily was stolen away by the Alchemists. Basen followed soon after.
At twenty years old, Cale has lost everything except his life .
Two decades, Cale fought alone, surrounded by the ruins of everything he had once loved. Until he reached fourty.
Haunted by regret.
Each night tormented by memories of a life lost.
And then—
When he believed the eternal death had finally claimed him—
He opened his eyes to a miracle.
Alive.
He comes back to the past, in his kid self.
Fourteen years old once more.
***
Red.
The color of his hair.
The color that flooded the ground, blood, that drowned the screams around him—his own voice among them, swallowed by the chaos.
Red.
He loathed it.
He loathed himself.
Red, red, red, red, red, red, red, red.
Blood.
He was sick of it.
Everything he loved was dead. The war had stolen his future, had torn away his happiness.
He screamed again—but underwater, as if his voice could not pierce the surface.
Help ....
Someone, anyone ....
Help me.
Cale Henituse jolted awake, chest heaving, breath ragged. He stared around wildly, his sclera tinged with crimson.
His room.
His old room.
Was this ... truly a dream?
Rushing to the oval mirror resting near the wardrobe, his heart pounded as he gazed at the reflection—
A boy.
Fourteen.
His trembling hands gripped the mirror.
A dream? Reality?
He needed proof.
Pain.
He needed pain to anchor him.
PRANG.
The mirror shattered under his hand. Grabbing a shard, he stabbed it into his left arm. Pain seared through him.
Not enough.
More.
Red, red, red, red, red, red, red, red.
Blood pooled around him.
The redhead collapsed to the floor.
Pain.
It hurt.
But was it real?
Was this dream, or reality?
He could not tell.
What if it was all an illusion, a cruel joke, and when he woke, he would find himself again on that endless battlefield, alone, dying for nothing?
Tears spilled from his eyes, soundless sobs racking his small frame. His throat was dry, his head pounded like it would split open.
He was tired.
So tired.
Maybe ... just a little rest.
Just for a moment.
Maybe if this was a dream, he could at least rest a little before waking.
Please, let this dream never end, he prayed as he closed his eyes.
***
The third time he opened his eyes, it was still the same blue ceiling.
Three times.
Could a dream last this long?
“Young Master.”
Cale flinched, pain sparking behind his eyes.
"Slowly, Young Master," Ron said softly, his skilled hands massaging Cale’s temples.
Not only his head hurt—his arm was wrapped tightly in bandages, as were his palms.
“Please drink,” Ron urged, tilting a cup to his lips. The cold water was heaven against his parched throat. "How do you feel?"
"Mmh," Cale murmured, frowning slightly. “What happened?”
Ron paused before answering.
"You were found unconscious, with deep wounds on your arm."
… Ah.
… Ahhh.
Not a dream.
It’s not a dream.
His heart hammered as realization hit him.
Ron’s expression remained serene, but worry gleamed in his eyes. "I will inform the Lord. Please, rest. My son will bring food soon."
A pause, then—
"...And please, do not leave the bed," Ron added with a slight smile.
Cale shivered at the threat hidden behind that smile, nodding weakly.
When Ron finally slipped from the room, Cale exhaled shakily.
“So ... this isn’t a dream.”
He covered his face with his good arm.
"I’m truly back."
No matter how tightly he pressed his arm to his face, a few stubborn tears slipped out.
He bit his lip.
His body trembled.
He’s back.
This second chance was real.
***
"Cale!" The door swung wide, and Deruth rushed in, relief flooding his face.
He was about to barrage his son with questions, when he noticed Cale’s tear-streaked cheeks. He dropped to his knees at the bedside, hesitating, then gently stroked Cale’s hair.
Cale didn’t push him away.
“Cale …,” Deruth said softly, “what’s wrong?”
Still crying, Cale shook his head.
"If you don’t tell me, son, I won’t know," Deruth said, voice tender.
Those words struck deep into Cale’s heart.
Yes.
One of his greatest regrets from his past life—never speaking his heart out, keeping silent.
"I…," Cale croaked, "I had a nightmare."
"A nightmare?" Deruth repeated.
Cale nodded. "I dreamt ... so terribly that I couldn’t tell what was real anymore. I thought ... I thought all of this was just a dream."
"Oh, my dear Cale…," Deruth’s gaze softened unbearably. "This is real. I’m real. I’ll always be here."
And somehow, Cale believed him. For now, he clung to those words like a drowning man to driftwood.
He slowly uncovered his face and gazed up at his father.
Deruth smiled, still stroking Cale’s hair with infinite patience.
"It’s alright," he whispered, "everything will be alright."
Even knowing how shattered the future may yet be—
“Rest well, my son. You can sleep as much as you want. And when you wake up, father will still be here. It’s a promise.”
For now, Cale believed.
Everything ... would be alright.