Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.

Chapter Text

"Good morning, Young Master.” The first thing to greet him upon opening his eyes was Ron's chilling smile, eerie yet somehow familiar. In his left hand, he carried a tray bearing a cup of lemon tea. "Please," Ron said, offering the cup with a slight bow.

Cale took the cup into his hands, gazing for a moment at the reddish-brown liquid swirling within, before downing it all in one swift gulp.

He fought with all his might not to grimace at the sharp sourness of the tea.

Meanwhile, Ron smiled in clear satisfaction. At times, Cale couldn't help but find his personal servant rather terrifying. "How are you feeling today, Young Master?" Ron asked, retrieving the empty cup from Cale’s hand. His eyes, growing cloudy with age, lingered intently on the bandages still wrapped around Cale’s left arm.

"... Fine," Cale answered tersely, masking his expression with practiced ease.

It had been three days since the incident, and every morning without fail, Ron would come bearing a cup of lemon tea, asking the very same question. Cale knew well—Ron knew he detested sour drinks.He also knew Ron was doing this on purpose.

But ... it wasn’t like Cale could refuse when faced with that chilling smile.

… Since when did I become afraid of Ron? Cale wondered silently.

No—fear wasn't quite the right word.

From the future, Cale remembered the truth: Ron and Beacrox had once been part of a family of assassins. Later, they had joined the group of heroes, and then...

Ah.

Ahhh.

That’s right.

Cale lowered his gaze.

Eventually, they would leave the Henituse family behind.

"Young Master?"

"Uh." Cale blinked himself back to the present. "Yes?"

"I shall head to the kitchen to prepare your breakfast," Ron said, still wearing that same chilling smile. "Is there anything specific you would like to eat?"

"... Not really," Cale replied. "Anything is fine."

"Oho, but this old man’s thinking skills are quite poor. Please, state your preference clearly, Young Master."

… Is he being serious right now?

Honestly Cale didn't know what he wanted to eat. During the war, he hadn't had the luxury of choosing his meals; even eating once a day had been considered a blessing.

"Uhm." He furrowed his brows, digging through memories of meals long before the war, back when wealth surrounded him. "Mmh ... steak?"

Ron raised an eyebrow. "Steak for breakfast?"

To be fair, it was the only luxurious meal that came to Cale’s mind. He couldn’t exactly say, "I want rabbit stew and milk," his usual diet during wartime.

"How about steak for lunch instead? Your stomach needs something gentler this morning, Young Master."

Cale scratched his head. "Then ... how about whatever Father is having?"

Since Deruth had ordered him to rest, Cale hadn't set foot outside his room for three days.

Ron had been bringing every meal directly to him.

Well ... spending days doing nothing and avoiding physical activity wasn’t so bad after all.

Ron sighed deeply. "Very well. I shall take my leave."

"Humph." Cale leaned his head back against the pillow, staring blankly at the ceiling as Ron exited the room. "... Bored. I guess I’ll just take a bath."

He hopped off the bed, grabbing fresh clothes and a towel before making his way leisurely toward the bathroom. Slowly, he unraveled the bandages covering his left arm and right hand.

Faint scars still traced his skin, but they were healing—thanks to his father, who had practically emptied the town’s supply of high-grade healing potions just for him.

The instant his skin touched the water, he shivered.

Cold—but refreshingly so.

During the war, bathing had been a luxury reserved for rare river crossings or brief respites at camp.

He quickly scrubbed himself down with soapy water, rinsed, and dried off with a towel.

Five minutes.

Five minutes was all it took for him to finish.

Even the lowest-ranked nobles would spend at least half an hour in their baths.

Dressed now in black trousers and a crisp white shirt, Cale studied his reflection in the mirror. His complexion looked noticeably brighter.

"Fuh." He let out a short breath, leaving the lacy tie at his collar undone—too much time spent on the battlefield had dulled his memory of how to properly wear it, and frankly, he couldn't be bothered to relearn right now.

When Cale stepped out of the bathroom, he found Ron standing at the doorway with a food trolley.

Ron’s face ... looked stunned?

It was the first time Cale had ever seen such an expression from him.

"Young Master?"

Yup.

It was definitely the first time Ron had blinked in disbelief.

Leaving the food trolley at the threshold, Ron knelt before Cale. With gloved hands, he deftly adjusted the undone tie at Cale’s collar. "... You took a bath?"

"Uh ... yeah? As you can see."

"But I haven’t heated the water yet."

Oh.

Right.

That was how nobles bathed.

How could he have forgotten?

Only yesterday, Ron had still been heating water for him.

"... It’s fine," Cale mumbled, offering the best excuse he could. "Really."

Ron sighed—a rare sound indeed.

Another first for Cale to witness.

"Next time, please wait until I prepare the hot water," Ron said, patting down Cale’s white shirt to smooth the wrinkles. "And ... allow me to help you dress as well."

Cale could hear Ron muttering an exasperated "Good grief" under his breath.

"Uh ... sure."

The whole situation felt embarrassingly awkward.

Ron returned to the trolley he had abandoned, while Cale made his way to the sofa. "My son prepared cream soup and toasted bread for you—just as the Lord had this morning," Ron said as he set the dishes neatly on the table.

"Alright."

Cale ate quietly.

Ron stood beside him, silently observing.

Truth be told, it all felt ... strange.

Only days ago, the eldest son of the Henituse family would have thrown plates, screamed he didn’t want to eat, smashed furniture, and caused all manner of chaos.

Seeing him now—so composed—was like witnessing someone possessed.

Cale Henituse felt both the same and completely different.

He had become ... more mature.

The look in his eyes was no longer that of a fourteen-year-old boy.

Ron couldn't help but wonder what had happened.

But no matter how he tried, he couldn’t guess.

What had the boy experienced in just a few short days?

He remembered that morning, finding Cale pinching his own cheeks hard enough to leave bruises ....

His eyes then—wide, frantic, as if fleeing from something ... or as if he had just escaped hell itself.

The second morning had been worse.

Ron opened the door to find Cale unconscious among shattered glass, blood staining the floor.

His old instincts roared to life.

At first, he thought it was an assassination attempt.

But soon enough, he realized—

The child had hurt himself.

It was complicated.

Even explaining it to Lord Deruth had not cleared the confusion clouding their faces.

Baffled.

Anxious.

Panicked.

Why had Cale hurt himself so terribly?

Was it depression?

What had he endured that Ron had failed to notice?

A nightmare, Cale had said.

A dream so terrible, he could no longer tell dream from reality.

What kind of nightmare could transform his rotten personality so drastically?

Even now, Ron still didn’t know.

"Ron."

Cale’s voice pulled him back to the present.

"May I go to the library?"

"Pardon?"

"I'm feeling bored," Cale said simply. "So I’m wondering if Father would allow me to visit the library, or if I should stay confined here."

"Ah. Actually, Lord Deruth was worried you might isolate yourself too much. Of course you may go."

"Alright." Cale resignedly sipped his lemon tea—again—wearing a grim expression. "Then it’s decided."

After breakfast, Cale headed straight for the library.

Ron promised to follow after he returned the dirty dishes—though Cale had said there was no need, the stubborn old man insisted.

Wandering the halls adorned with antique paintings and golden vases, Cale noticed that the number of servants avoiding him had lessened. Some even greeted him. Rumors had started to spread—that the eldest son had changed—and it was a pleasant rumor indeed.

***

Cale hadn’t expected to encounter Basen at the library.

"Hyung-nim!" Basen cried happily.

Cale offered only a small smile and a nod to Basen’s tutor.

"Young Master Cale, what a lovely surprise to see you here," said Maria, the Henituse family’s elegant tutor. "Are you here to join the class? Please, have a seat; we were just about to begin."

"Wait, I’m not—"

"Come on, Hyung-nim!"

Basen grabbed his arm, pulling him into a seat as Maria launched into the lesson.

… Not exactly what he had come for, but he supposed it would do.

It had been a long time since he'd attended a class like this.

Today's subject was Geography.

Beside him, Basen was already starting to nod off.

"Hyung-nim," Basen whispered sleepily, "why is this trade route so narrow? If they widened it, wouldn’t it be easier to reach more places?"

Basen pointed at various spots on the map.

"That’s because there are forbidden zones, Basen," Cale answered with a soft sigh. "See? Like the Dark Forest. We can’t pass through it because of the monsters. But I agree—the trade route could be better."

"Oho? Could you elaborate, Young Master?" Maria asked, raising an intrigued eyebrow.

"Uhm, well ... If a road were built across the northern hill, travel from Henituse territory to the Capital would be far easier. We wouldn’t have to cross the desert, where accidents are more likely. See here—beyond the hill is a grassland, much gentler for horse-drawn carriages. It would take time to build, but the long-term benefits are worth it."

Of course, this wasn’t something Cale thought up himself.

In the future, there had been a proposal to build such a road.

Sadly, the project was never completed—because of the war.

"Oh …," Maria narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. "You make an excellent point, Young Master. If the route began here ...."

"Yes, right from this point—"

Maria and Cale soon found themselves scribbling all over the map with their pens, tracing potential new routes from Henituse territory to the Capital.

Basen blinked in confusion.

He didn't understand a thing they were talking about—but one thing was certain:

Hyung-nim is amazing!

"Goodness, Young Master! Are you a genius?!" Maria clutched the ink-smeared map with sparkling eyes. "I must discuss this with the Lord. You're truly remarkable! How did you come up with such an intricate plan?!"

"Ah ... well. It was just ... a coincidence."

No way he could tell them he knew it from the future.

"Oh dear, it’s already lunchtime! I’ve kept you both too long." Maria rolled up the map, beaming. "Today's lesson ends here! No homework! See you tomorrow!"

And like a racehorse, she sped away.

"Hyung-nim is the best!" Basen shouted excitedly. "No homework! That’s so cool!"

"Basen …," Cale sighed, too tired to explain. He placed a hand atop his little brother’s head and offered a gentle smile. "Are you hungry? Let’s go eat together."

"Really? Yay!"

Cale had completely forgotten his original reason for visiting the library.

But sometimes … getting a little sidetracked wasn't so bad.

From the shadows, Ron, who had been quietly watching all along, chuckled softly—then slipped away to prepare their lunch.

Chapter Text

So many regrets weighed upon Cale's soul—Heavy as rusted chains clinking in the silent chambers of memory. If he dared to look back, he would ask himself the same question over and over again:

Why? Why did I choose to live as trash for ten long years?

Surely, there must have been a gentler path, a quieter way to make those vile noblemen accept his stepmother and half-brother.

And yet, Cale had taken the road soaked in thorns and ash, the path that hurt most.

Perhaps … that was all the young Cale could think of back then.

After all, he had still been just a kid, and kids often make offerings of themselves to shield the ones they love.

Now, Violan and young Basen were accepted—not merely tolerated, but welcomed into the very circles that once eyed them with contempt.

Shouldn’t that mean it was time for Cale to cast aside his wretched act?

And yet … he hesitated.

The mantle of head of household felt more like a crown of thorns than a badge of honor.

Basen—calm, intelligent, with a heart steady as stone—seemed far more suited for such a role.

If the boy desired it, Cale would not stand in the way. He can have that title.

Still …

Was it not rather impressive?

That he, Cale Henituse, had endured the masquerade of trash for ten whole years?

He gave a dry chuckle to the air around him.

No, it had not been a noble sacrifice.

No, it had never been enjoyable.

He had wasted a full decade building walls—cold, thick, impenetrable—between himself and his family.

If only he had known then.

If only he had seen what kind of war awaited them, how death would hunger for their names.

He would never have played the fool of being trash.

He would never have sealed himself in shadows.

"Hyung-nim!"

A gentle tug on his sleeve brought him back from the abyss of thought.

It was Basen—his eyes wide, his hand holding parchment.

"How do I solve this one?"

"Ah," Cale blinked, as though awakening from a half-forgotten dream.

He leaned closer, pointing to the scroll with a steadier hand.

"Look here. It starts like this …"

Yes.

The future had once been a curse, a thing he stumbled into blindly.

But not anymore.

Now that he knew what it held, not even a second would be wasted.

And so the household breathed differently these days.

The scent of change drifted through the halls like spring after winter.

"Hey, have you noticed?"

One maid whispered, flicking dust from the curtains with a feather duster.

"The Young Master ... he’s been acting strange lately."

"Which Young Master?"

The first rolled her eyes. "The eldest, of course. Who else?"

"Ah."

A nod of understanding.

"Yes. I’ve sensed it too. But … that’s not a bad thing, is it?"

No, it wasn’t.

Not bad at all.

The change in the air was not something to fear—it was something to embrace.

A breeze long trapped behind locked windows, finally invited in.

It wasn’t bad ...

Not until the wind carried whispers to the ears of other noble houses.

But that tale … that tale belongs to the days yet to come.

For now, Cale remained blissfully unaware of the trials that would cross his path.

All that mattered to him in this fragile moment was this—his family was near.

And that, in itself, was more than enough.

***

There was still one more thing he wished to do.

"Owa—Oea—Orabuni!"

Two tiny hands—warm and soft like newly risen dough—cupped his cheeks.

Cale found himself gazing into the sparkling eyes of a child, eyes as pure as morning dew upon flower petals.

Lily beamed.

"Play!" she demanded with the authority of a three-year-old princess in her own realm.

Cale let out a short, fond breath. A smile curled gently on his lips. "What does Her Little Highness wish to do today?" he asked, pinching her puffy cheeks with affectionate mischief.

"Hehe! Book!" She was only three—barely weaned from toddlerhood. Her tongue still stumbled over syllables, each word tasting new, like spring’s first bloom.

And yet, it only made her more endearing—a melody of joy that stirred something long-forgotten in Cale’s chest.

In his previous life, he had rarely found the time to spend with Lily.

Regret coiled in his stomach like a serpent.

He had missed this—this sweet season of Lily’s childhood.

It wasn’t that she wasn’t lovely as she grew older—she certainly was—but the sweetness of her early years was of a kind so delicate, so fleeting, it could only be preserved in memory or miracle.

"Orabuni? Are you mad?"

That startled him.

"Huh?" Cale blinked, pulled from his thoughts.

Lily furrowed her tiny brows with exaggerated effort.

"Because your eyebrows are like this!" She mimicked his serious face, brows drawn into a grumpy scowl.

Ah. He must have been lost too deeply in thought—his face unintentionally stern.

The realization drew a chuckle from Cale’s lips.

Warmth returned to his expression like the sun peeking through winter clouds.

This time, Lily blinked in surprise. "Orabuni!" she chirped. "You have to smile more! You look more handsome when you do!"

"Alright, alright," he replied, laughter still dancing in his voice.

He turned to the plush carpet of her playroom, where books lay scattered like colorful leaves in a storybook forest.

"Didn’t you say you wanted me to read you a book? Which one shall it be?"

"Ah! This one!"

She waddled on unsteady legs, lifting a book adorned with illustrations of a princess and prince dancing in a garden of flowers.

"Like Orabuni and Lily!"

"Yes," Cale replied softly, "just like Orabuni and Lily~"

Ah ...

If only time could be sealed in a crystal. He would love this moment to stretch into eternity.

***

And then, there was another thing—something buried deeper in his heart.

“Father.”

He stood now before the grand desk of the patriarch, his voice solemn like a knight at court.

Deruth Henituse looked up from his work.

A kind man with tired eyes lit up in a second when he saw his son. “Oh?” he raised both brows. “Speak, my son. What is it you wish for?”

Cale hesitated briefly, gathering his words like stones skipping over a still lake.

“I … would like to visit Mother’s grave.”

Clack.

The sound of a pen falling echoed unnaturally loud in the still room.

Cale blinked.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have been surprised.

His father had always been melodramatic when it came to emotional matters—and yet, even knowing this, he hadn’t expected tears to begin pooling so quickly in the old man’s eyes.

“Of course, Cale! Of course you may!”

“Uhm, Father—would you like a handkerchief?”

With awkward gentleness, Cale produced one from his pocket and offered it.

“My boy …!”

Okay, now that surprised him.

Deruth had risen from his chair and taken Cale’s shoulders in both hands, his grip trembling as his eyes grew red and puffy with emotion.

“Do you remember?” he asked, voice cracking. “Before your mother passed, she left something for you. Ah … you may not recall, you were sobbing so hard back then. I—we both were. But there’s a box. A small wooden one. I buried it behind your mother’s headstone. Maybe … perhaps, it is finally time for you to retrieve it.”

Cale froze for a beat.

What?

His thoughts scrambled, trying to piece together memories that no longer existed in this lifetime.

A box? He had never heard of any such thing in his past life.

Still, he nodded, quietly pressing the handkerchief to his father’s damp cheeks.

“I understand, Father. I’ll go there and retrieve it.”

“Good! Hiks—”

Yes.

It was time to leave.

As much as Cale loved his family,he truly wasn’t prepared to wrestle with his father’s overflowing tears any longer.

Not today … at least.