The laughter shattered the air like breaking glass... hollow laughter from two men unaware they stood on the edge of hell.
Those small footsteps made no sound. A shadow merged with the darkness, never touching the firelight. Only cold slipped through first. A cold not born from the night wind, but from something that had once died… and hadn't fully come back to life.
Kael emerged from the shadows like a whisper from a nightmare, wrapped in the body of a child.
He swung the rock with both hands—not like a child throwing, but like someone who had long been denied even the luxury of hesitation.
But his hands were small.
And the world does not make violence easy for a body that hasn't come of age.
The first strike didn't kill.
It only made the man grunt, stumbling forward.
The rock struck the back of his head but didn't hit hard enough to crush the skull.
Kael didn't back down.
He inhaled, then struck again. And again. The sound shifted—from dull thuds to cracks.
The man thrashed, but his body was too stunned to resist. Blood sprayed from the open wound as Kael smashed his temple.
Only after the fourth blow did the body collapse—twitching, then still.
The other man turned. Eyes locked.
"W-WHAT—"
He stood. But the second rock was already flying. It missed. Hit his shoulder.
But Kael was already running—not forward, but to the side. Circling. Like a wild animal that knows where its prey is weakest.
The man swung his fist—panicked. Kael ducked, dodged, then sank his teeth into the man's arm.
It wasn't meant to hurt. It was meant to confuse. To open a gap, like instinct chasing survival.
The pain staggered the man.
Kael grabbed another rock. Smaller, but sharp.
He stabbed it into the man's neck. It didn't pierce deep, but enough to tear the skin.
A scream.
Blood.
A large hand yanked Kael by the hair, trying to throw him off.
Kael let himself be dragged.
But just as the man lifted him high, ready to slam him into the ground—
Kael jammed his fingers into the man's eyes.
And the man's world collapsed into a scream.
He fell. Rolled. Clawed at his own face.
Kael climbed onto his chest.
And only then—the rock was used again.
One. Two. Three.
Until there was no more movement.
Until the body became just meat.
Until the rock broke.
That small hand trembled. But not from exhaustion.
The rock had split in two. Blood still clung to his fingernails.
Kael sat on the man's chest. What once was a man was now only a pile of wet flesh.
His breath came in gasps—not from fatigue, but because something inside him had cracked open.
Something strange. Foreign.
Not anger. Not sadness. Not relief.
Like an ember that never caught fire—but smoldered quietly, consuming him from within.
Like a rumble that didn't become sound.
His eyes stared at the shattered face beneath him, and his body felt light—dangerously so.
As if something inside him was laughing—but not with his mouth.
He touched the warm blood on his cheek. Not disgust. Not pride.
Just… confusion.
What is this?
Why is my heart beating like this?
Why is there a strange tremble in my chest—not like crying, but not laughter either?
He tried to recall his mother's face, charred and burning, his father's hand reaching out before being swallowed by the flames.
And that feeling grew stronger.
As if the world that had once been silent was now screaming.
As if the pain he could never release… finally had shape.
But he didn't know the name for that feeling.
He only knew—he wanted to feel it again.
More.
Deeper.
Sharper.
A voice from within him:
"My parents were burned alive. And the world said nothing."
"But this blood… this blood is the answer."
He stood between two corpses that never got the chance to regret. Blood soaked into the ground, mixing with the rain falling from a gray sky.
One man... was no longer breathing.
The other... was gone.
Kael turned his head. Footprints in the mud—rushed, retreating into the forest. Someone ran.
He didn't realize a coward might return with more men.
But Kael didn't move.
He didn't give chase.
Instead, he lowered his gaze, staring at the bloodied body before him. His eyes went blank, then slowly narrowed.
Something surfaced.
Not a sound.
Not an image.
More like a memory—but not his.
A scent—the burnt smell of meat stew. Not from this campfire. From a kitchen. From a home.
Then a number. "492."
A wooden shack, fragile walls, a rusted little window. Someone stood at the doorway. Not Kael.
He blinked.
His body trembled. Then the feeling came—not a memory... not his. But clinging to him, like fat in blood.
He clutched his head. It felt like a nail driving into his temple.
"...Hkgh…!" A short hiss escaped before blood trickled from his nose. He collapsed to the ground, knees buckling.
Heat. Pain. And worst of all... a foreign emotion trying to become his own.
"This... isn't mine..." he whispered, barely audible. "These… belong to the ones I killed."
Kael closed his eyes. Tried to trace the stream of memories, follow the branches of emotions creeping into his mind.
But this body—this body was too small. Too fragile.
His bones screamed. His nerves burned.
He could sense the immense power, like celestial wings hidden beneath skin and flesh, but... he couldn't fully summon it.
"It's like... one of my powers when I was still an angel…" he muttered, almost delirious.
"But... I can't use it freely..."
He looked at his hands again. Blood and wounds. Human flesh.
"…because this body... can't handle it."
Silence. Only the sound of rain and breathing.
Then something moved inside him. Not power. Not rage. But a decision.
His eyes opened—clear like unshaped steel.
His lips moved slowly.
"This body is too weak."
"I'll evolve it. Push it past its limits."
"Until it becomes like my former life… or even beyond."
Lightning flashed across the sky, revealing the silhouette of a child standing amidst mud, corpses, and rain,
...with resolve not meant for humans.
...with plans not meant for children.
...and with a void that hungered for meaning.
He looked up at the sky. The rain poured heavier, washing his body and the rock that was no longer sharp.
Silence. But not peace. A silence that follows the snatching of life—a silence that lingers like whispers from the dead.
From behind a bush, a trembling sound broke through.
*****
elira stirred.
The little girl half-crawled forward, her body bruised and blue, dried blood crusted at her temple. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps, like an animal that had barely escaped a snare.
Her eyes scanned the space—then stopped at the boy standing with his back to her.
He stood at the edge of the shadows, his face dark, hair drenched in rain. His hands soaked in blood, a sharp stone lying near his feet.
Elira bit her lip. Her body began to tremble, slowly, like a leaf realizing the wind was too cold to be a friend.
*****
Kael turned.
No smile. No empathy.
Only eyes that weighed… options.
Not between good and evil. But between useful or not.
Kael took a few steps away. One… two.
Because it wasn't his business. Because he didn't care. Because that blood was never meant for saving anyone.
But then he stopped.
"Humans... repay. That's what I saw in the village."
A hazy memory rose—his mother sharing sweet potatoes with neighbors. The old man who returned a week later with dried fish.
Words he heard from behind bamboo walls:
"Good people won't be left alone. The world will turn back to those who give…"
Kael closed his eyes.
"That child will feel indebted. Will depend on me. Like a fledgling to the first hand that feeds it."
And if that happened… he could plant a seed.
He could build something.
Not love. But a bond.
And no bond is stronger… than false safety amidst ruin.
Kael turned around. His steps slow, almost calm.
His face remained blank as he approached Tien. But in his eyes, something stirred—not kindness, but a thin veil covering the blades within.
He dropped the stone. A soft plop as it hit the muddy ground.
"Don't worry," he said quietly, his voice like the hush before a storm broke."
She stared at him. Her body was stiff, but she didn't run.
"I…"
Kael crouched slightly, until his face met hers.
"…was late."
"But I'm here now."
That was the sentence he once heard—a neighbor comforting his parents after their harvest failed.
A sentence that made his parents cry.
She cried too. Then her body gave in and dropped, trembling with each breath. Her sobs were small, broken by fear and relief tangled so tightly they couldn't be separated.
She clutched the edge of Kael's shirt.
Kael looked at his own hands. Felt the weight.
But it wasn't a burden.
It was a key.
He raised a hand, patting the girl's shoulder gently—a gesture he'd seen adults use to comfort frightened children.
He copied it.
And behind the pale mask of his face, his mind whispered:
"This child will be the foundation. She'll follow me. Trust me. Need me."
"The world doesn't need to know who I am. As long as she believes I'm her savior."
"And she… will be the first strand in the web I'll spin—one knot at a time. "
The world had carved into him—a wound with no meaning, no name.
So he would stitch a new meaning—using the wounds of others.
Kael looked at her, then gave a small nod—a simple gesture, one he'd seen his father do to calm his mother.
And she, still trembling, still blinded by tears,
returned that nod with a single word that would stick like a soft thorn in the fabric of his story:
"…thank you…"
****
The scent of iron and wet earth still lingered in the air as Kael sat down beside the girl. Her small body trembled, wrapped in a torn shirt and bruises that hadn't yet had the chance to fade. But the night had changed. Not because truth had triumphed—but because the hell that had borrowed a human face. had been replaced by a demon far more skilled at pretending.
Kael wiped the blood from her cheek with a ragged piece of cloth he had torn from one of the bandits' clothes. His hand moved slowly, gently.As if the blood on his hands had never been there to begin with. As if he were just an ordinary boy... who had arrived too late to save her.
The girl said nothing. She only looked at him, eyes filled with silent questions—fear, confusion, and something else… a quiet draw toward the calmness he radiated. Amid the chaos, he looked like the one rock that hadn't been swept away.
Kael stared back at her. And in his mind, a seed began to sprout.
"Trauma forges bonds faster than love ever could. When the world collapses, even a shadow can look like salvation."
He offered a small smile. Not wide, not fake. Just enough to seem human. Then he opened the leather pouch he'd taken from a bandit and pulled out a piece of stale bread.
"I know it's not much," he said, holding it out. "But it's enough to stay alive."
The girl reached for it slowly, like a stray cat unsure whether the hand was offering food... or a beating.
Kael watched her eat in silence, then leaned back against the rain-slick tree trunk. He rubbed the wound on his arm, but his thoughts were elsewhere.
"What's your name?" he asked, his voice flat—almost a whisper that expected no answer.
The girl hesitated, her breath catching on the remnants of a sob. Then, with a voice cracked but honest, she replied,
"My name is Elira."
Elira looked up, slowly. "W-what about you, big brother? What's your name?"
Kael paused. The question was simple. But it echoed.
Not because he didn't know the answer—but because the answer hadn't mattered in a long time. A name was just a symbol. And symbols could be rewritten.
"My name is Kael."
His tone was sincere—like it had been shaped by a loss far older than his body looked. But beneath it, his heart remained cold, calculated, and fully aware.
"My name will be the anchor in her mind. When she remembers who saved her, she will forget who destroyed her."
And in a world that had torn him apart, Kael had learned one thing: kindness could be shaped like a blade. He could sharpen it, slip it into soft flesh, and pull it back only when the wound was too deep to close.
The night softened. The rain had stopped, leaving behind steam that hovered over blood-soaked ground and the illusion of rescue.
Kael and Elira sat near the dying fire. She leaned against him, asleep, her head full of wounds and nightmares. He didn't move. He let her.
Meanwhile, in his mind, he kept repeating one sentence:
"Every protector is a potential ruler."
He didn't feel proud. Didn't feel guilty. He simply acknowledged: this was the fastest way to gain power—and to take revenge. And Elira… was just the first stone.
But even a player of pawns knows the game must be played carefully. Fake empathy had to be breathed gently, like a fire waiting for air.
Kael looked down, studying Elira's sleeping face. Those wounds... they were doors.
And he... was the key.
"I'll be the reason she survives. So that when the time comes... she'll give me her life."
Kael turned his head. His gaze pierced through the dark, through the night, through a future that had yet to take form.
In silence, he chose his role.
Not a victim. Not a survivor.
But the lead actor in a stage where pain, fear, and hope were just tools—and people were puppets, unaware of the strings being pulled.
And yet, even as he shaped tomorrow, the memory of that wooden house pulsed behind his eyes.
Number 492.
"Pretty sure that was the home of the one I killed."
Kael closed his eyes. And before sleep took him, he whispered a single sentence:
"Tomorrow... we go there."
"Maybe we can pass as kin—distant enough not to be questioned, close enough to be fed."
But he didn't say that to Elira.
He said it to himself.
****
And then, the morning arrived.
Their footsteps broke the suspended silence of the morning. Wet soil soaked into the soles of Kael's bare feet, but he didn't stop.
Elira followed quietly, her steps faltering now and then, but she didn't complain.
No one showed them the way.
No one confirmed that the house even existed.
But Kael knew the path.
Not because he'd ever been there.
But because something that didn't belong to him had left traces inside his memory.
Elira glanced sideways at him, her breath short. "Where… are we going, Brother Kael?"
Kael turned and smiled. "To a safe place."
The words were sweet—and that was the point. But inside him, there wasn't a single corner that felt at peace.
Only faint echoes—memories trying to break free, tethered by a body that was not their home.
"These memories… aren't mine.
But this body is starting to keep them as if they were.
If I keep killing… will I be filled with fragments of others?"
He didn't know the answer. But he knew one thing: he wanted to try again.
If every drop of blood carried memory, then he would follow the trail.
Because in the remnants of the dead… there might be something useful.
Elira watched him.
Her eyes still lingered on the bruises and half-healed cuts.
Elira (softly):
"You… killed them by yourself. Did you… use magic? Or sword techniques? Or… alchemy?"
She bit her lip and continued:
"Or maybe… a contract power? Spirit blood? Don't tell me… you're the child of a shadow mage?"
The questions came like bullets from an old rifle—hesitant, but still fired.
As if she was trying to give shape to the chaos she'd just witnessed.
Kael didn't answer immediately.
He sat with his back to her, staring at the trembling flame in the stone hearth.
The fire danced, but to Kael, its movement felt like whispers of memories slipping away… too faint to grasp, too real to ignore.
Kael (quietly, flat, almost honest):
"…What is magic?"
Elira froze. Then looked at him—eyes wide, a mix of shock… and fear.
Elira (confused):
"You… you're serious? You don't even know what magic is?"
Kael finally turned to her.
His eyes were dim but deep—like a starless night that had once witnessed eternity, then was forgotten by time.
Kael (whispering):
"The world I used to see… was filled only with humans killing each other with metal and fire.
No magic. No alchemy.
Only will… and blood."
Elira swallowed hard.
Then sat down slowly to match his position.
Suddenly, she looked more like a young teacher who'd just realized her student knew nothing.
Elira (softly, explaining):
"Magic… is a way to shape the world with will.
But it needs a foundation: elements, incantations, or world spirits. That sort of thing."
"Some inherit it. Some study for years.
The rest… steal it from old artifacts or carve paths into their own bodies."
She paused, then pointed at her chest.
"I have a runic core… a weak one, storing wind element.
Only good for a couple of minor spells.
But the strong… they can summon storms. Split the earth. Manifest illusions."
Kael said nothing.
But inside him, something stirred—not emotion, but intricate calculation.
The logic of an ancient being trying to understand the rules of a new game.
"Humans… have changed.
Or perhaps the world itself has.
Once, they were just fleeting creatures.
But now…"
Elira continued, voice gentler:
"Swordsmanship… isn't just fighting technique.
Some swordsmen merge with aura.
They can slash from a distance, cut through steel, even split fog—or mountains."
"And alchemy… is another way to create power.
Through mixtures, rare ingredients, even monster blood.
Some make medicine, others make poison… and some turn their own bodies into living weapons."
Kael closed his eyes.
"But there's far more out there than just these three powers…"
The wind swept through the leaves like the world exhaling its age.
Kael reflected… and for the first time since awakening in this body,
he had felt like someone who had once gazed down from the clouds—and now was trapped in the mud.
He closed his eyes for a moment, recalling the faint memories that had surfaced—
a peaceful village, wide fields, the sound of a loom, warm bread in a kitchen.
He once thought it was because his village—
the place where he was raised after reincarnation—had rejected technology.
A village that chose simplicity, cut off from the world.
But now…
"No. This isn't rejection…
This is a boundary.
This world… doesn't have technology."
He remembered the unpaved roads, torches at night instead of lights, barter systems,
and handwritten notes on tree bark.
He had thought those were choices.
But from what Elira said—
and from how she naturally understood things like magic, contracts, and cores—
Kael began to see the bigger picture.
Kael opened his eyes slowly.
His gaze now blank… but sharp.
"This world… it's not Earth.
Not the future.
Not the past.
Not the same world I destroyed.
But another dimension.
Or a different reality.
Even I don't know the true answer."
"Its structure mirrors the Middle Ages—
but filled with powers that even angels once refused to touch."
He looked down at his hands.
Small body. Weak.
Yet… something bound within.
Not fully human. Not fully spirit.
And now, he understood…
"…This power… Maybe I can study it. Use it. Strengthen myself."
"If this world has its own system—I'll master it.
If the people here wield power—I'll claim it.
If they conquer through magic—then I will master magic itself"
He clenched his small fist.
"And if this world is a new stage—
then I will rewrite the entire play."
Elira watched him from a distance, worry still on her face.
She didn't know what Kael was thinking.
She only saw a boy who stayed quiet for too long, as if speaking with something invisible.
Their steps touched stone now, the road becoming busier.
In the distance, the city wall loomed like the spine of an ancient dragon—
covered in moss, fungus, and histories buried beneath architecture.
The city was called Rosendale—Elira had named it.
Kael didn't care much for names.
He only wanted one thing: a place to be silent among the noise,
and perhaps… steal some knowledge from those who lived more comfortably.
As they approached, the iron gate marked with a crowned eye slowly began to open.
Two guards stood by.
Their armor was cheap, thin steel—but their eyes were sharp.
One held a long spear, the other a parchment list already yellowed with time.
Kael slowed down.
He scanned the surroundings—counting guards, parked horses,
and the distance between the gate and the nearest alley.
Elira stepped ahead.
But Kael gently grabbed her wrist—not roughly, just enough to make her stop.
"Stay calm. Don't speak yet," he whispered.
Elira looked at him, puzzled, but obeyed.
The two guards approached.
The larger one with the thick mustache began speaking.
Guard:
"Name. Purpose. And place of origin."
Elira looked at Kael—instinctively passing the decision to him.
He was the one who looked more certain. The one who could choose.
Kael stared at the guard.
A name was almost on his lips. But…
"Place of origin…"
That village.
What was the name of that place…?
He tried to remember:
his mother's face, the fields, chickens clucking,
his father's soft morning smile…
But the name…?
All of it had faded.
Burned away.
Buried in blood.
Kael (silent):
"…I…"
"Hey,"
the second guard cut in.
He pointed at Kael's leather bag.
The strap had loosened, revealing part of its contents.
The guard squinted, then stepped closer.
He pulled something from the side pocket: two bronze badges.
Roughly made, round, with the symbol of an inverted sword and a broken chain in the center.
Class F Hunter badges.
Kael tensed for a moment.
He didn't remember taking those.
Guard (tone sharpening):
"Why do you… have Bert and Webster's badges?"
The voice landed like a hammer on a frozen lake.
Kael didn't answer. But his mind moved fast.
So those two weren't just bandits.
They were registered hunters. Known. Official.
And these badges—evidence. Or a curse.
His gaze slowly lifted toward the guard.
No lie was ready. No answer fast enough.
But one thing was certain—
—This could be the start of a problem.
Or the start of a game.
Kael lowered his head slightly.
But before he could speak—
The guard reached for his sword.
His eyes narrowed with suspicion.
"Answer. Now."