Part-1
The wind howled through the narrow path leading to the shrine, carrying with it the distant scent of pine and smoke. Valorion walked in silence, his son resting in his arms, the child's face shadowed by the night. They were close now, the towering figure of the Great Dragon's shrine looming ahead. The once-glorious temple was now reduced to a relic of a forgotten age, its proud stone pillars chipped and worn by time.
Valorion felt a heaviness beyond the boy in his arms—a tension coiled tight, born of his own doubts. He could have kept silent, he could have shut his mouth and pretended that everything was alright, hoping that the boy would open up to them as time healed him. But he couldn't—because the boy had never truly been his, not the way he was hers. Valorion had seen the distant look in the boy's eyes, the hesitation in his smile. The way he spoke to them—always polite, always respectful—but never with the warmth of family. It was as if he were playing a role in someone else's life.
"Father?" The boy's voice cut through the silence, trembling ever so slightly. "What kind of question is that? I don't follow your riddles."
Valorion didn't answer right away. He needed to find the right words, to reach this boy whose heart was still trapped in the past. He slowed his pace, his eyes fixed on the shrine in the distance.
"You've always been a good son," Valorion began, his voice steady but soft. "You've done everything we've asked of you, and you've been the darling of our eyes, a great brother to your three-year-old sister. But... you've never truly 'been' with us, have you?"
The boy tensed in his arms but didn't respond. His small hands tightened their grip on Valorion's tunic, but he kept his gaze lowered, his breath coming in shallow bursts.
Valorion continued. "Make no mistake, I am not blaming you. Though I am not aware of your circumstances, I am positive you've lost a great deal. But pretending to be something you're not—wearing this mask every day—won't ease that pain. It won't bring back the ones you've lost-"
As Valorion spoke, a tremor ran through his senses, sharpened by years of battle. The boy moved—fast. Valorion barely registered the flash of the blade before his Veridian force flared instinctively, saving his life by a fraction of a second. The blade had been meant for his throat. From his own child. His small hands shook as they drew the blade, but his eyes held no fear—just a chilling resolve.
Valorion's breath caught in his chest. His instinct was to recoil, to fling the boy away, as though he were a viper striking at his heart. His pulse roared in his ears, and for a brief moment, panic seized him. Without his Veridian flaring instinctively, the boy's Stella-forged blade would've cut him down.
By the gods, he's just a child—yet he wields Stella like that? Valorion's eyes widened, chest tightening as he wrestled with disbelief. Sweat broke across his brow, but his gaze remained locked on the boy, his astonishment morphing into something deeper, a stirring of awe and terror.
'This child is no ordinary genius. He's something far more dangerous.'
Valorion's instincts, now detached from the warmth of fatherhood, aligned with the cold-blooded killer he had been a hundred years ago. He locked eyes with the boy, momentarily envisioning him as a monstrous reflection of his own past. Their silence thickened the air, charged with unspoken stakes. As Valorion grappled with the shock of his son's actions, he sensed an unspoken understanding between them. Both stood on the precipice of change, each predicting that this encounter would irrevocably alter the course of their lives.
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Part-2
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[Same Day , Garden of Wiseheart Dukedom, Capital City of Cynethron ]
"My, what do we have here? If it isn't the right hand of my dear husband," Lady Isolde, the third wife of the Duchy, voice dripped with sarcasm as she welcomed the rude guest who unceremoniously appeared in front of her, though her polite and dignified bearing never faltered.
The guest in question, the butler of the Wiseheart estate, stood rigid, his stern gaze locked on her. His demeanor, worn thin with years of servitude and secrets, screamed that he had long since tired of this farce.
"Lady Wiseheart," he began, his tone fraying with restrained impatience, "you must confess your sins to the council. The Duke, in his boundless mercy, will spare your life and your daughter's, but only if you—"
"Spare me this charade!" The lady cut him off sharply, her eyes cold as steel. "If your Duke truly believes in my supposed infidelity, let him face me in the 'Sideris' and wager our lives on the purity of my virtue. I told you the same five years ago—my answer hasn't changed" Her words were a challenge, each one laced with disdain, as if daring him to refute her.
The butler's face flushed red with anger. "The Everforge family is no more, Isolde. Cease this meaningless, prideful defiance!"
"Shh!" Isolde interrupted again, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "My dear daughter Ivy is still sleeping. Keep your voice down, brother."
"Why... why won't you understand?" The butler's voice cracked as he tried again, desperation creeping in. "He will kill you and your daughter! You must—" But his plea faltered, as though it hurt him to beg.
Isolde's eyes softened, but only for a moment. "I would rather die a free woman than live as a dog, bound to the whims of men , like you. Barking on command, biting on order. Perhaps," she mused cruelly, "you've even been keeping my husband's bed warm. I've heard that the Duke has... flexible tastes."
"Stop! You—you scoundrel! You cannot speak such vile things about the Duke! He was the one—"
"Enough!" Isolde's voice rang through the room like a whip crack, her tone final. "Tell me, brother, when you look at me, what do you see? Am I Isolde Everforge, or am I Isolde Wiseheart?"
"You... you're..."
"Aha!" She raised a hand to cut him off, a sardonic smile playing on her lips. "No need for emotions—those are for humans, not apparatus like you. Just answer the question."
The butler stammered but answered nonetheless "Of course, it's obvious! Any sensible person would choose to be a Wiseheart rather than a disgraced Everforge."
"I didn't ask for your opinion on which name is 'better,' did I?"
"You—"
"Not a word, dear brother." Her voice was icy, brokering no argument. "I am still the Duke's official wife, not one of his mistresses, who are little more than mere whores. Your insolence towards me would be reason enough for execution, yes even for a loyal puppy like you."
The butler's lips trembled as he fought to contain his anger. "You act more like an Everforge than a Wiseheart, my lady."
"Finally, some clarity," Isolde said coolly, leaning back in her chair. "Yes, I am Isolde Everforge, daughter of the most formidable sword clan in all of Aethelmere, not some breeding cow for the Wisehearts."
The butler's rage finally boiled over, Veridian force beginning to pulse from his body, his control slipping. He looked ready to strike, but Isolde merely sipped her tea, her calmness a direct challenge. 'Go ahead,' her eyes seemed to say. 'Strike me if you can. But we both know a pet doesn't bite its master's property.'
Just as the tension reached its breaking point, a clear voice cut through the air, cooling the room with its serene authority.
"Oh-ho! I seem to have stumbled upon some rather unsavory business."
Both siblings froze, their eyes drawn to the source of the voice. At the garden's threshold stood a figure bathed in soft light, a stark contrast to the darkening mood inside. Her white robes shimmered faintly, almost ethereal, but it was her hair—a vivid cascade of crimson falling over one shoulder—that seized their attention, like flames burning against a snowfield.
The priestess was no ordinary presence. She radiated an unearthly calm, her very stance exuding power that both soothed soul and demanded submission in equal measure. Though her garments were simple white darb, they clung to her form with an elegance that whispered of nobility.
The butler stumbled to speak, his voice a pitiful stutter against the weight of her gaze. "N-no, my lady, I assure you, this is not—"
Isolde, however, did not bother with such pleasantries. She cast a glance toward the gatekeeper, who had failed to announce the new guest's arrival. The look that promised swift consequences.
The priestess, unbothered by the icy reception, addressed the unspoken question in the room. "I've come to speak with Lady Isolde. Mister Butler, would you leave us for a moment?" Her voice carried both patience and assurity, leaving no room for argument. With the air of someone used to being obeyed, she addressed the butler directly, her words laced with steel beneath the surface of civility. "And don't blame the gatekeeper—he did announced my arrival. You were simply too... preoccupied to notice."
The butler clenched his jaw, clearly reluctant to leave. He opened his mouth to protest—something about not recalling a scheduled meeting—but before the words could fully form, the priestess's eyes locked onto his, and he was struck silent, as if the very air had been burned inside his lungs . His jaw tightened, fists clenched, but he knew better than to defy her.
He bowed stiffly and left, the echo of his boots fading into the distance.
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Part-3
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Shock gripped the boy, freezing his thoughts. Since his rebirth into this world, he had meticulously crafted every action, every word, to blend in with his so-called family. His goal was simple: avoid suspicion, remain unnoticed—until the time came to kill the monster. The one who had taken everything from him—his past, his future.
But who would have guessed that the very tactics he used to conceal himself would raise suspicion? His father… no, that man had been wary of him from the moment he was born. It wasn't just his behavior that had given him away. The man had tried to kill him—at birth! That cold, crushing grip around his tiny throat had been no delusion. It wasn't some warped memory of this new life. No, it was real, and that man had always known. From the very beginning.
His mind raced, calculating his next move. His opponent wasn't just anyone. It was Valorion, unmatched in this city. Running wasn't an option. His only choice was to defeat him. He had to kill his father before his father killed him.
But Volarion spoke first.
"Why don't we put the weapons down?" His voice was unnervingly calm. "Father and son killing each other doesn't make for the best family portrait, does it?"
The boy scoffed, narrowing his eyes. Did Volarion really think he'd fall for such cheap words?
'Think I'd fall for that?' he thought bitterly. He'd stayed because Valorion's strength could forge him into a weapon—against the monster.
"Such refined words," the boy said mockingly. "From the man who tried to kill his own newborn son."
"That's—"
""You thought I killed your real son and took his body, didn't you? Yes… you did. You very much did."
Volarion flinched, his eyes flickering with something—regret? Guilt? Perhaps both.
"Let me explain—"
But the boy wasn't ready for explanations. He lunged forward, condensing his Stella into a blade, aiming for Volarion's heart. Volarion, however, wasn't alarmed. The boy's talent was raw and dangerous, but it couldn't defy the world's basic truths—like gravity or speed.
The blade of Stella scattered before it could reach him.
"It's a simple concept, really," Volarion said calmly. "Stella can never best Veridian."
For the first time, the boy faltered, his eyes wide in disbelief. He had never heard of such a thing.
Volarion's tone softened. "Listen to me."
The boy, for once, didn't argue. He had no choice but to listen.
"At first, yes," Volarion admitted, his voice low. "I thought you were… something else. Something dangerous. That's why I tried to kill you."
The boy's grip on his remaining weapon tightened, but he didn't move.
"As time went on," Volarion continued, "I realized you weren't a complete stranger. You were different, yes, but not entirely… alien. Your mother and sister love you, and I…"
"Don't," the boy interrupted, his voice wavering for the first time. "Don't pretend like you care. You've been watching me, waiting for me to slip up since the day I was born!"
Volarion's expression grew weary, as if the weight of the years pressed down on him. "Yes, I watched. I suspected. But after a while, I wasn't sure. You weren't the son I wanted, but you weren't nothing, either. You were still someone—someone with parents we could never replace. And I didn't know what to make of that."
The boy stared at him, his hatred wavering, if only for a moment.
"Why didn't you kill me sooner if you were so unsure?" he asked, barely more than a whisper.
"Because," Volarion said, taking a step closer, "I thought maybe, just maybe, there was a chance you could still be my son. That we could still be a family. But I couldn't ignore the possibility that you weren't."
Silence fell between them, thick and suffocating. Then, something broke inside the boy.
"I don't know if I'll ever be able to see you as my father," he whispered.
"I'm not asking you to forget your past."
"I wanted to kill you," the boy admitted, his voice trembling.
Volarion gave a sad smile. "That's a natural reaction, all things considered."
The boy couldn't bring himself to continue. His heart was in chaos. For the first time, he saw the man before him not just as an enemy, but as something more—something he had longed for but had never allowed himself to believe in.
Volarion's voice softened. "I don't expect you to accept me. But if there's any part of you that still believes in this family—"
The boy, trembling, dropped his guard. Without thinking, he stepped forward, closing the distance between them. For the first time in his new life, he embraced his father. Not as an enemy or stranger, but as something greater.
"My name…" the boy whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "My name is Renji. Please… let me have this name. It's my last connection to my real parents."
Volarion stood still, stunned at first. Then, slowly, he wrapped his arms around the boy. It wasn't a perfect reunion, not by any means. But it was still a start.