Elijah Everstone was in the final year of middle school—standing firmly at 5'9" and rising, with the physique of someone who knew how to throw a proper punch, duck a wild swing, and do three sets of pull-ups before breakfast.
At this point, he towered over his family like a well-sculpted lamppost. Even George had started standing on tiptoe during father-son arguments.
He'd developed that unfortunate affliction known as "accidental handsomeness"—sharp cheekbones, unruly dark blonde hair that refused to stay down, and piercing blue eyes that gave off "detective from a moody noir" energy whether he liked it or not.
Not that he cared.
Okay, maybe he cared a little.
It was Saturday afternoon. The sky looked like a lazy watercolor—blue streaked with idle clouds—and Snow popped her head into his room with the stealth of a cat.
"You wanna go see a movie?" she asked, arms crossed, one brow raised.
Elijah looked up from his book: The Art of War. Annotated edition.
"That depends," he replied. "Which movie?"
"Sunset Love 3: Midnight Vows."
There was a silence. It stretched across dimensions.
"No," he said simply.
"Oh come on! You didn't even give it a chance."
"I gave the first one a chance. It was two hours of watching emotionally constipated teenagers make poor decisions under backlit sunsets."
"That's literally the point!"
"It's emotionally dishonest propaganda for the underdeveloped frontal cortex."
"That's a lot of big words for someone who cried during Finding Nemo."
Elijah looked away. "That fish had layers, okay?"
Snow grinned. "Fine. What do you want to watch?"
"Dead City: Viral Uprising." He gave her a small smirk. "Zombies. Apocalypse. Realism."
Snow rolled her eyes. "You just like watching heads explode."
"I like accurate survival scenarios."
Somehow, he won. He always did. But Snow insisted on popcorn.
As they walked toward the theater, the autumn wind brushing past with crisp urgency, Elijah couldn't help but notice how much Snow had changed.
Not in any weird way—he had no desire to make this a bizarre psychological case study. But just… different.
She wasn't the snaggle-toothed brat who used to chase him with a spray bottle anymore. Her blonde hair had lightened over the years, framing her heart-shaped face. Her fashion sense had evolved from glittery chaos to something closer to a minimalist runway. She had that self-contained confidence—the kind that made people turn and wonder, Who is she?
It was strange.
Not uncomfortable. Just… strange.
Back in his previous world, things like sibling boundaries were a little more... relaxed. Nobles often kept bloodlines "pure," which usually involved weird family trees and confusing birthdays.
But here?
This world was... different. Clearer. Simpler.
Sometimes better.
'Let's not ruin a good thing,' Elijah thought to himself. 'Don't be the guy who writes bad fanfiction in his own head.'
The movie was a violent masterpiece of blood, gore, poor decision-making, and suspiciously convenient flamethrowers.
"Ten out of ten," Elijah muttered during the credits.
"Zero out of ten," Snow replied, digging popcorn crumbs out of her scarf. "The dog died."
"It was realistic. No dog survives a zombie outbreak."
"It's a movie, not a documentary!"
Afterward, they grabbed burgers from a retro diner two blocks down. The fluorescent lights buzzed, the waitress called everyone "hon," and Elijah devoured three cheeseburgers without breaking conversation.
"You eat like you're preparing for war," Snow teased.
"I am. High school is coming."
It was on the way home that things turned.
They took a shortcut through a quiet side street. Lamplight flickered overhead. Trash bins lined the alley like silent sentinels.
Then—
Three figures stepped out from the shadows.
Older teens. Hoodies. Cheap knives. Not the smart kind of criminals.
"Wallets. Phones. And be quick about it," the tallest said, his voice rasping like an ashtray.
Snow froze beside Elijah, her breath catching.
He, on the other hand, looked… mildly annoyed.
"Three of you?" he said calmly. "Against a girl in a scarf and a guy carrying movie snacks?"
"Less talking, more handing over."
Elijah handed Snow the soda. "Hold this."
Then he moved.
It wasn't dramatic. No flourishes. No shouting. Just precise, surgical movement.
One step forward—jab to the ribs.
Duck the knife—sweep the leg.
A second tried to lunge—knee to the stomach, elbow to the jaw.
Third one ran. Elijah let him.
The two on the ground groaned in pain, rolling around like overturned mannequins.
Snow stared. "What—how—"
"I told you," Elijah said, adjusting his jacket. "Realism matters."
They called the police. The officers gave him raised eyebrows and a thumbs-up. Snow gave him a fry from her purse stash.
As they walked the rest of the way home, Snow nudged him.
"You know," she said, "most guys scream when stuff like that happens."
"I'm not most guys."
"I know. It's annoying sometimes."
He smiled. "But you're lucky I'm on your team."
She didn't reply.
But she walked a little closer.
Oooo
"So let me get this straight…"
Snow sat at the kitchen table, cheeks still red from the cold, wrapped burrito-style in a fleece blanket. Across from her, Mom stood with arms crossed, eyebrows inching toward her hairline, while Dad leaned on the counter, sipping chamomile tea like this was the nightly news.
"…you two were walking home," Mom said slowly, "and three older boys with knives jumped out of an alley?"
"Yep," Snow said, reaching for a spoonful of Nutella like this was just any other Saturday night.
"And Elijah fought them off."
"Mhm. Real kung-fu movie stuff. It was kind of insane."
Mom looked like she aged ten years on the spot. "Elijah!" she called, raising her voice in that half-panicked, half-about-to-ground-you pitch mothers are born with.
Elijah strolled into the kitchen, toweling his damp hair. "Yeah?"
"Why didn't you call the police first? Or run?"
"They had knives. I had confidence," Elijah said, as if that explained everything.
"Confidence doesn't stop stab wounds!" Mom snapped, grabbing him by the shoulders like she was checking for injuries with x-ray vision. "Are you hurt?"
"Nope."
"Bruised?"
"Nope."
"Psychologically scarred?"
Elijah paused. "I did almost spill my soda. That was tragic."
Snow snorted into her cocoa.
Mom let out a noise somewhere between a groan and a motherly meltdown. "You are grounded from movie nights until you learn basic caution."
"But—"
"No buts. You are a child, not John Wick's cousin."
"That's generous," Dad murmured with a grin. "Wick takes more hits."
Mom shot him a look. "You're not helping."
Dad shrugged, putting down his tea. "What? The boy defended himself and his sister, didn't he?" He turned to Elijah. "You did good, son. Remind me again—who taught you that sweep-the-leg move?"
"You did," Elijah said with a grin. "Also the 'stab the guy with your eyes first' lesson."
"Classic." Dad chuckled, clearly fighting the urge to give a proud-dad fist bump.
"You're both impossible," Mom muttered, storming off to grab the first-aid kit she didn't need.
Elijah sat across from Snow and stole a spoonful of her Nutella.
"You're a psycho," she said, not really mad.
"Hey, you're the one who brought me to a rom-com sequel. We've both made bad choices tonight."
Dad returned to the table, clapped Elijah on the back, and smiled. "Still. That was brave. And fast. You've got something in you, son."
Elijah raised an eyebrow. "Like what? Muscle memory?"
Dad shook his head. "More than that. You've always felt a little… I don't know. Older than your years. Like you've seen more than you let on."
Elijah froze. Just for a second.
But he smiled. "Probably just the books."
Snow rolled her eyes. "Yeah. Books that fight back."
Mom returned with band-aids, painkillers, and a lecture ready on standby.
Dad? He was still smiling, a hand resting on his son's shoulder like he already knew that Elijah Everstone wasn't just a normal teenage boy.
And somewhere deep inside, Elijah wasn't sure if that comforted him…
…or terrified him.
Later that night, long after the excitement had dulled and everyone had gone to bed, Elijah lay awake in his room—hands behind his head, eyes tracing the slow turn of the ceiling fan.
The house was quiet. Snow's room played the occasional muffled K-pop ballad. Dad was snoring through the wall like a distant bear in hibernation. Mom's "You're grounded, but I'm still glad you're alive" energy had finally faded into the comfort of soft footsteps and clean laundry smells.
And Elijah?
Elijah was stuck between thoughts again.
He looked around his room—shelves lined with textbooks and dumb action figures Snow had gifted him "ironically," a desk with half-written essays and an old laptop still running Windows 7. A punching bag in the corner, slightly lopsided. Posters of zombie movies, classic anime, and one diagram of the human muscular system for "fun."
It was a teenager's room.
His room.
And yet, sometimes, it still felt like a borrowed shell.
He closed his eyes, letting the silence stretch.
He remembered the throne—black stone, cold under his palm. The weight of a crown that didn't need jewels to be heavy. He remembered fire and blood, and the crunch of armor underfoot. Screams that echoed for miles. And silence—the kind that only came when there was no one left to resist.
He remembered dying.
His son's eyes.
The betrayal.
Then... rebirth.
A new body. A new world. Weak, small, loud, bright. And yet—over the years—something happened.
He laughed more.
He learned the names of plants.
He burned toast… repeatedly.
He got yelled at by teachers. Cried during Pixar movies. Helped Snow with math homework even when she insisted he was doing it wrong.
He made memories. Not conquests. Not fear. Memories.
At some point, Gusoyn the Demon King had started to fade. Not entirely—no, he was still there, sitting quietly in the back of Elijah's mind like a shadow pretending to sleep. But Elijah Everstone was real too. A life he'd built, piece by piece.
And he liked it.
He liked the burnt toast and the science fairs and Snow's terrible taste in movies.
He liked living.