The Hero Arrives

The academy courtyard pulsed with excitement.

Students whispered, clustered near the arched gates. Even the faculty had emerged, robes brushed and crests straightened, trying to look indifferent—and failing. The banners of the four noble houses fluttered high above, gold catching on crimson in the early sun.

Then came the rumble.

Wheels on stone. Hooves pounding in disciplined rhythm.

The royal carriage rolled in, white-gold and veiled with protective glyphs that shimmered faintly in the morning light.

On its door: the twin emblems of the royal family and the Church of the Flame.

There was no doubt.

The Chosen One had arrived.

High above, leaning on a balcony carved into the east tower, Cael Ardyn stood still as the stone beneath his boots.

He didn't move.

Didn't blink.

Just watched.

The carriage stopped. A knight in silver opened the door.

And then—

Leon stepped out.

Tall. Straight-backed. Dressed not in royal silks, but simple travel clothes marked with only a modest crest. His blond hair ruffled by the breeze. Eyes warm. Smile brighter than the banners.

The crowd sighed as if on cue.

But Leon turned back.

Reached into the carriage.

And gently helped down a frail old man with shaking hands—a steward, wrapped in a moth-bitten coat, clinging to a wooden cane.

The applause swelled. Nobles watched in approval. Girls sighed.

He even gave the steward his own cloak.

Like a true prince.

Cael's eyes narrowed.

"Still smiles like a savior."

"Still ignorant of the corpses left behind him."

Cael remebered his first death.

The sunlight dimmed behind Cael's gaze.

Suddenly, the cheers below blurred—replaced by smoke.

Screams.

Fire.

The gates had been breached. The temple burned. The siege tower groaned like a beast in agony.

Cael remembered the flash of steel—soaring toward the boy standing too far forward.

Leon hadn't seen it.

He had turned to help a wounded soldier.

And Cael…

He didn't think. Didn't hesitate.

He shoved him aside.

Steel struck flesh.

Blood. So much blood.

Leon had cradled him, eyes wide, voice cracking.

"No—Cael! Don't—you can't—!"

The healer came too late.

Cael had died on the temple steps, with Leon's hands trembling over him, weeping.

"He cried at my funeral."

"But never mentioned me again."

"Within a year, it was like I'd never existed at all."

The memory shattered.

The sunlight returned.

But the warmth did not.

Cael exhaled through his nose, slow and quiet.

"That's who he is. A savior with no memory of the saved."

Later that day, the nobles gathered in the Hall of Entry—an ancient chamber with marble columns and family crests carved deep into the walls. The ceiling arched high above, glowing faintly with enchantment.

Cael stood at the back of the semicircle, arms folded, eyes half-lidded.

He didn't need to be in front.

He wasn't here to bask in the chosen one's light.

The massive doors opened.

Leon entered, flanked by his knight escorts—but he waved them off, cheerful, relaxed, utterly without arrogance.

He greeted nobles by name.

Remembered the son of Lord Embervale.

Clapped a hand on the shoulder of a baron's daughter and asked about her mother's health.

And then—

His eyes landed on Cael.

For the briefest second, Cael wondered if he'd walk past.

But no.

Leon's face lit up.

"Cael! It's been too long!"

He moved forward without pause—and pulled him into a tight, familiar hug.

The nobles murmured, surprised.

Cael stiffened.

Then slowly, he smiled.

"Faked it. Easily."

"Leon," he said. "You look well."

The System flickered to life, text appearing behind his gaze.

[Rewrite Option Available]

Target: Leon Valenhardt

First Impression – Moderate Rewrite

Effect: Shift memory context from nostalgic to suspicious

Cost: 3 Emotional Points – Joy

[Accept?]

Cael didn't move.

Didn't blink.

Just watched the glowing words fade.

"No."

"Not yet."

He looked into Leon's bright, trusting eyes.

"Let's see how real this friendship is… before I decide to burn it."

Later, as the reception thinned and nobles drifted off to their games of wine and politics, Leon caught Cael by the arm.

"Walk with me?"

Cael nodded once.

They strolled along the quiet, torch-lit marble path that curved around the academy's inner gardens, the scent of moonflower thick in the air. Leon kept his hands behind his back, smiling at the stars.

"It still feels surreal," Leon said. "All of this. Being back. They treat me like I've already changed the world."

"You haven't?" Cael asked mildly.

Leon chuckled. "Not yet. But I will. The prophecy isn't just about defeating the darkness. It's about uniting the kingdoms. Stopping the bloodshed. Rebuilding what was lost."

Cael said nothing.

"He still talks like peace is a sword you can swing with both hands and no weight on the hilt."

"He dreams of peace—but has never made a hard choice."

Leon turned to him, expression softening. "I heard you advanced your sword rank last term. You always were fast, but now you're… sharper. Focused."

Cael's eyes glinted in the torchlight.

"You learn fast when dying young is your fate."

Leon laughed—awkward, uncertain. "Right… always the dramatic one, Cael."

Cael just smiled without humor.

"You really don't remember, do you?"

The banquet hall shimmered with enchanted chandeliers and clinking silverware. Long tables brimmed with roasted venison, buttered roots, and gold-leafed wine.

Leon sat at the center, surrounded by instructors, nobles, and house leaders.

Cael was further down—where the lesser bloodlines ate. Where his house always sat. Out of reach, but still visible.

Still beneath him.

Lord Feran of House Durnshire raised his glass across the hall. "To Leon! Light-blessed and prophecy-bound! May your footsteps shape the world!"

The cheer rang out, echoed even by the faculty.

Then the noble beside Cael—thin, perfumed, with eyes like polished stone—snorted softly.

"You were in Leon's year, weren't you?" he said with a tight smile. "Funny. I didn't remember your name."

Cael turned his gaze slowly.

"I didn't give it."

Leon's voice cut across the tension before it could escalate. "Cael Ardyn's worth ten of you, Merrick."

The room went briefly silent.

Then a few polite chuckles. A few narrowed eyes.

The noble backed off with a muttered excuse, and the chatter resumed.

But Cael felt it.

That familiar heat under his skin.

"Even your kindness chains me beneath you."

"You defend me like a master defending his dog."

That night, under starlight, the instructors led Leon and the high-scorers through the ceremonial allocation of academy quarters.

The top chamber—once reserved for the highest-ranking student in the prophecy's year—was presented with glowing fanfare.

Cael stood in shadow, arms crossed, watching as Leon took the silver key, bowed humbly, and smiled with boyish grace.

"The same room."

"The same speech. The same applause. The same golden path laid at his feet."

The system flickered into view once more, as if reading his pulse.

[Branch Point Detected]

Target: Leon Valenhardt

Event: Academy Placement – Prime Chamber

Cost: 1 Memory Fragment

Memory to Lose: First Sword Lesson (Age 7, Instructor Berem's Correction)

[Rewrite Available: YES/NO]

Cael's hand hovered over the prompt.

The sword lesson—his first real discipline. The weight of the practice blade in his hand. The sting of failure. The lesson that pain meant growth.

A piece of who he was.

He didn't press it.

"Not yet."

"Let him rise high. I want the world to see him fall."

His lips curled.

Not into a smile.

But something colder.

Something sharper.