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He wonders, fleetingly, if he’s finally dead.
Opening his eyes, it’s the only obvious answer he can come up with as to why the ceiling is immaculately white.
It strains his eyes to look at.
The high-drafted ceilings are far enough away that his depth perception is tricked, for a moment, convincing him that maybe he is outside. Turning his head, every surrounding surface appears like a well-polished pearl, freshly fallen snow that has not yet been disturbed by the world. Isn’t this the archetype of the afterlife? Pure white light, seraphic figures adorning the walls. It feels decidedly holy, which is not a reassuring thought.
But that would mean, if he died, he went to some functional equivalent of a heaven, and he knew himself well enough that there was no place beyond any pearly gates awaiting him after his eventual undoing. When he dies, eventually, he is expecting to end up in a state of blank nothingness forever, or maybe he’ll burn in hell or something.
All of the moments leading up to dying were the ones that would be painful, but to actually die should not hurt, pulsing like the headache he could feel spreading behind his temples.
So he was probably not dead.
Attempting to move, he raised a hand to his face and tried to rub the last remains of sleep from his eyes. Maybe his vision had become impaired? Has using his ability started to impact his sight? It is a scary thought, so he dismisses it as a possibility. Not because it isn’t plausible, but because he simply did not want to fathom what it would mean for him if it proves true. His body is already not in great condition after the many hard-won years he’s spent fighting to live, but his eyes were his strongest asset.
If he loses his sight, he isn’t sure how he would survive.
Eventually, after several minutes, his eyes start to clear. Fog fading in pre-dawn morning, it’s slow and gradual, like waking up. Someone is speaking nearby, he can hear a voice but can’t make out their words, and there’s some bustle of activity that enters his consciousness as sensory information but fails to turn into anything resembling a proper thought. His mind is too disoriented to make sense of any of it just yet.
Feet shuffling. Robes moving. Cold hands, touching his wrist. Water coaxed down his throat. Several hands poking and prodding and it is just shy of becoming irritating when they are finally chased away by some benevolent presence.
It takes him a long time to fully orient, almost twenty minutes before the synapses in his brain are firing normally. Though he has no frame of reference, he imagined this was akin to coming down from some kind of mind-altering drug that had left him grasping at the edge of reality.
The problem comes, not by coincidence, when he finally is able to pull himself back from that ledge.
It’s like [The Birth of a Hero], but everything is different.
Wrong.
First of all.
“Good morning, Cale-nim.”
His name is Cale Henituse in this world. In his room, the name is penned in the front cover of all of the books that are strewn about, denoting their ownership.
But he doesn’t look like Cale Henituse as described in the novel.
His hair is snow-white and his eyes an icy ring of blue, and the only garments he can find in any of the closets are holy vestments and various cossacks. There are even fancier robes that he doesn’t know what to call, some with semi-transparent veils and hooded capes that are beautiful and luxurious to the touch.
They are all pure white, pale images of holy magnamonity that he finds quite unsettling at first.
But all of that comes later.
Apparently, he had just recovered from falling ill. His memory is conveniently refreshed by an altar boy who “witnessed the whole thing.”
The moment he stepped into a church for the God of Death, not far outside of Puzzle City, he, Cale Henituse, had fainted. It has been almost exactly 24-hours, according to his chatty attendant. It happened in the middle of visiting several temples with some of the other recent graduates from the seminary.
“Actually, I guess it isn’t in the middle?”
The altar boy presses his index finger against his chin, giving a thoughtful hum.
He fainted after entering only the first of several churches they were supposed to visit, all to the end of seeking permanent placement. Of course, most of his peers were older and knew exactly which gods they wished to serve, but Cale has infamously not made up his mind about it.
That alone contained more information to unpack than he knows what to do with, and by some small miracle, the boy at his bedside seems sympathetic. He pats Cale’s arm and nods.
“It’s quite alright to be disoriented, Priest-nim. You gave us all quite a scare. If it pleases you, or if you feel it may help to refresh your memory, I can tell you more. As much as I know!”
“… Please do.”
“Of course!”
This is the story he received.
A young noble from the northeast was sent away from his home at the age of sixteen. Labeled a lout and a headache by the general public, but still greatly cared for by his family, the esteemed Count Deruth Henituse signed away the freedom of his eldest son, giving him the choice to join the army or the priesthood.
“It is the only way I can think to break these habits. I’m sorry.”
That was what Deruth had said to him.
Apparently.
Cale has no idea how this child knows so much detail, but he listens attentively to every word.
The purpose of his conscription was to restrict his ability to drink, gamble, and pick fights with thugs. Between the choice of a soldier or a priest, Cale picked the latter, and has been training to become a follower of god.
Literally without the option to do anything else, his act inevitably shaped up.
Cale Henituse was said to possess great talent but was too careless to use it properly. He had an affinity for the light attribute, and when he chose to use it, he was heralded as a natural-born healer. Someone who must have been favored by the gods.
As a trainee, he was allowed, even encouraged, to work in a variety of different parishes while establishing his own familiarity with the different faiths, spiritual rites, holy days, et cetera. Exposure to many different paths increased the likelihood of determining which service suited him best.
Though rare, some priests elected to remain unaffiliated to any one church throughout the course of their lives.
After completing the five-year priesthood training in only half the time, the now-eighteen year old Cale Henituse was in the midst of being pressured to commit to serve some specific faith.
At least in certain circles, Cale has become a bit famous. Not enough for it to be a complete nuisance, but it earned him the attention of some people of significance. Of course, many of Rowoon’s nobility would recognize his name, but his appearance and behavior is so changed from his last public appearance that no one was likely to identify him upon first seeing him.
More curiously, his existence seemed to be a cause of great interest within the religious communities. Some of the saints or other high-ranking officials in various churches acknowledged him. A number of them want him to join specifically because he is talented and wealthy. Just as many chose to scorn him for his refusal to abide by some of the more basic tenants of faith.
… Like becoming a eunuch.
‘Oh thank god.’
‘Cale Henituse’ had been a wholly uninteresting, one-dimensional character as far as the novel was concerned, but he, Kim Rok Soo, the person who now occupied his body, was relieved to learn that the lout had been sensible enough to keep his, well, wits about him.
Amongst other important things.
That is how he begins, a little clumsily and with a fair number of awkward silences, figuring out to how to live as a priest.
It turns out to be a pretty good arrangement once he started to get a handle on his role. The nobility steered clear of him for fear of facing reproach after his tumultuous history—it is one thing to denigrate a reckless son of a count, and quite another to scorn a priest. Their concern that he would somehow curse them or something was really funny.
On the other hand, most commoners treat him kindly. He didn’t have to do anything besides smile and bow a few times a week to different people that seek his good will. He memorized the holy scripture of all the different books in a day, so if he needed to say anything belonging to a specific subsect, he could just pluck out a random passage from his memory and repeat it.
Life as a priest, it turns out, is exceptionally easy.
He does wonder, sometimes, about what else went on in the world, but any meaningful news should not be spoken of to people in his position. It was considered bad manners to discuss politics or other controversial subjects with a man of god, especially someone of his age and background.
Were he a greedy lecher in a powerful role, that might be a different story, someone they could bribe to gain favor. But he is considered too risky and unpredictable for any noble to be interested in that sort of thing; too flighty and apathetic to be deemed a useful tool; with just enough talent to make people wary of him.
‘It’s pretty good.’
Kim Rok Soo, well, Cale, had few complaints.
It occurs to him that Choi Han is probably out there, doing his thing. In Cale’s opinion, it was great. Let the protagonist be the protagonist, and let him continue to slack off peacefully. Being a priest is pretty damn close to being in permanent retirement, with a few extra smiles and some hand-waving thrown in for good measure.
It took a full month of this new lifestyle for Cale to realize something went wrong.
Very, annoyingly wrong.
The Plaza Terror Incident.
Even the quiet walls of worship could not escape the reverberating echoes of that particular nightmare. No corner of the kingdom is left untouched by the aftershocks.
And Cale quickly learns that the incident did not go as it should have.
At all.
There are no whispers of Rosalyn, no hints of Lark. Choi Han had reached the capital, and he had gone utterly alone. Almost a hundred people were killed, tens of others wounded or maimed. The Bell Tower in the center of Huiss has been destroyed. No one in the royal family died, so the worst level of crisis are avoided, but it is pretty close to what Cale would consider a complete disaster.
‘Fuck.’
Of course.
How had he overlooked something so critical?
‘Ron and Vicross.’
They only meet Choi Han through the Henituse family.
Specifically, after nearly beating Cale Henituse to death with his fists.
But in this world, Cale Henituse has not even lived in the same territory as the Henituse family for many years, let alone be in a position to act as the conduit between them. There was no predicting this level of divergence just from that slight disruption, the threads of fate unweaving the story he has known. A chance encounter between two assassins and a swordmaster, one that never came to pass, and this is how twisted the timeline had already become.
Cale is being hosted by a church not far from Huiss when he overhears some travelers discussing the details. They had sought harbor from the elements for the evening by the presiding bishop and were now in the middle of eating when he caught part of their conversation.
“... How terrible. I heard, at least seven or eight people who were badly injured in the bombing—that demon killed them as an ‘act of mercy.’”
‘That demon.’
His intuition told him that they were not talking about Reddika.
If he was right, then they were referring to Choi Han.
This.
‘This is even worse than the original novel.’
It’s not like he couldn’t see where they were coming from. Choi Han’s most notorious talent is his ability to swiftly overpower anyone and anything. He can melt people with just his aura. He can probably cut a mountain in half if he focuses his swordmaster’s abilities to that end.
If things continue on the same trajectory, Cale finds himself seriously concerned for the state of the world. How could he enjoy a peaceful, agnostic lifestyle characterized by laziness and luxury if the entire continent is falling apart because of the secret organization from the novel?
If Choi Han doesn’t find some companions to help keep him from spiraling into complete despair, he’ll end up becoming an unconscionable killer. Could he even fight against the secret organization if he doesn’t have other heroes on his side? At the very least, he needs the crown prince to facilitate political action. Rosalyn and Lark are important too, as well as Pendrick and even Toonka. All of them have a role to play, but nothing has gone as it should.
‘Damn.’
Maybe he needs to get involved. Just enough to nudge Choi Han’s story back onto the right track. If Cale could salvage the heroes’ messy start by correcting course, connecting him with the people he needs to meet and smoothing over the damage of the Terror Plaza Incident, then the world can go back to the way it should.
And he, Cale, could go back to doing nothing all day.
After all, it is, in some twist of the imagination, his fault.
Or at least, it was Cale Henituse’s fault, which meant, it is ostensibly his fault.
The first time they meet, it is in the courtyard of one of the most venerated churches outside of any of Rowoon’s major cities.
It is intentionally remote and unaffiliated. Near enough to a major trade route that people may seek refuge in their halls with relative ease, but far enough outside any borders to discredit rumors of staunch political alignment.
It had a reputation for being a common stopover with a soft spot for travelers, healing, feeding, and housing those absent from the comfort of their own homes.
Cale, on his way to the capital, stops there for several days. He is treated like an esteemed guest rather than another visitor despite being housed and fed just the same. It is a little funny.
Around him, money is spoken like a dirty word.
Behind cupped hands and whispered in low voices. The irony is that he has plenty of it, allowances delivered from the Henituse territory in scheduled intervals, but he has amassed a healthy sum of savings. He accepts the free food and wine without batting an eye, anyways. Who would offer to pay for something that is freely given?
Instead, to compensate their hospitality, Cale offers his abilities. It’s not like it is difficult, and if it guarantees him to continue living this cushy life of monthly income from faceless parents while doing whatever he wants, whenever he wants, then sure. He will heal the injured people he meets, pat a few children on the top of their heads, and offer counsel to the handful of individuals who approach him. These simple acts of service are enough to pay for his meals and then some, given how grateful everyone acts after he tends to them.
On his fifth and final day at that temple, strolling across the outdoor walkway that encircled the primary chapel, Cale looks over the ledge of the polished marble at the forest's edge. The church is located in the center of a clearing with only one path of entry and exit, a circumference of wooded greenery expanding in all directions about twenty meters from the circle center. Cale was quite literally in the middle of contemplating how he would find Choi Han when Choi Han finds him for the first time.
His movements are slow and wandering, like a child’s wind-up toy that’s been fumbled carelessly onto its side, still moving but no closer to any destination. Cale recognizes him as the protagonist immediately despite never having seen his face—it is easy, as the distinctive features of a person of Korean ancestry are obvious to him, coupled with the exact descriptions he recalls reading in [The Birth of a Hero].
That being said, to put it politely, he looks terrible.
Like a villain, not at all the titular role he was fated to play.
Blood painted one side of his face and various parts of his body. Cale didn’t know to whom it belonged, and he was pretty sure he preferred to keep it that way. The way Choi Han clutched his scabbard like a desperate man scrambles for purchase at the edge of an overhang is both worrisome and terrifying. He could keep the weapon strapped at his hips, but maybe it is Choi Han’s way of staying grounded.
The way he gazes vaguely towards the temple with unseeing eyes, Cale assumes that Choi Han did not seek this place intentionally but stumbled upon it by happenstance. Perhaps drawn to the traces of civilization by what is simple intuition rather than proper motivation.
Cale watches him with a minor amount of shock, because it is truly a coincidence that they are in the same place at the same time. It also makes a surprising amount of sense when Cale thinks about it.
They are outside the capital, and Choi Han is a wanted criminal. No one knows who he is or why he was there on the day of the Terror Incident, and several witnesses reported his actions of slaughtering the mortally wounded. Whether or not it was to ease their suffering, people are afraid and desperate for answers. So they make a villain out of the convenient target and set out to throw him in bondage.
Coupled with the fact that Choi Han is accustomed to living in the woods, Cale figures he is out here trying to hide, at least until the heat on him dies down in the capital and he can move around freely again.
It was probably preferable to be sitting in jail for a crime he didn’t commit.
‘… Probably.’
Looking at him like this, Cale isn’t so sure. His eyes are completely hollow and his face is scratched and haggard. He doesn’t look like he’s had a proper meal in days and it’s likely he has slept just as little.
Choi Han, well adapted to sensing the gaze of another living thing on him, feels the fact that he is being watched from the moment he steps into the clearing. His eyes gradually turn upward, towards the outdoor pavilion surrounding what looks like a church, and lands his sights on something that is devastatingly blue, something that shines despite it being beneath muted sunlight.
‘Who… is that?’
Cale can see Choi Han looking at him, so he decides to return his attention with equal measure, though he attempts to soften his own gaze. It reminds him a bit of dealing with a wild animal, something that could just as easily be spooked as it could tear him apart if he didn’t proceed with utmost care.
Bearing that in mind, Cale gives a small smile. It is honest such that it is a reaction rooted in absurdity, morbid amusement derived at the ridiculousness of the situation. That someone as ruthless and vicious as this, a man who has killed many and will go on to kill even more, is the one who has to be treated with the most delicacy. Perhaps it is on account of that very same violent determination that necessitates gentle handling in the first place. A shard of glass, one that is on the verge of shattering. To touch it would be to risk getting cut in the process, but to leave unattended might be even more dangerous.
In sum, Cale finds Choi Han to be terrifying.
There is a staircase that leads directly down into the main courtyard from the walkway, so Cale slowly and deliberately descends the stairs, never breaking eye contact, trying to ensure he is as unthreatening as possible.
When he is finally close enough to see his own snow-colored hair reflected in the dull plane of Choi Han’s eyes, flat black from the outer iris to the center of his pupils, Cale asks a question.
“Do you need some help?”
Blinking slowly like it was a language he did not know, Choi Han eventually repeats the operative word that has tripped up his comprehension.
“… Help?”
“Yes. Are you hungry? Injured? I can help you.”
Cale waits patiently with his hand extended as if to guide Choi Han along, into the temple, out from the solitude that has become second-nature to his existence. Towards something different. Something new.
It is the first and only act of goodwill anyone has shown him since he watched his village burn to the ground. After he buried all of the corpses of the people he loved.
It is the first time someone has ever approached him of their own volition since he’d fallen into this world. Even the life he made in Harris Village had been one he’d sought after. Those people had been afraid of him at first, though they were understanding and kind despite their fear of him.
This is the first time someone has found him.
Choi Han realizes he has forgotten what it feels like to be seen as a human being first.
Not a source of confusion, or trouble, or danger.
As a person worthy of being seen.
It is simple kindness. And when he hesitantly reaches for the hand waiting for him, he knows he is afraid of it. Afraid that he may not even reach it. Then, he will have truly lost too much. When he loses things that were never even his in the first place, there really will be no reason to entertain hope anymore. But with nothing to stop him, he strikes after it anyway.
And it’s there. It is warmer than he could ever remember. It wraps around his whole hand. Soft and firm and real. Not a touch from a dream, of the faces of the people he did not save, of family members he cannot remember.
Choi Han is helpless but to follow, a shadow chasing after light, dazedly walking up steps, across a stone floor, down a hall and up to an altar. He sits down, not minding his body obeying the commands of someone else, and cannot think of anything except the surreality of sensation passing and pressing around him.
Hands, and a wet cloth. Water dyed the color of wine, his skin and hands cleaned. His hair is dampened and combed through with fingers. It is a hypnotic experience that traces the curve of his bones and imprints itself there.
Eyes tracking everything, he can’t think of a single word worth speaking while watching the priest work. There is some commentary here or there from the man’s own lips, remarking on the poor state of Choi Han’s appearance, his tiredness, his careful warning when he pries away the sword in Choi Han’s grip. None of it bothers him. It makes him feel a bit unusual, to be seen and touched and cared for by another person, but it is not bothersome.
Everything passes in an unhurried manner.
It feels like his entire body is submerged in lukewarm water, tension unfurling from his muscles, syrupy-comfort pouring over his despair, drowning it out with a slow thickness akin to molasses.
Choi Han doesn’t know how long it takes, but once the rag no longer carries away blood from his body, a new feeling bubbles beneath his forearm where the priest gently touches him. A pure white glow, slightly warm and shining like starlight, bathes over the wound he’d received and hastily bandaged himself several days ago while fleeing the capital.
It fades quickly. The painful, dull reminder of its existence is soon a forgotten memory.
“If you have any wounds that aren’t visible, tell me now so I can heal them. That’s the only one I can see.”
Staring at him steadily, Choi Han realizes after a long pause that it was expected for him to actually answer the question. He doesn’t, because frankly, he’s not entirely sure. Everything aches and his muscles are sore and he’s so exhausted that there is a fine line between the simple pain of existing and the discomfort of wounds. The way his lungs hurt when he breathes, he thinks he may have some broken ribs, but doesn’t say anything.
“I guess not. Well then, I am going to have some attendants bring you some food. Stay here if it is comfortable.”
Twitching fingers grab the priest’s sleeve. Choi Han’s heart feels too weak to be moving at such a rapid pace, but the idea that this sudden source of benevolence might disappear from in front of him drives his actions by instinct alone.
‘No. No, don’t leave.’
“What? Do you want to come, too? You can, but you look exhausted. It would be best if I just fetch someone. The clerics here are very competent.”
“... You don’t. You don’t even know me.”
Choi Han thinks his own voice sounds smaller than he remembers, but the expression on the other’s face does not suggest he finds the swordmaster to be contemptible or pitiful. He seems plainly confused.
“No, I know exactly who you are. Your reputation precedes you, Choi Han.”
Something unidentifiable seizes Choi Han’s vocal chords, rendering him unable to speak. He stares at the man with shaking pupils.
“My name is Cale, by the way.”
He knows.
If he knows what Choi Han has done, how much blood he has shed, how… why would… It doesn’t make sense.
“... Why? Why are you… ?”
“Do I need a reason? I saw someone who needed my help. So I helped.”
The grip Choi Han has on his sleeve constricts and then slowly slips off, and there is an imprint of dirt and dried blood that stains the spot where he held Cale in place.
Tutting, the priest lifts his soiled robe up to inspect it, and then sighs.
“I, I’m sorry.”
Choi Han doesn’t even know what he’s apologizing for. Not the stain. More than that. Only that. Everything, maybe. His heart and mind do not know how to deal with this new and terrifying place, where he feels small and weak and far too much like a human being. How can someone who has done what he has done still share the same designation as this person in front of him? In what wild fantasy does Choi Han still have some semblance of his humanity worthy of something like that?
“It’s fine, it will wash out.”
“No, I’m… I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He can’t help himself, and he grabs the man by the waist and pulls him forward, head resting against his midsection. There are so many things for which he will never be forgiven, but still, Choi Han is longing for even the possibility. The fleeting hope that he isn’t lost to this world. It is a clawing need, for something and he isn’t even sure what. Desperation with no direction is a madness he has known for such a long time. How could he yearn for something he hadn’t known existed? How can he want so much of something he’s never had?
There are no answers in this hall of gods. And Choi Han doesn’t want them. Not right now.
Right now, all he wants is to keep his head here, in this soft, warm embrace. To soak in the presence of a gentle person who he does not even know. To tell them he’s sorry to have wasted his time on someone like Choi Han, who is irredeemable.
This person, he is so good. So kind. Real, and it made something react unusually in his chest.
Whatever this was, this place, this feeling… Choi Han never wanted to let it go. He wanted to drown in this warmth. And he wanted to run far away from it. So he doesn’t hurt Cale, someone who would clean away the blood he’s spilt and wipe away the dirt on his face. Someone who knows who he is and what he’s done, and invites him in rather than shutting him out.
Choi Han’s inability to reconcile these two conflicting desires makes his limbs tremble with the effort to hold himself still. There are so many things he wants. So many things he doesn’t deserve. Confronted with all of it, all at once, is far too much for him to handle.
This much, though, it seems the other will allow.
He hears a sigh, and then hands moving through his hair, petting and pulling the strands loosely, methodically. Choi Han’s body relaxes under his touch.
“You’ve suffered.”
Choi Han doesn’t—can’t—answer that.
It’s not a question, anyway.
“You did many things you never wanted to do. Had to, in order to survive.”
“I…”
“You can’t do anything while injured and exhausted. Let’s get you something to eat, and the rest will come later.”
“The rest…”
Nodding, Choi Han stands slowly, electing to follow this priest, Cale, somewhere deeper in the temple.
Cale catches the attention of some attendants and gives instructions to bring food before walking Choi Han into an empty prayer room and instructing him to take a seat. Light floods in warm, golden streaks, overflowing in a pearly chamber. There are statues of gods that Choi Han does not know, but he has no eyes for them anyways.
Over the course of three days, his confessions to Cale come naturally. He feels pain and sorrow while beside him. He feels the passage of time around him.
It is the feeling of his twisted heart being healed.
Choi Han learns many things during the three days he spends by Cale’s side. It feels like a lifetime of information, and it is only just scratching the surface.
Smart, cunning, and benevolent. Disillusioned with the kingdom and their politics, disgusted by the acts of violence committed by that secret organization. Cale is gentle and humane in all of the places Choi Han is not.
He feels his heart start to unfurl, the cinched-tight source of his weakness that had locked itself in a cage for fear of outside intrusion.
Now, he wants to let it all out.
It is something close to impossible, perhaps nearer to an inevitability, that Choi Han cannot look away from Cale for more than a few seconds at a time. He is entracing. His presence carries a greater, softer magnanimity than any of the nameless gods who cast their gazes upon this cruel and senseless world.
This person, in this place, is mesmerizing.
Choi Han wants to know everything about him.
He never wants to leave his side.