"I'm very fine noww."
Cahll forced a smile, his small lips stretching awkwardly as he stared at the stoic-faced child before him. Hoshino's impassive gaze seemed to weigh everything, judging him, measuring him, silently demanding perfection in a way only a Wolver could. The intensity of those golden-brown eyes was almost suffocating for a boy of six, and yet Cahll could see that beneath the surface, there was a calculating mind already at work.
"Good."
The six-year-old nodded once, deliberately, almost mechanically, giving Cahllen one last glance before turning toward the door. Each step was measured, calm, deliberate—the kind of slow confidence that seemed unnatural in someone so young. His small body seemed to command space despite its size; every movement had purpose, every pause a statement. Even the soft click of his shoes against the polished floor sounded intentional, as though announcing his presence while simultaneously marking his authority.
As soon as the door clicked shut behind Hoshino, Cahll's restraint broke.
"Pwuhaha!" he burst out laughing, clutching his sides. His giggle echoed faintly off the polished walls, bouncing between the tall ceilings and ornate furnishings. The sight of Hoshino's serious, almost intimidating demeanor just moments ago, juxtaposed with his small, stiff frame, was too absurd, too endearing. (〃^ω^〃) The contrast struck Cahll like a jolt—Hoshino, the calculated, silent child-leader in the making, and yet just a boy, tiny and human, fumbling slightly with the burdens imposed upon him by birth and expectation.
But the amusement was fleeting. Pain lanced through his head, a sharp reminder that this fragile new body had its limits.
"Owww…"
Cahll pressed a hand to his bandaged head, wincing as he tried to stifle the tears that threatened to escape. His laughter faltered, replaced by a grimace. Adjusting to a child's body—weak, small, and far more vulnerable than he'd anticipated—was going to take time. And time, he knew, was a luxury he could hardly afford in this household. Every second he lingered in this frail form was a second he remained at the mercy of circumstance, a target for the household's unspoken hierarchies and invisible tests.
Knock…
The soft sound of the door rapping interrupted his thoughts. The door creaked open, and a young maid stepped inside, carrying a tray of food. Cahll immediately noticed her posture: tall, strong, and precise. Her presence radiated quiet authority, though she carried none of the fearsome air of the Wolvers themselves. Even without weapons or harsh words, there was a confidence in her movement—a signal that she knew exactly how to navigate this house, and how to survive within it.
In the Wolver household, this was normal. Servants were not mere helpers—they were skilled, trained, and dangerous in their own right. Ordinary people would never dare to work here. To survive in this place required more than courage; it demanded an understanding of power, of precision, and, occasionally, the willingness to spill blood. Every action, every glance, every silent observation was a potential lesson in the household's unspoken code.
The maid's movements were silent, fluid, deliberate. Every footfall, every hand gesture carried the elegance of training. Cahll couldn't help but study her as she set the tray down in front of him, her expression completely unreadable. "She's more adept than me right now," he thought, a twinge of bitterness curling in his chest. Once, he had been a master of shadows; now, he was a child watching someone else wield skill with perfect calm. The helplessness of his current form gnawed at him, reminding him of the vulnerability that even the smallest misstep could bring.
The tray held a simple meal: a steaming bowl of porridge. Cahll stared at it, stirring absentmindedly while his mind ran through scenarios. He noticed the subtle rhythm in the maid's steps as she retreated—light, calculated, perfect. Even her exit was a lesson in control and stealth, a reminder that in this house, everything—even the simplest action—was honed to efficiency. The household breathed discipline, and every individual had been shaped by necessity. Survival was a test, and the slightest sign of weakness invited scrutiny.
"Truly worthy of the Wolver Family," Cahll muttered under his breath. He admired her skills—not just because they were impressive, but because they reflected the standards set by the family he now belonged to. Though her abilities might not rival the elite Wolvers in assassination or strategy, she was still leagues above any ordinary combatant. In this household, being merely "capable" meant being exceptional by normal standards, and Cahll's small mind ran over the implications. Every servant, every sibling, every relative had layers of capability hidden beneath the exterior of normalcy. To underestimate any of them would be fatal.
Cahll lifted a spoonful of porridge to his lips, careful not to spill. The warmth of the food contrasted sharply with the chill that ran through his small frame, a reminder of how frail his new body was. Each bite was a small victory, a step toward regaining even a fraction of his former strength. In this house, weakness was dangerous; survival required adaptation, patience, and vigilance. Even something as mundane as eating became an exercise in control: steady hands, measured movements, cautious breaths, and awareness of every sound and shift in the room.
As he ate, Cahll allowed himself a brief moment of reflection. Even in this fragile form, even with the familiar world now feeling strange and threatening, he couldn't let himself be overwhelmed. The Wolvers were a family of monsters, yes—but monsters could also recognize strength. And if he wanted to endure, to reclaim even a shred of autonomy, he would need to grow strong again. Not just physically, but mentally, emotionally, strategically. The house itself, the walls, the furniture, the servants' trained movements—all were silent lessons in power and control.
His eyes flicked to the window, where the sun streamed through the glass, casting long, angular shadows across the floor. The interplay of light and shadow reminded him of his old skills, the way he had once moved in darkness, unseen, untouchable. Though he was trapped in this childlike form, the same instincts lingered, dormant but not gone. He imagined the future—small victories, cautious steps, the slow reclaiming of power that had been stripped from him with death and reincarnation. Every detail in the room—the polished floors, the faint scent of incense, the quiet hum of the household—reminded him that this was now his world. Not just a story to remember, but a life to survive.
With a deep breath, Cahll lowered his spoon. For all the discomfort, the pain, the uncertainty of inhabiting a weak, childlike body, he felt a spark of determination. This would not break him. He would endure, adapt, and grow. Even here, among monsters, there was space for him to survive—and maybe, just maybe, to thrive. The laughter that had bubbled up moments ago still lingered in his chest, a small ember of joy amidst the unease, proof that his humanity, even in this fragile vessel, had not been extinguished.