Chapter-7
(Flashback — Fifteen Years Ago)
The wind was cold that day, heavy with the scent of rain and prophecy.
At the edge of Mount Hua, cloaked in the storm-gray mist that curled around the forest like memory itself, a lone woman stood before an old, worn abode tucked into the mountain's side. Her figure was regal even in weariness, draped in a black cloak that billowed around her ankles like ink spilled across paper. Her long, raven-black hair clung to her cheeks, damp from the journey, but her eyes—those unmistakable, brilliant magenta eyes—burned with an unspoken plea.
She stood tall, but a sharp-eyed man would have seen the way she subtly pressed a hand to her side, the way her breathing hitched—small signs of pain she refused to acknowledge.
Lee Hwa Ran.
Duke of Eleria. One of the Seven Heroes.
The Flower God's bloodline made flesh.
And now... a woman carrying more than just her legacy.
The creak of the door cut through the silence like a blade. From within, Hwa Ryeon emerged, his once-black hair now streaked with silver, his eyes narrowing as they settled on the unexpected figure before him.
He stopped. His voice faltered. "Ran…?"
She didn't answer immediately. Her gaze softened for a moment—almost imperceptibly—before she took a slow step forward.
"I don't have long," she began, her voice low, steady, laced with exhaustion. "There's a mission. A place beyond the western ridge… not marked on any map. They say it reeks of blood, madness, and something older than time itself. My unit is being sent."
Hwa Ryeon's eyes flickered to the faint stain of blood on her robe. "You're injured—"
"I'm pregnant," she said, cutting through the worry like a dagger. "And I'm going."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
"I cannot raise him," she continued, her voice cracking just slightly—too human, too tender. "Not with what's coming. If I die there, he'll be alone. I need someone to protect him… and not just him. All seven of them. The children of the heroes."
She stepped closer, placing her hand over her stomach with a gentleness that shattered something in the old man's heart.
"They are not ready to know what they are. Not yet. You must raise them as descendants, not destined. Not until they're strong enough to find it themselves. Until then… you must not speak of the prophecy. You must protect their hearts before you burden them with fate."
Hwa Ryeon stood frozen, eyes wide with unshed memories and guilt long buried.
"I know what I ask of you is not easy," she said, the faintest smile curling her lips—bitter, but not without warmth. "But he is all I have left. And this world… this cursed, beautiful world may need them sooner than we thought."
She turned then, cloak catching the wind like wings of shadow. Her footsteps echoed down the path, fading into the mountains beyond.
She never looked back.
But the scent of wildflowers lingered in her wake—soft and tragic.
And Hwa Ryeon, old and weary, stared into the gray horizon with clenched fists and a heart full of promises.
(Present)
Cheon-Hwa stirred awake for the second day in a row, the dull ache in his body reminding him that he was still recovering—annoyingly slowly. He could walk now, albeit like an elderly man with back problems. With a heavy sigh and blanket lazily draped over his shoulders like a cape of defeat, he shuffled over to the open balcony and plopped down onto the floor like a grumpy cat claiming its territory.
From his spot, he could see Chae Ryun training in the courtyard below, sweat flicking from his brow with every swing, every strike. The scene tugged at a thread in Cheon-Hwa's chest—a memory, hazy but sharp at the edges: the sound of their sparring blades, laughter and scolding, and the smell of grass and sweat in his past life. The ache wasn't just physical.
Then—
"AAAAAAAGH!"
A sudden yelp pierced the peace, and Cheon-Hwa blinked back to the present, watching with utter deadpan expression as Chae Ryun flailed around, clutching his fist and blowing on it furiously.
"...He punched the tree again," Cheon-Hwa muttered flatly, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. "Stupid Sahyung."
Still bundled up in his blanket cocoon, he leaned back and stared at the sky, eyes distant. Earlier… what Master Hwa Ryeon had said—it kept echoing in his mind. Why ask about his mother's name? Why now? What did he know?
His fingers tightened around the edge of the fabric as the old pain resurfaced. He remembered it all too vividly—the bloodied mountainside, the sound of his Sahyung's final breath, the fury of the demonic cult that stole him away… and the sorrow of their master's death, quiet, unspoken, unfinished. The man had passed with secrets still locked behind his lips.
Cheon-Hwa closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. "The past has already been carved in stone," he whispered to himself, a flicker of emotion passing through his magenta eyes. "But the future… is still mine to shape."
He opened his eyes again and lifted his gaze to the vast, endless sky above—tinted gold with the morning sun. No matter how heavy the scars of his past life remained, this time… he would live differently. Stronger. Wiser. And maybe, just maybe… without punching a tree.
Chae Ryun collapsed beside Cheon-Hwa with all the grace of a sack of rice, panting dramatically as though the ten laps he just ran were the beginning of a tragic war tale. Cheon-Hwa, who had been enjoying the rare moment of peace with a lazy breeze and a quiet mind, resisted the urge to scoot away.
"Hey, hey, listen," Chae Ryun huffed, wiping his sweat and launching straight into what Cheon-Hwa assumed would be another long-winded monologue. "Master's gathering descendants of the Seven Ancient Heroes.I'm one of them."
Cheon-Hwa's half-lidded eyes flicked open. That got his attention.
"What?"
"Yeah! Descendant of the Wind Goddess—Leila, Wind of Eternal Dusk. Pretty cool, right?" Chae Ryun grinned. "And Master says we have to keep low until the time is right."
"…Keep low?" Cheon-Hwa echoed, voice flat.
Cheon-Hwa blinked slowly. The dots started connecting—and not the good kind. He gave Chae Ryun a blank stare.
"…Don't tell me."
But Chae Ryun already had his fingers raised, counting off like a child reciting legends:
The Flower God, The Petal Sovereign
The Goddess of Humanity, The Mother of All
The Wind Goddess, Wind of Eternal Dusk
The Golden Butterfly, Monarch of Golden Flutter
The Nature Goddess, Guardian of Green
The God of War, The Warfather
The God of Justice, Warden of Truth
"All seven were divine warriors serving the Almighty God. Together, they sealed the Monarch of Hell—the Destroyer of Worlds. But now… the demonic cult wants to bring him back," Chae Ryun finished with a dark tone.
A long silence fell between them.
Cheon-Hwa inhaled deeply through his nose, stared up at the clear blue sky, and let out a long, tired sigh as if the weight of the heavens had been dropped onto his shoulders.
'So much for peace…'
'So much for staying low…'
His eyelids drooped further as the wind tousled his black hair, a familiar dull ache settling in his chest.
'All I wanted was a quiet life. Make money. Eat good food. Maybe adopt a kid or two. Grow herbs. Retire before fifty. And now… prophecy. Cults. Demonic tyrants. Of course.'
A beat passed.
"…When Master asked about my mother and the Flower God," he muttered under his breath, tone dry and resigned, "it wasn't some poetic metaphor, was it?"
Chae Ryun blinked. "Huh?"
Cheon-Hwa groaned and leaned back, shielding his eyes from the sun with his arm.
"Ah, what a bother."
And with that, he exhaled deeply once more and muttered the truth he had been avoiding.
"So I'm the Flower God's descendant…"
"…Someone bury me."