Chapter-8
Cheon-Hwa and Chae Ryun sat cross-legged, the afternoon light casting soft shadows across the wooden floor of the training hall. Their chatter dwindled the moment Hwa Ryeon entered, his presence quiet yet heavy. With a composed sigh, the old master settled before them and looked directly at Cheon-Hwa.
"So… you've already found out," Hwa Ryeon muttered, giving a sidelong glance at Chae Ryun. "I assume your loudmouth senior was the culprit."
Cheon-Hwa merely nodded, expression unreadable as ever, not even bothering to defend Chae Ryun, who chuckled nervously under his breath.
"I figured," Hwa Ryeon said, rubbing the bridge of his nose before continuing, "Listen carefully, both of you. From now on, you must keep a low profile. If the cult catches wind of your bloodlines, it won't just be your lives at risk—it could jeopardize everything."
His voice grew serious, deep with the weight of countless battles past. "Your parents, Chae In-Do and Lee Hwa Ran… both were warriors of Murim. But the other heirs? Their regions remain unknown. We'll have to search for them eventually, though not yet."
As Hwa Ryeon's explanation deepened, Cheon-Hwa's mind had already drifted far beyond the room. He appeared calm, even bored—but inside, his thoughts moved like a war map unfolding.
In my past life… if timelines remain even somewhat aligned, the next to appear will be the descendant of the Goddess of Humanity—Ariana de Gloria. Archduchess of the Western Empire, prodigy mage, wealthier than three kingdoms combined, and stubborn as hell.
She'll appear when I'm fifteen… which gives me time.
'Alright,' he mused, tapping his fingers silently on his knee. Time to prepare the board. I'll need connections, leverage, and—most importantly—bribery-level gifts.
His expression didn't change; his face remained the usual impassive mask. Not a single word was spoken aloud. Because why risk more timeline divergence?
Beside him, Chae Ryun looked on with sparkling eyes, completely absorbed in their master's tale of legendary deities and past wars.
Cheon-Hwa glanced at him, slightly amused.
At least one of us is enjoying the storytelling session while I'm out here planning political alliances before puberty and staying low at the same time.
And so, with arms folded and thoughts running faster than the wind, Cheon-Hwa returned to listening, quietly filing away names, timings, and future probabilities in that sharp, strategic mind of his—
—because history, as far as he was concerned, was a battlefield.
And he intended to win.
Cheon-Hwa sat cross-legged, his posture prim and proper, his voice carrying that ever-so-serious tone as he said with unwavering calm, "I intend to stay low. I don't want unnecessary attention. Besides, I already know the twenty-four techniques of the Flower God style."
A pause.
Then—"Pfft."
That was all it took for Hwa Ryeon to interrupt with a dry laugh, one that sounded far too amused for someone usually so composed. He crossed his arms and raised a brow, looking down at the boy with both fondness and exasperation. "Twenty-four?" he scoffed. "Kid, that's barely the appetizer. The full set of the Flower God technique has hundreds of forms. You basically just memorized the table of contents."
Cheon-Hwa blinked, utterly silent. And yet, the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed a brewing internal crisis. ...That orphanage book lied to me. I've been scammed.
"And another thing," Hwa Ryeon continued, arms gesturing animatedly now as he entered full master-mode, "users of this technique must rest often. Sleep increases internal energy recovery by at least fourfold. Why do you think your mother always took naps between blowing up boulders and, oh I don't know, splitting a mountain in half?"
"SHE DID WHAT?!" Chae Ryun shouted, nearly falling over.
Cheon-Hwa? He just… stared.
Then he broke into a cold sweat.
Mother, what sort of monster were you? And why didn't I inherit that mountain-splitting gene already?
As the conversation turned into an epic tale of the seven ancient heroes and their divine deeds, Cheon-Hwa found his eyelids growing heavier. The exhaustion from his still-healing body crept in like a fog, quiet and persistent. His head slowly dipped, his shoulders relaxed, and eventually, he slumped just slightly to the side—landing against Chae Ryun's arm.
"Hm?" Chae Ryun blinked at the sudden contact and glanced down.
Cheon-Hwa was out cold. His face, usually carved in calm and command, now soft with sleep. For once, he didn't look like someone who calculated every step ten moves ahead. He looked... peaceful. Small. Warm.
Chae Ryun giggled quietly to himself and didn't move away. In fact, he leaned a little too, resting his own head against Cheon-Hwa's.
He smells like spring... Chae Ryun thought. And maybe paper.
It wasn't long before Chae Ryun, worn from training and comforted by the warmth at his side, followed him into slumber. Now, both boys were sound asleep on the porch, sunlight lazily filtering through the leaves, casting dappled patterns across their tangled hair and interlocked shadows.
Hwa Ryeon, watching the entire scene unfold, paused mid-sentence as he turned back.
A rare smile tugged at his lips. "Hopeless little heroes," he murmured with a shake of his head.
And with a quiet sigh, he went inside to prepare dinner—for the world's youngest strategist and Warroir, who just so happened to still need a nap.
------
Night had fallen like a gentle sigh over the quiet abode nestled in the mountains, and with the moonlight washing the wooden floor in silver hues, it was, unmistakably, dinner time—which, for one Lee Cheon-Hwa, meant a glorious bowl of steaming chicken soup placed before him, glistening with herbs and warmth, its scent practically whispering, you deserve this, you fragile, overworked reincarnated strategist baby—and as he sat there with his legs curled, cheeks slightly puffed as he carefully blew on a spoonful before slurping it in a manner entirely devoid of elegance (but entirely appropriate for the occasion), a blissful hum escaped him as he thought with all the seriousness of a seasoned tactician, Yes... this... this is the life. Chicken soup. Warm rice. Tender meat. Clean water. A soft blanket. No blood. No screaming. No evil cultists chasing me and i can kill those bastards quietly with no attention. Just peace and poultry. Being a slacker is a noble pursuit, truly... and if I keep my head down, avoid attracting any divine fate-induced drama, pretend I don't hear any world-ending prophecies, and—most importantly—stay away from anything that smells like responsibility...—he took another bite—then I can just heal quietly and live a life of blissful, chicken-flavored obscurity… because, let's be honest, I hate working. It's exhausting. It sucks. And I refuse to die from effort this time.
Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately, depending on how you looked at it), after emptying the bowl down to the last grain of rice and letting out a dramatic sigh of triumph, the act of eating a full meal while half-healed proved too much for his noodle limbs to handle, and thus, with the grace of a fallen leaf, he promptly slumped forward with a soft "...hngh," completely asleep at the table—which naturally led to Chae Ryun, ever the self-appointed big brother, scooping him up like a sack of potatoes with perhaps just a bit more care than he'd admit, mumbling under his breath about how the kid needed to eat and rest and not scare the life out of people by collapsing so suddenly, all while gently carrying him to bed where Cheon-Hwa curled up instinctively the moment he was placed down, like a sleepy cat claiming his corner of the world.
And while the two boys now lay in separate futons, the room warmed by their soft breathing and shared presence, Master Hwa Ryeon stood in his own quarters beneath a single flickering lantern, his usually unreadable expression caught somewhere between longing and mourning as he knelt before an old, nearly forgotten chest tucked at the far corner of the room; with slow, deliberate fingers, he opened it, revealing a carefully wrapped cloth bundle—inside it, a worn yet intact painting, old and weathered by time but unmistakable in its gentle strength: seven figures stood proudly, smiling, eyes bright with resolve—the former generation, the heroes of an age past, the very parents of the scattered children now slowly, unknowingly reuniting under his roof—and as his trembling hands clutched the frame close to his chest, the old master closed his eyes, a bitter smile tugging at his lips as the weight of old promises, lost comrades, and an uncertain future pressed against his ribs like a forgotten wound; and in that moment of aching silence, he made a vow not for glory, nor revenge, but for the sake of those small hands, those sleepy faces, those tiny descendants carrying the burdens of legends—to guide them, to protect them, to make them strong enough to survive what the world would one day hurl at them, all without ever letting them know just how much it hurt to watch history repeat itself in softer, smaller shapes.
Because if fate was cruel, then love, perhaps, was the only rebellion left.
And tonight, in the quiet hum of old grief and warm soup, that rebellion took the form of two sleeping boys... and a promise whispered to the past.