Archive of Our Own ^beta

The scent of ink and old dust are evident to one of the rooms in the fallen palace of the Mogoru Empire, where the heavy doors are shut. There’s a map before them. Red ink marked the procession. Black, the execution.

Cale sat back in his chair, arms loosely folded, expression as unreadable as ever.

‘They want to honor the dead. Good. Those people who died for the empire’s evil deeds deserve proper burial even if their bodies cannot be found anymore.’

He didn’t say it aloud—no need. The room was full of people who already knew.

Rex stood near the head of the table, formal robes straight despite the exhaustion weighing on his shoulders. “The funerals will begin at dawn,” he said, carefully unrolling the scroll. “Three days of mourning. The procession will start from the empire gate to the cathedral. We’ve prepared space for the names to be read aloud.”

His voice trembled for half a breath.

“They weren’t soldiers. They were offerings—fed to a tower built on screams.”

Cale leaned back again, eyes closing for a moment. He exhaled slowly. A funeral for the dead.

Rex’s expression was grim but resolute. “The names will be read. The dead will be seen.”

Cale watched Rex closely. He’s changed. That fury used to be aimless and scared. Now it’s sharpened into something that might last.

“They deserve that much,” Alberu said quietly. Then he looked at Cale. “And Adin?”

Cale’s jaw tightened.

He orchestrated so many deaths. Innocents. Children. People from the slums.

“He dies where they can all see it,” Cale said. “Let his final breath be a warning.”

A silence settled over the room.

“Adin’s execution will follow on the third day,” Alberu added from his place beside the arched window. The Crown Prince’s arms were crossed, posture unshaken despite the weight on him. “It will be public. The Empire’s cruelty began in secret. Let its fall be witnessed in full.Their memory will not be buried with the Empire. Let Mogoru’s ashes be a monument to what we refuse to become.”

“And what of those still hiding?” Rosalyn’s voice cut in, clear and confident. She leaned forward, her bright red curls fluttering, “There are remnants still unaccounted for. Alchemists too. The Tower and the Empire may have fallen, but the roots haven’t rotted.”

Cale tilted his head slightly. She’s right. The silence is too clean.

‘There’s still several members of the Alchemist Tower that escaped, if we leave them further, they might try to spread or worse directly go under the White Star.’

He reached out—just barely—and brushed his fingers along the whip to communicate with the wind elementals. Invisible, but always listening.

‘Anything?’

The answer came, soft and swirling.

‘Western rooftops, many people in black cloaks, they speak of “rescue”… and “vengeance” and are planning to ambush and create a chao.’

Cale’s brow raised faintly.

“They’re going to make a move.”

Everyone turned.

“The wind elementals,” he explained simply. “They’ve been hearing, they said that those people are going to try to rescue Adin during the execution. They’ll aim for the ceremony” Cale continued. “And the moment the crowd thickens and the ceremony begins, they would destroy the execution platform and cause a massacre in the chaos.”

“Cowards,” Choi Han muttered under his breath.

“They’re desperate,” Alberu corrected, but his voice was cool. “Which makes them all the more dangerous.”

Rosalyn’s eyes narrowed. “To save Adin?”

“Or kill him before we do,” Cale said flatly. “So he becomes a martyr, not a traitor.”

'Either way, it’s leverage. Either way, it’s a mess.’

Choi Han hadn’t moved, but Cale could feel the shift in his presence. Ready. A weapon without words.

“We can increase the perimeter,” Rex said, though uncertainty crept into his voice. “Bring in more mages, perhaps delay—”

“No,” Cale cut in. “Delaying gives them time. They want chaos. Let’s give them order instead—and make them believe it’s chaos.”

He leaned forward, finger tracing a path through the plaza on the map. “We draw them in, as always, four groups will be separated to capture them and smack them from their back. Rosalyn to the East, the Molan assassins to the North, Choi Han and Mary to the South, the dark elves to the West.”

Alberu raised an eyebrow. “What about the ceremony?”

“It will proceed as planned, Rex and the others, along with Eruhaben-nim will facilitate and look out for the ceremony.” Cale’s voice didn’t waver. Calculated and necessary. 

Rosalyn nodded. “I’ll set up a magic circle across the buildings—, nothing flashy. Just enough to lock the air if someone tries to fly or blink out.”

“I’ll give you a sack of the highest grade magic stone along with the other mages for all of you to proceed smoothly.” Cale asked.

“How thoughtful, young master Cale..”

‘Spending money to cause troubles to those assholes are the best.’

Choi han said, “If we move too obviously,” he said, calm but firm, “the citizens might panic. We can’t have that. Not with tensions still high. You have a plan for that, right, Cale-nim?”

Cale glanced at him.

‘ The protagonist is really smart, hmm… Good this bastard— I mean this person is thinking ahead too.’

Rosalyn nodded, her expression thoughtful. “He’s right. The war just ended. People are still raw and grieving. If they see blades drawn during a funeral or hear spells fired mid-execution, it might feel like the Empire is collapsing all over again.”

Her voice, though rational, carried an undercurrent of sorrow. She’s thinking of the children. Of the families who will be there.

Alberu remained composed, but his eyes gleamed with sharp thought. Although we can do it quietly, we can’t be certain. “We need something to draw attention. A spectacle that keeps the crowd focused away.”

He looked at each of them in turn. “A diversion, but not alarming. Something controlled.”

Choi Han tilted his head. “A cover, so we can eliminate them quietly.”

Cale’s fingers drummed once against the table.

‘I can do it.’

He didn’t raise his voice, but it cut clean through the room.

“I’ll handle the distraction.”

Alberu turned to him, arching a brow. “Oh? And how exactly do you plan to do that?”

Cale gave a faint shrug. “Using a sword.”

That earned him a round of stares.

Rosalyn blinked. “You? With a sword?”

Rex looked as though he’d just seen a chicken declare war. “You can’t even lift a sword.”

“You?” Alberu said, one brow rising so high it might’ve lifted into the heavens. “You, Cale Henituse, are going to use a sword. In front of a crowd. Will you also juggle while you’re at it?”

Cale stared flatly at the prince. “No. But if you’d like to dress up as a jester and join me, I’ll clear the stage.”

Rosalyn folded her arms, eyes narrowed like a tutor catching a student bluffing before an exam. “ Young Master Cale, This isn’t a festival in the countryside. This is a solemn public execution and mourning procession. You can’t just ‘wave a sword around’ and expect people to forget there’s a traitorous prince about to die.”

Cale didn’t so much as blink. “That’s exactly what I intend to do.”

“You’re saying,” he began, voice slow and skeptical, “that you, Cale Henituse, are going to be our crowd distraction. With a sword.”

Rosalyn frowned, not out of spite but sheer logic. “I admire the confidence. But unless you’re planning to light yourself on fire while holding that sword, I’m struggling to see how that’s going to distract an entire plaza.”

Cale, very calmly, stared at a point on the table.

“I regret speaking. I regret existing. I regret suggesting it and leaving this entire meeting to Raon.’

“I’m pretty popular among people,” he grimaced, “the distraction will last only for five minutes at most. That’s a lot of time for our people to move.”

He resisted the urge to sigh. Just barely.

Rosalyn looked scandalized. “How? Do you even know what you’re doing?”

“Would I suggest it if I didn’t?”

“Yes,” she and Alberu said in unison.

Rex, caught between laughter and horror, muttered, “He really can’t lift a proper sword. I once saw him trip over a sheath.”

“Details,” Cale muttered.

Cale sighed through his nose. ‘Why do I even talk? Why do I open my mouth in this place?’

“Cale-nim, what are you planning to do with a sword? Its not like you can fight there—”

“Choi Han, I don’t know how to fight with a sword but I can perform with a sword.”

Cale sighed inwardly. 'Every time. Just once, I’d like to say something and not be met with disbelief.'

“I won’t be fighting,” he said, voice dry. “It’s… more of a performance.”

Choi Han suddenly made a soft sound, a quiet “Ahh,” like a note of recognition. A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Choi Han didn’t say anything else, but the knowing look in his eyes made Cale wish, just for a second, that he’d actually kept his old self locked away from this mess.

Cale narrowed his eyes. ‘Damn it. I said too much.’

He stood up, smoothing the folds of his coat. “Just trust me. I’ll handle it. The crowd will be looking where I need them to be.”

Rosalyn was still frowning. “What kind of performance?”

“Does it matter?” Cale replied, “All you need to know is that it’ll hold their attention long enough.”

“Don’t you hate attention?” Alberu raised his brows, as if looking at him like he grown another head.

Still, the plan was coming together.

Rosalyn was still trying to reconcile the image. “I just… I don’t even know what that would look like. You don’t even like moving that much.”

Alberu smirked. “Let him. Cale can do anything or nothing at all and the crowd will always be amazed by just his breathing, and whatever Cale is planning to do, people would be too stunned to notice if the palace collapses.”

Rosalyn gave a hesitant nod. “If you can manage it… then I’ll coordinate the visual spells around so people will notice it and divert their attention.”

Alberu gave a small smile. “You’ll be our opening act, Cale. Just don’t hurt yourself in the process, Raon-nim and the cat siblings will be by your side just in case.”

Cale didn’t rise to the bait. “Sure, just do me a favor. Don’t allowed magic recording devices inside the plaza.”

‘This is a public humiliation set up by me because of some measly thoughts of my past.’

Then, he look at Choi Han and their eyes met, as if those gaze quiet are saying, ‘You’re not really going to do it, are you?’

Cale’s eye twitched. ‘Right, this bastard probably see it on Choi Jung soo memories.’

Across the table, Choi Han stood serenely, hands folded behind his back. His face was the picture of knightly calm.

Choi Han whispered to him, “You were good at it, though. Choi Jung Soo said you are a natural.”

Cale didn’t respond this time.

Those people still keep teasing him.

Rosalyn was still trying to apply reason to the situation. “Are we even sure this won’t backfire? If young master Cale starts swinging a sword around and someone in the crowd panics—”

“Right?” Alberu added with a snort. “What if people think it’s an attack? Or worse, what if someone throws a shoe?”

Cale finally spoke. “I’ll be fine.”

“You haven’t said how,” Rosalyn pointed out, eyeing him like a scholar.

“Because you don’t need to know how,” Cale replied flatly. “You just need to be ready when the crowd’s eyes are on me.”

“You’re actually going to do it, Cale-nim.” Choi Han’s voice murmured again, amused.

‘I swear if I see even one magic recording device pointed at me, I’m going to runaway from this continent.’

Rex, wisely, kept his mouth shut, though his shoulders trembled suspiciously.

“Wait—what exactly will you be doing?” Alberu called after him. “Some kind of elegant blade display? Spinning? Leaping? Should I prepare a commentary?”

Cale didn’t stop walking.

“I’ll handle it,” he said coolly, disappearing through the doorway.

Behind him, Choi Han’s eyes followed, warm with amusement.

“You’re going to look amazing, Cale-nim Just… don’t trip since you trip the last time Choi Jung Soo taught you.”

Cale’s reply was immediate.

“Trip over this entire palace, why don’t you.”

“I’m kidding, Cale-nim.”

He sighed.

“Sword dance. What the hell was I thinking back then… and why do I still know the steps?’

Obviously, because of his records.

zZz

Cale should have known, the moment Cale started briefing shortly what is his plan to the kids, they reacted like those people earlier.

Raon wings puffed and eyes blazing with blue fire, he should have known peace wasn’t an option.

“You’re going to dance?!” Raon bellowed, wings flapping so hard a stack of papers nearly flew off the table. “With a sword?! In front of people?!”

Cale winced. “Lower your voice.”

“No! I will not lower it!” Raon circled him with furious energy. “You hate attention! You hate moving! You hate swords!”

‘And I hate being yelled at by a floating six-year-old dragon.’

“I’m not doing it because I like it,” Cale said through gritted teeth.

‘I fucking hate the attention, eugh.’

“It’s a distraction. It’ll keep the people focused. I’m already recognizable. Popular. They’ll look at me instead of anything suspicious happening in the background.”

Eruhaben, standing near the back with arms crossed and a glimmer of age-old weariness in his eyes, finally spoke.

“I must admit, I’m more surprised you agreed at all,” the ancient dragon said dryly. “You—who loathes applause like it’s a personal attack—volunteered to dance in public. Did someone hit you over the head?”

On, perched neatly on a chair, tilted her head with narrowed eyes. “ Nya~ Did someone possess you?”

Cale stared at her. “No.”

“It would make more sense nya,” she murmured.

Hong, in stark contrast, practically vibrated with excitement. “Will there be fire? Can I add poison for the effec? Can I throw sparks behind you while you spin? Nya?”

“No,” Cale said immediately.

“But—!”

“No.”

Mary stood quietly to the side, silent as always, but the way her head tilted—slightly off center—spoke volumes. Curiosity. Concern. Mild confusion. Maybe amusement.

Raon hovered closer, his tail twitching. “If you get hurt—if you get even a tiny cut—I will personally blast every spy within ten miles into tiny bits!”

“Okay,” Cale muttered, rubbing his temples. “Sure. I feel very protected.”

‘And very cursed.’

“It’s not supposed to be dangerous,” he added. “I’m just moving a little. With a sword. For like five minutes.”

Eruhaben raised a golden brow. “Five minutes is enough for you to trip, twist something, and accidentally start a revolution.”

Cale groaned.

Eventually, they dispersed as Eruhaben and the kids will fetch Rosalyn—Raon still muttering to himself, On and Hong bickering over outfit colors (“He has to look cool, On!” “He doesn’t care!” “I care!”), and Mary trailing behind them in thoughtful silence.

Only Choi Han stayed behind.

They walked in silence down the corridor, Then, Choi Han asked, voice low and without accusation, “…Is it because of what Choi Jung Soo taught you?”

Cale didn’t answer right away.

The hallway stretched long, bathed in sunset light.

Choi Han glanced at him. “The sword dance… it was for the fallen. To send them off with honor. To declare that life would move forward. He said it wasn’t just tradition, it was his way to let go.”

Cale exhaled through his nose.

‘Why does he always see through it? He become more attentive when he experienced Choi Jung Soo's memories.’

“It’s not like that,” he muttered.

It is exactly like that.

“I just thought… if it helps the people stay calm, then it’s worth it.”

‘And maybe… maybe it’s worth it for me too.’

Choi Han didn’t press. He merely walked beside him, silent and steady.

But in his heart, he knew.

‘You still carry it all. Their deaths. Your failures. Even the things that were never your fault.’

Choi Han thought solemly, ‘So you’ll stand there and performing one of Choi Jung Soo taught you after all those years to carry the weight one more time—and maybe, let it go.’

Cale glanced sideways.

“…You’re not going to tell the others, are you?”

Choi Han gave him a small smile. “Of course not.”

Then, softer “But I’ll be watching.”

Cale rolled his eyes. “As if, you’ll be busy dealing with the assholes.”

“I’m good at multitasking, Cale-nim.”

“Killing people while watching? Wow, what a great hobby you got there.”

Choi Han chuckled beside him, and Cale thought,

‘But somehow… it didn’t feel as heavy.’

zZz

The air was thick with sorrow.

The plaza before the cathedral church overflowed with people—dressed in black, clutching white flowers.

The ceremonial bells rang.

One heavy toll for every hundred lost.

A mother in the crowd pressed her trembling hand to her chest, whispering the name of her daughter like a prayer. “Ifa... he was only five…”

“He wanted to be a healer,” the woman beside her said gently, brushing tears from her cheeks. “He said He’d fix people. Not…”

Her voice broke.

Just beyond them, an old man held a wooden toy soldier in both hands. His grandson had carried it to the battlefield, told him, “Grandpa, I’ll come home with honor.”

But he hadn’t.

The list of names echoed, one after another. Each word carved deeper into the hearts of the mourning.

Soldiers. Farmers. Children.

Victims of the Mogoru Empire’s alchemy towers. Sacrifices for experiments in dark mana. Gone without graves.

At the foot of the execution platform, white-robed of Jack the Saint offered flowers for each name called.

“May the sun carry them to peace,” Jack intoned.

It should have been sacred.

But then the platform quieted. The names were done.

And the execution began.

Bound in silver chains, on his knees, sat Adin.

Once the proud crown prince of the Mogoru Empire. Now, a pale husk of a man—thin, bruised, lips curled into a mockery of a smile, all his limbs are gone.

His eyes were distant. Dead. But his mouth still moved.

When the people saw him, rage boiled.

“You bastard!”

“You smiled while our children screamed!”

“Prince my ass!”

A rock hit him square in the chest. Another struck his cheek.

He laughed.

Low at first—then louder as it become more unhinged.

The man who led mass slaughter and feed on dark mana daily smiled as if he'd won.

The executioner approached, blade in hand, raised to the sky.

Adin tilted his head back, blood dripping from his lip, eyes glinting with deranged glee.

“Try it,” he murmured. “The White Star will make every single one of you pay.”

Then the wind changed.

It came sharp and fast.

A hush swept through the plaza.

People looked up.

High atop the cathedral’s roof,

—a figure stood.

Still.

And unmistakably familiar.

The sunlight caught red hair.

Cale Henituse looked down at the crowd, at the chains, at Adin.

Unmoving.

Unsmiling.

Unseen until now.

The plaza held its breath.

Then—

“Let’s get started,” Cale murmured.

He stood atop the cathedral, wind curling around him like a question, as if even the sky was waiting.

His clothes were simple—black long-sleeved shirt tucked into fitted black pants, nothing grand.

He wasn’t here as a hero. He’s not even a hero for god’s sake. He’s the most coward person to ever exist.

Just as a man.

His red hair, usually tied back neatly, was loose now. The strands danced around his face, fluttering by the breeze. He could feel it brushing against his cheeks, tickling his neck.

He closed his eyes.

The noise of the plaza below—rage, grief, trembling silence, faded into the distance, like waves crashing on a shore.

His hand touched the sword at his hip. The sword is lightweight, not for battles and Raon also demanded that the sword should have not pointy tip just in case he bruised himself.

‘This is ridiculous, he thought. I’m not even good at this. I remember the steps but I haven’t practiced because everyone is so busy.’

Eruhaben from below play a violin instrumental music.

The sword hissed free from its sheath.

And then the memories came.

It was a rooftop not unlike this one.

The sky was golden, the smell of cheap kimbap and half-drunk energy drinks in the air, they just finished another monster raid.

Choi Jung Soo stood in front of him, barefoot on the rooftop tile, a wooden practice sword in hand, grinning like a fool.

"Come on, Rok Soo, join me. I’ll show you something cool."

Cale—Kim Rok Soo, back then—was already regretting everything.

“I said I don’t need to learn your weird sword dance.”

"It’s not weird, it’s traditional. It’s for the dead. To send them off with dignity."

Choi Jung Soo twirled the sword in a graceful arc, then kicked a pebble off the ledge. “I do it every time I lose someone.”

Kim Rok Soo frowned. “…You mean you’ve done this often?”

Jung Soo’s grin slipped a little.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Too often.”

Then the smile returned, bright but softer now. “But when my heart’s restless, when I can’t sleep after a fight… this helps. It’s like telling them, you’re free now. You don’t have to stay in my memories like ghosts.”

He looked over his shoulder, eyes crinkling. “Wanna try?”

"No."

“Too bad.”

And so he did it anyway. Slowly. Patiently.

Kim Rok Soo had muttered and complained and half-heartedly swung the wooden blade—but Jung Soo just laughed and corrected him.

“Too stiff! You're not stabbing a monsters that was named horribly by the Team Leader, you're painting a goodbye.”

“Hey Jung Soo, I can hear you loud and clear from here!” Lee Soo Hyuk shouted.

At some point, Team Leader Lee Soo Hyuk had joined them on the roof, raising a brow before sighing and mimicking the motion.

He failed miserably.

Kim Rok Soo remembered laughing, real and startled. The rooftop was filled with echoes of that ridiculous trio, one clumsy, one tiredl, one grumbling.

Jung Soo’s voice rang out again,

“You'll remember this someday, when you need to.”

It was stupid. A waste of time. A ridiculous sword dance no one cared about anymore.

But they had laughed.

They had been alive.

---

Cale’s eyes opened.

The cathedral roof stretched beneath him. The world felt far away, but the grief below pressed upward like a tide. People staring at him.

He took the first step.

The sword rose, not to strike—but to breathe.

His foot swung,

The blade arced upward.

His sleeves fluttered, weightless.

His movements were slow, His arms extended with grace, flowing like ink on paper. He spun once—sharp—and then stopprd, feet grounded.

A low curve of the blade. A spiral upward.

A slash through empty space.

A turn.

A breath.

‘This is for every name I never got to say.-

He stepped again, blade trailing behind like a whisper.

‘I’m not a swordmaster. I’m not Jung Soo nor Team Leader. But this is all I can give to the two of you’

Another arc and step,

The sword glinted in the light, his black clothes rippling gently. His hair was like a halo around his face, caught in the wind like it too refused to be still.

He was dancing.

A funeral dance.

A farewell no one had asked for—but one he needed to give.

‘I hated this dance,’ Cale thought., ‘And now, it’s the only thing I have left to offer.’

I hated this.

I told him it was dumb. Pointless.

But here I am. Dancing on a roof like a lunatic.

Because… I remember how it felt to lose someone and not know how to say goodbye.

The blade slowed. And it turn into right.

The battle in the East shadows was meant to be swift. Clean. Silent.

Rosalyn lowered her hand, strands of hair clinging to her sweat-dampened face. Her breath came in quiet huffs as the last pulse of battle died away.

“We got them all,” a mage beside her confirmed, voice hushed but firm.

“Good,” she murmured, already turning to check the perimeter.

Rosalyn’s fingers sparkled with mana as the last attacker crumpled beneath a soundless stun spell. The enemy had been faster than expected—but not faster than her.

‘It seems like young master Cale plan is effective.’

She steadied her breath and turned to scan the crowd in the middle to observe, until something at the edge of her vision rooted her in place.

A ripple in the air.

A blade catching light like starlight.

And above them all—

A figure in black, hair like blood, moving with haunting grace atop the cathedral spire.

Rosalyn froze.

And then she saw him.

And froze.

“…No way,” someone whispered behind her.

There he was.

Cale Henituse.

Her heart skipped a beat.

“That—”

“Is that… Commander Cale?” a young mage beside her whispered.

The team stopped.

Wands half-lowered. Magic circle pausing for a brief seconds.

As one, they lifted their gazes.

Cale moved like flowing ink. Each step, a stroke. Each turn, elegant and free. His sword carved not violence, but silence and mourning.

He didn’t look real.

Not anymore.

Rosalyn could only stare, mouth parting in disbelief.

She had fought beside Cale in countless brutal missions, had seen him crushed, bloodied, cold with calculation. But now—

Now he looked like he belonged in legend like one of their strange comrade white haired snake always preach.

'What is this?’

‘Who taught you this, Cale Henituse? And why… Why does it hurt so much to watch?’

She couldn’t explain the ache blooming in her chest.

Nor could the hardened mage beside her, whose hands shook ever so slightly as he whispered, “He looks like he’s mourning the whole continent…”

“How is this the same man who was once caught crouching to steal the highest magic stones?” Rosalyn didn’t laugh.

She couldn’t.

She just whispered, “...He’s not distracting them.”

“What?”

“He’s offering them peace.”

Mages had abandoned their post to stare upward. One had tears in her eyes. Another lowered his staff slowly, reverently.

A mage asked, voice hoarse, “Was this… part of the plan?”

Rosalyn didn’t answer.

She was watching Cale still,

Because she had just remembered something.

He never trained in swordsmanship.

Not properly. Not past what he needed to defend himself.

So where had he learned that fluid, mournful grace?

And then—

A flash of memory.

The way Choi Han had looked at Cale earlier that week. The quiet, unreadable emotion in his eyes. The way Cale had dismissed their questions with a casual “I’ve got it handled.”

Rosalyn exhaled shakily.

This wasn’t for show. This was for him.

For all the ones they lost.

For the empire’s victims.

For the friends and enemies that died in darkness.

And for the guilt that refused to leave him.

‘When did you learn this, young master Cale?

When did you start carrying all of this, and why didn’t you say a word?’

She clenched her fists.

“Damn you,” she muttered. “Always making us worry in stupid, beautiful ways.”

Above the cathedral.

Moving in silence. Sword cutting through the air like calligraphy on water, the sword turn left.

Far below, in an alley in the South, blood dripped from Ron’s dagger.

Another corpse joined the others.

He stood still, eyes narrowed. A faint chill swept the cobblestone as he turned his head—and saw it.

The cathedral. The rooftop. The boy.

Ron didn’t breathe.

No, not a boy.

Not right now.

“…That brat,” Ron whispered.

Beacrox blinked hard. “Is that really him?”

“Unless we’ve been following the wrong boy this whole time.”

A faint, almost invisible smile tugged at Ron’s lips.

He had seen Cale fake his drunkiness, being uncomfortable with the lemonades he served
Seen him command armies with cold precision. Seen him dive into death traps with nothing but a sigh and a plan.

But this—

This was something new.

He looked untouchable up there. Not like a commander. Not even like a hero.

But like a story passed down from generations.

Like a ghost dancing beneath the sun.

Beacrox cleared his throat. “I… didn’t know he could do that.”

“Neither did I.”

“I thought he hated attention.”

“He does,” Ron said.

“Then why—?”

Ron’s gaze softened. “Because it was never about him.”

Cale spun again, blade drawn through the air. His black clothes moved like smoke. His hair shimmered like the setting sun.

A hush seemed to ripple outward from him, even through the chaos.

Beacrox staggered to a halt beside his father, wiping blood from his blade.

“What is he doing—” he began, then stopped.

“...”

They watched.

They stood there, the infamous assassins of the fallen Molan household, gazing upward in silence.

Finally, Ron muttered, “Our puppy young master always surprises us.”

Beacrox frowned. “That’s not just dancing.”

“No,” Ron said. “It’s grieving.”

“Since when does he do it publicly?”

Ron’s eyes crinkled with something unreadable.

“Only when it’s not about himself.”

And then he smiled, a rare, almost wistful thing.

“...Ho, that child always finds new ways to be foolish.”

And new ways to make them all look up.

Cale’s blade traced the sky in another wide arc as if the wind itself parted to let it through.

Every move was purposeful. Every step carved meaning.

Below, the battle raged in shadows. Yet no one could look away from the man above.

Mary stood frozen in place, black robes stirring around her unmoving figure as she gazed, Mary, On, Hong, Raon and Eruhaben are beside Cale but they’re invincible with Eruhaben’s magic.

“…What is this?”

Her voice was nearly drowned by the distant cries of the crowd and the faint clashing of swords—but her heart felt too loud in her chest.

Cale was dancing.

Sword raised, Movements too graceful to belong to war, yet too heavy to be mere art.

A ritual. A mourning.

A farewell.

‘Is this what he’s carried all this time?’ Mary thought. ‘Is this what silence looks like when it moves?’

For someone like her—who found connection in quiet ways—this was overwhelming.

‘I want to learn it,’ she thought suddenly, without hesitation. ‘Not because I want to be like him… but because I want to understand young master Cwle.’

Her hands clenched, bones clicking.

‘This is beautiful.’

On, standing not far from her, said nothing. Her silver eyes narrowed, fixated.

She was too sharp not to notice it.

Cale’s movements were practiced—but the emotion that seeped from each move was not.

It was raw.

Delicate and frayed.

Like someone stitching shut an old wound with trembling hands.

‘He’s letting go’, she realized, ‘‘Not of people. But of pain.’

‘Is it adult’s pain? Pain from war? Pain from the family? I just wish Cale would share those pain to us.’

For all his sighs, his plans, his laziness… Cale Henituse had always felt just slightly restrained.

But now?

Now, his body moved like it had finally escaped a cage.

She stared, quiet, breath catching.

“…It’s so sad nya,” she whispered.

Hong watched with wide, starry eyes, his tail curled tightly around his ankle.

He didn’t understand it all. But he didn’t have to.

Because something about it was…

Cool.

“Cale-nim,” he whispered to himself. “He’s so…”

He swallowed.

Amazing.

He didn’t have a sword yet but he was planning to hold one. He wasn't grown. He was still a kid who liked grilled fish and sunny spots.

But right then, all Hong could think was—

‘I want to grow up like that. I want to protect people like that. I want to… shine like that, even just once.’

“I want to grow strong,” he said, “but I want to grow gentle, too. Like that.”

On’s hand touched his briefly. He squeezed it.

And smiled, even if his eyes were wet.

“Cale-nim’s cool.”

No one disagreed.

And so, for the first time in a while, Hong promised something to himself.

Raon hovered in the air beside Eruhaben,
.
“…Human is not like this,” he said. “He’s not supposed to be like this.”

“Raon—” On began, but he kept going.

“He always sighs. He always complains. He always eats meat with no manners and says nonsense like wanting to be slacker trash!”

His voice cracked.

“But right now… Human looks like someone who…”

Is saying goodbye.

Raon didn’t finish the sentence.

His small eyes shimmered, and his little voice broke as he whispered, “Why does he always do things like this without telling us?”

Mary’s hand gently patted his back.

Hong curled closer.

And On watched silently.

But his usual bouncing, excited self was quiet now.

Utterly still.

His large eyes were wide, barely blinking, and his little claws clenched in front of his chest.

“...Human,” he murmured. “He looks…”

He didn’t know the word.

Not brave. Not smart. Not strong.

Free.

Yes. That was it.

Cale looked free.

Like someone who had always been shackled by invisible weights had finally allowed himself to move.

‘He’s different right now,’Raon thought, and his little heart squeezed. But he’s still my human.

“…You’re incredible, Cale” Raon whispered, not even minding how he called him by his name out of instinct.

But his joy was tinged with something else.

Something sharp. Something sad.

He could feel it. The heaviness in the wind.

‘Are you hurting again?’ he wanted to ask. ‘Are you doing this so we don’t have to?’

If so…

Raon’s eyes narrowed.

‘Then I’ll make sure you don’t carry it alone anymore, because you’re a weak human.'

Next to him, Eruhaben stood still, arms crossed, golden eyes scanning every movement.

His expression was unreadable.

Until he sighed.

A long, slow, “This crazy bastard” kind of sigh.

“…What is he thinking?” the ancient dragon muttered under his breath. “Doing something like this… when he should be resting.”

But his eyes didn’t look angry.

They looked…

Softer.

His gaze followed the glinting sword and the boy who moved like a spirit among sunlight and grief.

He couldn’t deny it.

It was beautiful.

A boy born without divine power but with immense luck that he became unlucky and was known for having no talent in the blade—Eruhaben even doubt that Cale could lift a sword without shaking.

Yet standing besude the world with every heart turned toward him.

“Honestly,” Eruhaben said quietly, almost with pride. “How do you always take my breath away, you reckless child?”

And still Cale danced.

Blade carving light.

Body catching the wind.

And in every stroke—

Was sorrow..

Was memory.

And love.

And grief.

And records that are rushing forth nonstop.

The battle behind the scenes was proceeding with clean precision.

Dark elves moved like whispers through the alleys, dark mana versus dark mana type of shi as blades glints, dark alchemist cursing and mages swept away under the cover.

Inside in one of the room in the Roan Kingdom, Prince Alberu Crossman stood frozen, one hand pressed against the communication device, the other limp at his side.

On the top of the cathedral, dr3ss in black, hair loose and catching the sun—Cale Henituse was dancing.

The blade in his hand was neither extravagant nor blessed, yet it moved like a paintbrush against canvas.

Each move flowed smoothly into the next, it was solemn and powerful.

Alberu’s jaw slackened just slightly.

“…What the hell.”

“Prince?” Tasha’s voice crackled through another connected device. She sounded slightly breathless—probably mid-fight. “We’ve cleared another squad on the southern end. They tried to interfere, but we—”

“—Pause that for a second,” Alberu cut in flatly, still watching. “Are you seeing this?”

There was a short pause on her end. Then a sharp inhale.

“Oh.”

Alberu’s eye twitched. “That’s all you’ve got to say?”

“I mean,” Tasha began, then stopped. “I’m speechless, like wow in literal sense.”

Alberu dragged a hand down his face.

Cale spun in the device, hiis black shirt fluttering like a shadow. The blade followed.

People below had stopped weeping.

Everyone was staring upward.

'Of course they are', Alberu thought bitterly. ‘That bastard kis dancing on a rooftop during a public execution in full view of nobles, knights, foreign ambassadors, and grieving citizens.’

He pinched the bridge of his nose.

‘He’s driving me nuts.’

“…This bastard is ruining his own chance at becoming slacker trash.”

There was a wheezing laugh from Tasha’s end. “That’s actually the first I see him move a lot like that without in the battlefield..”

“He’s so uselessly amazing at it, he can be pretty average but no he was actually talented with it.,” Alberu muttered. “I can feel cleanup already. Every representatives from each territory and nobles will be sending me letters by sundown asking Cale to do that again in Roan and begging to release a accessable footage for all.”

Tasha chuckled again. “You sound stressed.”

“I am stressed,” Alberu snapped.

He paused.

Then stared at the projection again—long and hard.

‘This man was only twenty years old but looks like he carried the whole continent on his back while claiming he’ll be a slacker in the future.’

“…He looks…”

“Unchained?” Tasha offered.

Alberu didn’t answer for a moment.

Because yes, that was exactly it.

Cale didn’t look like a commander.

He didn’t look like a noble.

He didn’t even look like a hero.

He looked like a man who had finally stopped apologizing to himself.

“…Tch,” Alberu muttered. “How is he even making this look good?”

“Maybe you should join him,” Tasha teased. “You’ve got the hair for it.”

“Oh please Aunt, I could never look like that.”

Still, he didn’t look away.

Not even once.

Not while Cale’s sword etched stories into the wind.

Not while silence spread across the place that had forgotten how to breathe.

And not while the boy who never asked for a spotlight now stood directly in its center—without fear.

Alberu folded his arms and exhaled deeply.

“…I really hope he doesn't collapse after this.”

Tasha sighed fondly. “We’ll catch him if he does.”

“…I’ll personally kick him if he does.”

“Same thing.”

And together, they watched Cale Henituse dance.

Back to the cathedral,

“...I didn’t know a sword could be used like that,” Hannah said softly.

She was leaning forward, voice hushed. Her grip around her own weapon loosened—not in weakness, but in awe.

Jack, beside her, stared up wordlessly. His eyes were wide. Damp.

“Who uses a blade like that… not to kill?”

Jack didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

He was too busy staring—at the wind brushing around Cale’s hair, at the sun shining him in gold and at the way the sword traced sorrow through the air as if it had always been meant for that alone.

“That’s not fighting,” she said again. “That’s…”

She couldn’t finish it.

Because how could she name something that transcended violence, that wasn’t for killing or winning—but for remembering?

Archie, across the way, stood stock still with his jaw slightly slack.

“This is the same guy,” he muttered, “who blew up an island.”

“Okay,” he muttered under his breath, rubbing the back of his head. “I thought I’d seen everything this guy could do.”

A pause.

“I was wrong.”

Next to him, Paseton stared upward with his mouth fully open. He looked like he was witnessing a myth form before his very eyes.

“He’s…” Paseton blinked. “He’s beautiful.”

Archie glanced sideways at him.

Paseton didn’t even notice.

Witira, standing with quiet composure not far away, said nothing for a long moment. Her blue eyes never left Cale. The sword, the flow,it was like water in motion, poetry in flesh.

She placed a hand over her heart.

“…He’s honoring them,” she said softly. “The fallen. Even now.”

And in her mind, her respect for Cale Henituse grew even deeper roots.

He didn’t wield his sword to destroy here.

He wielded it to remember.

And even that was power.

High on the balcony reserved for visiting royalty, Prince Valentino stood with wide eyes.

The sunlight behind Cale created a glowing halo. His black clothes swayed. His red hair burned in the wind like fire from the heavens.

“…An angel,” Valentino murmured.

His guards glanced at him.

Valentino's lips parted in awe.

“He looks like an angel sent to deliver divine judgment upon the devil below.”

Below—chained and sneering—Adin still awaited his execution.

But no one was looking at him now.

All eyes were lifted.

Even Queen Litana, seated beside her advisors, froze at the sight.

Litana’s breath caught.

There he was—again.

Her memories roared back, red hair against wildfire, his back to her as flames raged around them. The way he’d turned and spoken so calmly, extinguishing what no one else could.

And now, once again, with fire in his soul and sorrow in his step, he was still the same.

“Cale Henituse…” she whispered. “You haven’t changed.”

‘But you have,’ her heart added silently. 'You’ve grown lighter. Freer. Even if the sorrow is still there.

She blinked rapidly, fighting the sting in her eyes.

Toonka was still.

A rare sight, that.

His wide, battle experienced hands gripped his knees. He stared at Cale as if seeing swordsmanship for the first time.

“…I want to learn that,” he finally said.

Harold turned to him, blinking. “Learn what?”

“How to use a sword like that.”

Toonka’s voice was lower than usual. Serious.

“I always thought it was only for fighting. For killing. But Cale, my friend…”

He looked up, eyes alight with something new.

“He’s using it to mourn. To protect peace. I want to do that too.”

Harold, beside him, could only nod slowly. “...Yeah. Me too.”

l Clopeh Sekka was frothing at the mouth. Figuratively. Hopefully.

“LEGEND!” he shrieked, gripping the edge of the magic recording device that showed the live image of Cale.

“LEGENDARY! HOLY! UNTOUCHABLE!”

His aides tried to back away. The device nearly crackled from the sheer strength.

“There it is!” Clopeh cheered. “The savior! My light! My God!”

He cackled wildly, “Even the heavens bow to his blade! His every move is gospel!”

He turned to his aides, waving manically.

“Write it down! Burn it into books! Etch it into stone! CALE HENITUSE! SWORD-DANCER OF THE GODS! NO HE’S THE SWORD DANCE GOD!”

The aides exchanged glances.

They weren’t even surprised anymore.

Back in the Henituse estate, the drawing room was utterly silent. Only the soft flicker of the communication device lit the faces of the family gathered to watch.

Count Deruth Henituse had not spoken in several minutes. His hands, normally steady, trembled slightly as he clutched the side of the table.

“He has your fire,” he murmured, voice so quiet, “Jour…”

He swallowed. “And your grace.”

“I thought I’d lost every trace of you when you passed,” Deruth whispered. “But I was wrong.”

Violan stood beside him. Her arms were crossed, but her eyes… they had softened.

She had never expected love from the child she had inherited through marriage. She had given him expectations, a place and warmth.

And yet now, that boy—no, that man—stood atop the world and made it pause. With a sword. With silence. With grief that seemed to echo through the land.

“He carries the burden of a thousand souls,” she murmured. “And still he dances. Still he finds beauty in sorrow.”

There was no more coldness in her voice.

Across the room, Basen stood tall, a fist pressed to his chest. His posture was military-perfect, but his eyes glistened with unshed tears.

“He’s not just mourning,” Basen said quietly. “He’s protecting us… even now.”

He watched his older brother—who had never once asked to be a hero—stand as the center of a nation’s pain, their hope.

“Someday, I want to stand beside him,” Basen said. “Not behind.”

Lily, curled in a chair with her legs tucked beneath her, clutched a pillow tightly.

Her eyes sparkled with wonder.

“He looks like a spirit from a fairy tale…” she whispered. “Like he’s not even real.”

Her voice was full of trembling awe.

“I want to be like that. I want to move hearts like he does.”

She turned to her mother and father.

“Can someone who used to be scared all the time… be that brave?”

Violan walked over to her and brushed a hand through her hair.

“Your brother was once scared of everything too,” she said. “Now look.”

On the screen, Cale’s sword cut a crescent arc across the sky. His hair whipped in the wind, red like a flame refusing to die. His movements were filled with sorrow—but not despair. There was a haunting elegance in the way he danced, like someone offering farewell and hope in the same breath.

Deruth placed a hand over his mouth for a moment before whispering, “I thought I knew you, Cale.”

Violan turned to the others.

“Let him finish,” she said. “He’s telling a story the world needs to hear.”

And they all fell silent once more, letting their son, their brother, speak without words from atop the heavens—carrying the weight of the fallen, and the hope of the living, with every single step.

A hush had fallen over the plaza.

It was not silence born of solemnity, nor fear, nor ceremony—it was the kind that came when thousands of hearts were held captive by awe.

Then in the ceremony,

"Young Master Cale…"

Someone whispered it like a prayer. Another repeated it, louder this time.

“ Command34 Cale!”

Then more voices joined in.

“Young Master Silver Shield!”

Like a wave, the chant grew, voices fill3d with admiration and disbelief. Some raised their hands to the sky, some held onto loved ones as if grounding themselves in reality. Others wept openly—mothers who had lost children, brothers who had buried siblings, and citizens who had thought they would never see the sun rise.

A man, his hands rough from decades of labor, clutched his hat to his chest as he looked up.

“Is that really the Commander?”

Beside him, a woman wiped her eyes with trembling fingers. “He’s… beautiful,” she said. “Like he’s dancing for their souls.”

A child peeked from behind her mother’s skirt, eyes wide in wonder. “Mama… is he an angel?”

The mother could not speak. She simply nodded, and pulled the child into her arms, gaze still locked upward.

The crowd is mourning and admiring him.

The rhythmic chant of “Young Master Silver Shield!” pulsed like a heartbeat through the square, but it was more than just adoration—it was a kind of a cry of gratitude. A song of sorrow. A prayer of hope.

An old woman clutched a withered flower in her hands. Her lips trembled, and tears trailed down her cheeks.

“That boy,” she whispered. “My grandson… he fought against the Whipper Kingdom. He… he never came back.”

Her fingers tightened around the petals, the tears falling freely now.

A woman voice cracked. “He’s dancing… like he remembers them. All of them.”

Beside her, a merchant who had once sold soldiers armor they’d never return in—someone hardened by loss—slowly removed his hat.

“Never thought I’d cry for a noble,” he said, voice thick. “But damn if that ain’t the most human thing I’ve ever seen.”

Children stood on crates to get a better view. All of them are clutching a toy silver shield and whispered, “I want to be like him.”

Their mother pulled them close, her gaze fixed atop. “Then remember the way he moves,” she said. “Not to hurt, but to heal.”

And in the midst of it all, some people didn’t speak at all—they just stood, holding each other, sobbing quietly, breathing as though the weight pressing on them had finally lifted, just a little.

On the rooftop, Cale spun once more, the final turn of a slow arc that seemed to draw the tension of the past and release it into the wind.

Far below, within the shadows of an alley behind the cathedral, Choi Han exhaled sharply.

Blood slid down the side of his face, painting his jaw. He wiped it away with the back of his hand, but his eyes—his gaze—never left Cale.

He stood there, just past a fresh pile of unconscious enemies he had killed with his strength. The threat was being dealt with—quietly, as planned—but for the moment, Choi Han could not move.

Cale stood like a storm above, caught between melancholy and hopefulness.

It’s a sword dance for the dead.

The words Cale had once shared echoed in Choi Han’s mind. A tradition passed down by Choi Jung Soo back in Korea. A dance to mourn. A dance to move forward. A dance to let go.

Choi Han swallowed thickly.

‘So that the dead may be remembered properly, Cale had said. So we, the living, don’t carry the guilt alone.’

Cale had done this—for the people. For those they’d lost.

But somewhere deep in his heart, Choi Han knew—

He had also done this for himself.

Choi Han felt something unfamiliar twist inside his chest.

“…Why must you always do this?” he whispered to the empty air. “Why must you carry everything so beautifully, Cale-nim?”

“…I’m really…” he whispered, “so glad I met you.”

‘He said he hated attention,’ Choi Han thought, stunned.

But there Cale was. Above a cathedral, above the heads of thousands, above the entire continent’s gaze. Commanding it all.

And dancing.

Choi Han’s breath hitched.

‘Cale-nim… you really… you’re doing this for them and for yourself, aren’t you This is your way of expressing your emotions right?’

The people they’d lost.

The lives that had been consumed by greed and darkness.

The child soldiers. The victims of dark mana. The citizens were torn apart by war.

And most of all, for his past that was filled with guilt and sadness.

‘You remembered every one of them.’

Choi Han’s chest felt tight.

He clenched the bloodied cloth in his hand and laughed quietly, bitterly.

“…Cale-nim,” he whispered, affection tangled in every syllable. “You always do this.”

He wasn’t just awed—he was mesmerized.

This wasn’t the cold, calculating Cale who rolled through battlefields.

This wasn’t the grumbling, lazy man who avoided politics.

This wasn’t even the sharp-tongued strategist who led them all.

This was Cale—stripped of walls and defenses. A boy who had seen too much and kept walking anyway.

“…You’re beautiful,” Choi Han said under his breath. “And I don’t know what to do with that.”

He tilted his head back, eyes wide and unblinking.

“I’ll follow you. Even through this madness. Because you’re showing the world something no one else could.”

And quietly, within the shadows, he bowed his head.

Not to a commander. Not to a noble.

But to Cale.

The man who danced for the dead, and gave the living reason to breathe again.

The crowd’s chants of “Young Master Silver Shield” echoed loud.

And still, Choi Han watched, unable to look away.

As the last swirl of his sword’s dance faded into the air, Cale’s eyes snapped open.

He summoned his wing ancient power and the winf lifted him effortlessly, carrying him in a swift, silent descent from the cathedral’s peak.

Adin looked up.

Too late.

Slash.

Using the rock's ancient power to strengthen his hand, his sword passed cleanly through Adin’s throat in one smooth.

A gurgle. A spatter of blood.

This is Cale’s role for today’s operation, Executioner.

Cale’s voice cut through the murmurs of the crowd, cold and unwavering, “This ends with you, Adin.”

Adin’s head fell.

Silence hung for a heartbeat—then the plaza erupted in applause, cheers rising like a tidal wave.

Cale stood there, chest heaving, panting. He looked up at the sky, feeling an overwhelming surge of freedom wash over him, as if the weight of the past had finally been lifted.

For the first time in a long time, he breathed deep, the fresh air filling his lungs.

A beat of silence.

Then—

Applause.

It was like a storm of sound crashing over the square. Cheers. Cries. Chants. Sobbed names of the dead. Praises of the living.

“Young Master Silver Shield!”

People were clapping, crying, raising their fists, clutching strangers.

And at the center of it all, Cale Henituse stood.

Sword in hand. Shoulders heaving.

Panting.

He felt it in his lungs—the burning ache of movement, of air, of life.

He felt lightheaded, not from exhaustion, but from the strange clarity that came after something heavy had been let go.

His sword lowered.

His knees trembled—just a little.

And he tilted his head up—

Toward the sky, vast and open.

And there, in that one moment, Cale Henituse smiled—not the lazy smirk, not the scamming smile, but something real.

And then he remembered,

[Kim Rok Soo, stay alive. Being alive is the best. And Jung Soo and I are happy as well.]

“I am happy as well, Team leader.” He whispered.

He felt… clean.

Free.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the memories that had once threatened to drown him—the faces of the lost, the echoes of screams and silent pleas—no longer hunt at his mind with desperate anger. They softened, no longer sharp shards piercing his heart.

He was free.

Not free in the careless way of forgetting, but free to remember without pain suffocating his breath. Free to hold their memories close without collapsing under their weight.

The past was no longer a prison,it was a place he could visit, gently, without fear.

“I can breathe again,” he whispered to the wind. “I can finally breathe.”

He could now carry their memories without drowning in them.

He was free.

Truly free.

zZz

Cale was lounging on his bed, arms folded behind his head, a deep frown etched across his face. The sunlight through the window did nothing to brighten his mood.

Ever since the dance, his popularity had skyrocketed Again—headlines like “Angel Young Master Silver Shield Spectacular and Heavenly Performance” followed him everywhere. Even Alberu couldn’t stop teasing.

“Seriously, dongsaeng, you’re turning into a legend,” Alberu chuckled from the doorway, grinning. “I’ll give you unlimited supply of cookies if you do that dance in the noble gathering.”

“Shut up, Hyung-nim,” Cale grumbled, rolling his eyes.

Before more teasing could come he ended the call in an annoyed sigh, three energetic figures burst into the room—On, Hong, and Raon, their eyes wide with excitement.

“Cale! Teach us the sword dance! Nya!” On begged, his voice bright.

“We want to move like you! Nya!” Hong added, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Raon nodded eagerly. “Yeah! Come on, Human! don’t be lazy!”

Cale sighe, feigning annoyance. “You guys never give up, do you? I’m not in the mood to teach today.”

Their faces fell instantly, disappointment shading their bright eyes.

Choi Han, standing quietly by the door, crouched beside them with a gentle smile. “Cale-nim will teach you when the time is right.”

Cale glanced over at Choi Han and then back at the sulking kids. His irritation melted into something softer,

‘These children will live for a long time,’ he thought, ‘and they’ll witness countless losses—their families, their friends. Maybe one day, even mine.’

‘If this dance can help them carry those memories, maybe it’s worth teaching.’

He sat up suddenly, pushing off the bed. “Alright, enough sulking. Get the training grounds ready. I’m going to teach you.”

On’s face lit up instantly. “Nya? You mean it?”

Hong punched his palm. “Yes! Let’s go!”

Raon grinned, eyes shining. “I can learn it quickly because I am the great and mighty Raon!”

Choi Han stood and nodded toward Cale,

Cale stretched his arms and gave a tired smile. “Yeah. Let’s get to it.”

zZz

They say that deep within the Forest of Darkness, where the graves of the great heroes lie—still look brand new because of the magic—a strange phenomenon occurs.

Three times a week, beneath moonlight or rain, snow or bloom, a figure always appears.

A man with black hair and blue slit eyes, dressed in simple black, dancing alone between the tombstones. Sword in hand, feet gliding with grace, he moves like wind given form—sorrowful and breathtakingly beautiful.

Those who have witnessed it say it is not a performance, but a prayer. A farewell. A promise.

Beside him, always, stands another silent figure—foreign in appearance, with sharp eyes and a sword on his back—watching quietly, a ghost of loyalty.

Some say the dancer is a wandering spirit. Some say it's a God. Others whisper that it's a guardian of the dead, bound by memory.

But the stories know the legend.

They say the dance was once performed by the great hero, the Young Master Silver Shield—Cale Henituse. On the day he executed the tyrant Adin, he danced atop a cathedral roof.

And now, the dance lives on in his graveyard by his successors.

Not forgotten. Never forgotten.

People who witness the dance always say one thing.

Beautiful.

And endlessly, endlessly sad.