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The room was quiet, lit only by the soft flight of a dying candle. Cale lay on the oversized bed, arm draped over a snoring Raon, On curled against his legs, and Hong nestled near his shoulder, purring faintly.
Sleep tugged at him, warm and heavy, the kind that made his bones feel like lead and his thoughts float like mist.
So peaceful, he thought drowsily. This is the life.
What can he do to make this peace last long? Since Cale is quite sure that he would never have the last laugh ever in this life, some unnatural shit or this world just love to mess with him. Also, he want no scolding telling him to behave, and he needs weapon that makes him able to do anything.
Just before he slipped under, a strange memory drifted in—some old Earth kpop idols where they puffed their cheeks and flutter their eyelashes with a high pitched voice shown on the TV where many people find it cringe but nonetheless no one can deny that it’s cute if you don’t forced it or you’re a natural.
Aegyo.
His eyes cracked open.
‘Could that work here...?’
He almost snorted aloud.
‘Still... tempting.’
The idea settled in his mind like a mischievous dream.
“Raon...” he murmured sleepily, “...what if I did aegyo?”
“Mmmnn... sounds powerful… like me...” Raon yawned, snuggling closer but looked like he doesn’t comprehend Cale’s words and his consciousness is wandering in the dreamland already.
Cale smiled faintly. ‘Ridiculous, but maybe, just maybe... worth a try, my face is quite handsome so it can work right?’
Afterall, shamelessness is mercy upon ourselves.
He fell asleep, cheeks warm with silent laughter.
zZz
1. Ron Molan
Morning at the Henituse estate began as it always did, with peace, silence, and the steady footsteps of Ron Molan walking through the villa. The old butler carried a silver tray with practiced ease, the crystal glass of pale yellow lemonade shimmering faintly as sunlight kissed it through the window.
Ah, yes, lemonade.
Ron allowed himself the faintest of smiles as he paused before the red-haired young master’s door.
Cale Henituse.
Lazy, bratty, irritable—and lately, so amusing Ron wondered if he should begin charging admission for his own personal comedy show. The boy, no, the man, had developed such a fine repertoire of startled expressions Ron found his own mornings improved just by witnessing the sheer range of exasperation and mild terror on that face. A lemonade a day keeps Cale Henituse away. He might live another twenty years purely on spiteful delight.
He raised his knuckles and knocked.
“Enter,” came the muffled grumble from within.
Ron opened the door quietly, a soft creak betraying his entrance, and stepped inside. Morning light spilled across the young master’s bed, catching in strands of disheveled red hair and highlighting a pale hand half raised to block the sun. Cale was buried beneath half the blankets, face twisted into a frown that deepened upon seeing the tray.
“Good morning, Young Master Cale,” Ron said with all the practiced politeness of a man who had once cut throats for breakfast.
“Morning,” Cale muttered. “Eugh, It’s too bright.”
“Your curtains are drawn halfway,” Ron pointed out, sliding them further with one hand. “And your breakfast is on the way. But first—” he lifted the glass, as if unveiling a relic, “—your morning lemonade.”
There it was—that twitch, the way Cale’s mouth opened in visible protest before shutting, eyes narrowing. The way he shifted under the blanket as if he could physically retreat from the beverage.
Ron braced himself.
And yet.
What came next made him pause, utterly, wholly.
“I don’t wanna drink that~” Cale whined, voice suddenly pitched higher, eyes wide and shimmering with exaggerated innocence. He clasped his hands under his chin and tilted his head slightly, lips forming a mock pout. “Lemonade is sourrr”
Silence fell like a blade.
Ron blinked.
And blinked again.
'What… in all the goddamn dragons… was that?'
Cale tilted his head even more, gaze shimmering with an innocent look. “Ron, pleaseee~”
Cute and Cale Henituse in the same sentence would never work, but here we are.
There were many things Ron had witnessed in his long life. He had seen cities fall, monarchs beg, and proud men die with curses on their tongues. He had slit throats with silk gloves and watched children laugh beside corpses. He had rebuilt his life brick by brick.
But never, not once, had he been subjected to whatever that was.
Was it… a manipulation by young master-nim? If it is, then Ron was more entertained than ever.
No, no—it wasn’t even pretentious, it was scarily natural. That expression was puppy-like and childish. Innocent in a way that betrayed no calculation. It was… absurd. So absurd that for a long, long second, Ron felt his usually cold, aged heart skip as he continue to stare at the puppy young master that he always changed his diapers in the past, it reminds him of the young Cale Henituse who would do the same expression when the late Countess refused to give him sweets.
Cute.
The word forced its way into his thoughts like an uninvited guest.
Absolutely ridiculous, unbearably cute.
And it wasn’t the fake kind of endearing either—no, it was the sort of expression that could shatter a man’s resolve. The kind of look a child gave when asking for one more sweet. The kind of face that—if not reined in—could bring empires crumbling beneath, the Roan Kingdom would fall if Cale Henituse was seen doing this in public and Ron was not even exaggerating.
Ron’s grip on the tray adjusted.
His eyes twitched.
Had he just lost?
He had expected grumbling, resistance, maybe even an attempt at faking illness. But this? He hadn’t expected this.
The corner of his smiling lips twitched.
Cale, still half pouting under the blanket, peeked up with a small, satisfied smile. “So, can I skip it today?”
Ron let out a low, quiet chuckle, just once. Barely audible. But it was there, and it was genuine.
“Young Master,” he said, voice unusually gentle, “too much lemonade is bad for the heart.”
“Exactly!” Cale declared victoriously, throwing off one blanket and sitting up straighter. “Finally, you’re seeing reason!”
Ron echoed with faint amusement, setting the tray down on the side table. “Of course. I shall fetch your milk, then.”
Cale leaned back, sighing as if he had just won a battle.
Ron turned to leave, but his mind was still a storm of thought.
That expression, it had frozen him in place.
Why? He had seen many faces twisted by fear, agony, glee. Why should a childish, playful thing like that stop him?
Because it reminded him of something? Reminded him of a puppy?
…No, because it was something new.
There were no masks at that moment. No schemes, just… Cale, his young master who looks so playful and vunerable for a moment, who looks like his age at that moment. The young master who used to tremble under his gaze had found, somehow, the gall to look him in the eye and pout, Like a puppy.
How long had it been since Ron had encountered something so disarming?
Aegyo. The term did not exist in his world, but if it had, perhaps Ron would have called it a dangerous form of sorcery.
He chuckled again softly, this time to himself as he moved down the hallway.
“Aigoo, maybe I’m too old to be affected by such a thing, but here we are. Our puppy's young master is really cute.”
And Ron? He had no choice but to surrender this round.
Milk it was.
He would return in a few minutes, milk in hand, and not speak a word about what had transpired. But deep down—deep, deep down, beneath years of being an assassin—he would carry that ridiculous image of Cale pouting up at him with sparkling eyes.
Dangerous, indeed.
But perhaps, just perhaps, the most delightful threat he'd ever faced.
zZz
2. Deruth Henituse
Count Deruth Henituse sat stiffly behind his desk, his stack if paperworks tower over him, the reports from Henituse economy and letters from many nobles he don’t want to associate with–but not a single one of them had ever prepared him for the chaos that was his son.
Specifically, Cale.
His son, his boy.
His quiet, stubborn, frustrating, maddening, utterly beloved boy.
The fireplace crackled to the side. Outside, the wind carried the scent of early spring. Inside, all Deruth could smell was ink and worry.
He lowered his eyes to the report.
Minor internal injuries. The Young Master coughed up blood after fighting with the White Star, reported to be stable as of now.
White Star you fucking bitchass asshole.
Stable.
A word that used to bring relief, now it only made his stomach twist.
He coughed up blood.
Again.
The Count’s grip tightened, The report crumpled faintly under his hand.
He wasn’t asking for fame. Not honor, not medals, not statues. He didn’t want the world to whisper the name “Cale Henituse” like a prayer.
He just wanted his son to live, to wake up late, to complain about his foods and his clothes like in the old days. To someday get married if he wanted, to grow older than Deruth himself.
He wanted Cale to live a long, lazy, utterly unheroic life.
He didn’t want a hero, he wanted a son who stayed alive.
And if the only way to keep Cale alive was to threaten him, scold him, drag him back from the battlefield. He would gladly do so.
Deruth rehearsed the lines in his head, again and again.
"Do you think you’re invincible?" "Do you enjoy watching your father age faster each time you bleed?" "If making you Territory Lord is what it takes, then by the gods, I will do it today."
His breathing steadied.
Yes. He was ready.
A knock interrupted him.
“Come in,” he called, voice calm, composed—almost.
The door creaked open.
Cale entered.
His red hair slightly messy, his clothes are simple unlike in the past which was covered with jewels, his posture relaxed but… looks lazy and tired. Like someone who had learned to carry pain and wear it like a second skin.
Deruth’s heart ached.
“Father” Cale said, giving a polite bow. “You called?”
He forced his voice steady. “Yes, sit down.”
Cale obeyed, as usual. Hands folded neatly on his lap. That quiet, patient expression—an illusion, always. It took effort not to launch into the lecture immediately.
“You seem… well,” Deruth said carefully.
“I heal fast, father” Cale replied mildly.
“You heal because others force you to,” Deruth muttered, eyes narrowing. “I’ve read the reports. You coughed up blood again, Cale. That’s not fast healing, that’s ignoring your limits, how many times has this even happened? One more and I’m going to make you the territory lord—”
A pause.
Cale blinked slowly and froze in fear.
Deruth sat up straighter, preparing for battle. “I’m serious. This has to stop, you are not a martyr. You are my son. Do you understand me? You’re—”
But then, right before his eyes—
Cale tilted his head.
His hands came up—fingers pointed, (just imagine Cale doing this 👉👈 lmao) ouching each other softly. His lips pouted. Not a dramatic one, but a soft, small, utterly disarming downward curl.
Then he leaned forward just the slightest bit and said—
“Appa, I'm sorry, I didn’t mean to make you worry… really… I just wanted to slack off after everything and rest lots next time, okay?”
Deruth’s mind blanked.
His entire script—gone.
Cale’s voice had lifted into the soft, whiny tone Deruth had only heard once before—when Cale was a child asking for more cake. That tone had never, ever returned since.
Until now.
He even—dear gods—he even blinked slowly, like a cat, eyes slightly wider than usual, shining with gentle regret.
Deruth gaped, his soul left his body.
‘What was that?Was that allowed?! How dare he?!’
His full-grown son. A commander on the battlefield and te one who negotiated political alliances with frightening logic and pace as if he’s always one step further away from the enemy.
Doing this.
Doing—whatever this was.
No. No, no, this was worse than the White Star, this can defeat the white star. This was an undefetable technique of heart attack passed down through generations of adorable children designed to overthrow parents.
Deruth opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
He tried again. “Y-you… are…”
Cute, adorable, dangerous, and menace. My child, my beloved baby. The reason I’m aging five years every month.
“…You are forgiven,” he said instead, voice cracking like glass.
Cale blinked innocently.
“I’ll rest, I promise,” Cale said softly, still in that voice. “I didn’t mean to make you sad, Appa~”
Deruth’s hands trembled. He placed them under the desk. He could not let Cale see his weakness. But it was too late. He was already spiraling, Gods, he was so cute.
His son, his baby, still his baby.
The sight made him want to scream, or cry or both. Preferably into a pillow.
Was this what it meant to be a father? To be brought to his knees not by war or duty, but by your own son making little finger pokes and pouting like a cat begging for tuna?
“I… I see,” Deruth stammered. “Y-you’re sorry. That’s… good. That’s very good.”
Cale blinked.
Deruth couldn’t meet his eyes.
“I-I’m glad to hear you’ll rest. Very good, very responsible.”
“Good. Good son, responsible. Yes,” he said, like a malfunctioning doll. “You can—you can go now. Go rest, right now.”
Cale stood, gave a small nod, and walked out.
The door closed behind him.
Deruth stared at it.
Then slowly, he lowered his head into his hands and groaned.
That little head tilt. That ridiculous finger gesture. That damn “Appa~”
He was finished, a powerful Count.
Undone in thirty seconds by his own son’s pout and one drawn-out syllable.
“Appa…” he whispered to himself, face still in his hands. “How can I scold you when you say it like that…”
His chest hurt—but it was from love. From a sweetness that left him breathless. He could still see that look in his mind—those fingers tapping, that innocent tilt, the smile.
It was so bad. So good and so bad.
The report on the desk crinkled beneath his arm, long forgotten.
He didn’t want to raise a hero, he just wanted his baby boy to be safe.
But now…
Now he had to survive something even more dangerous than war.
He wasn’t sure he’d survive it.
zZz
3. Eruhaben
Eruhaben was stressed. Not the usual kind of ancient-dragon, “the-world-is-a-mess-and-my-children-are-the-one-saving-the-world-so-I-need-to-guide-them stress. No, this was a deeply personal, bone exhausting sort of stress that came from hearing a six-year-old black dragon gleefully shout,
“FUCK THOSE BASTARDS!" as he blasted a target into oblivion.
And the worst part?
The other children cheered.
“Hell yeah, fuck them up, dongsaeng!”
The kitten was grinning, the tiger cub was nodding with pride. Even the quietest one muttered something suspiciously like ‘rip their spines out.’
Eruhaben pinched the bridge of his nose. He was going to lose golden strands from stress at this rate. One strand already looked a bit silver, he was going gray. He was a dragon and going gray.
Eruhaben had reached his limit, in his hands are crumpled paper written by Raon.
Dear Goldie Gramps,
I blew up a training dummy and said “get fucked loser” because human says that all the time and it makes people scared. It worked!!! The dummy didn’t fight back. I am so smart.
P.S. Can I say “get wrecked dickface” next time? Is that allowed?
Raon had signed it with three sparkles and a small sketch of a smug black dragon flipping the bird.
Eruhaben aged five years in one breath.
“This is Cale’s fault,” he muttered as he marched toward Cale’s room, “All his fault.”
The children admired Cale. Naturally, they mimicked him. And clearly, they’d picked up his vocabulary. The cursed, feral vocabulary of a man who could turn elegant tea parties into brawls with one sentence.
He was going to scold that red-haired headache.
He was going to sit him down and talk to him like a proper elder.
He was—oh, Cale had invited him for tea. That conniving brat. Eruhaben pushed open the door to Cale’s room, mentally prepared for war.
“Ah, Eruhaben-nim,” came the familiar lazy drawl.
There he was, Cale Henituse. Reclining on a sofa. Hair slightly messy, cheek resting against his knuckles, looking for all the world like a prince enjoying a peaceful afternoon.
Fake, It was all fake.
“Come in. Have a seat,” Cale offered, gesturing to the opposite chair with a small, polite smile. “You’re just in time, Eruhaben-nim, I had Beacrox served with egg tarts.”
Eruhaben eyed him suspiciously. “You knew I was coming.”
“I always know when someone’s powerful presence is coming.”
“…Hmph.”
He sat, Cale poured tea for him, he handed him a tart, smiling like a cat.
Eruhaben narrowed his eyes. “You know why I’m here.”
Cale sipped. “Do I?”
“Raon said the word ‘fuck’ five times yesterday. He also called an enemy a ‘motherless bastard.’”
“Ah.”
Eruhaben didn’t answer. He just walked over, pulled out a crumpled paper, and dropped it dramatically onto Cale’s lap. “That.”
Cale read it.
Pause.
“Raon’s spelling has improved.”
“Cale.”
“Yes?”
“Why is my grandson writing profanity laced battle quotes in letters?!”
Cale stretched. “He’s very expressive, bottling emotions are bad.”
“He wants to say ‘dickface,’ Cale. Do you know how much I’ve suffered trying to raise those children into decent beings?Do you know how delicate Lock’s vocabulary used to be? He said ‘gosh’ and ‘golly’! Now he says ‘burn their balls off’ when sparring!”
“I mean… that’s colorful imagery, I guess.”
Eruhaben ran a hand through his hair. “Cale. Do not test me. I am at my limit. I already have insomnia, exhaustion, and a constant migraine from Raon screaming ‘MOTHERFUCKER’ every time he drops a book on his toe. And don’t think I didn’t hear you call a duke a ‘rat-faced shitlord’ last week in front of the guest in the palace—while smiling.”
Cale coughed. “That… was taken out of context.”
“You used it in a compliment, Cale.”
“…Right.”
“On said ‘fuck yeah’ during in a class. Hong called someone an ‘cock bastard worm.’’”
“Mm.”
“Even Maes muttered, ‘rip and tear until it’s done,’ and I’m pretty sure he got that from you.”
“Possibly.”
Eruhaben set his teacup down with a clink, “Cale.”
“Yes?”
“Where in the world did they pick this up—don’t answer that,” he growled, already regretting the question. “You’re corrupting the children!”
Cale’s eyes twitched, and for a second, Eruhaben swore the little menace was suppressing a laugh. The audacity, the shamelessness and the nerve.
“I apologize, Eruhaben-nim.” Cale said mildly, leaning back. “A few curse words never hurt anyone.”
“It will when they start yelling it in front of other people!”
Eruhaben inhaled, then exhaled and slowly. “I came here to scold you, really scold you, first of all—”
Eruhaben stopped.
Cale’s eyes had widened, just a touch, glossy and round, like some pitiful little kitten left out in the rain. His lips had parted into a faint pout andnd then—
Then he placed both his palms under his chin. Fingers curled inward, and soft, contemplative tilt of the head. His gaze dropped slightly, voice lowering into a guileless murmur,
“Eruhaben-nim, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin their innocence, ’ll try to be more careful, okay~?”
Eruhaben froze.
What.
What the hell was that.
He blinked once.
Twice.
Cale tilted his head the other way,
The ancient dragon's soul short-circuited.
Where—how—did he learn that? Was that a sparkle in his eyes?
His ears were ringing, his vision blurred, not from injury—no, from the overwhelming urge to scream into his teacup— in all of centuries that Eruhaben live for so long, he never been defeated or faced something like this, so psychologically strong enemy that even illusions can’t copy the immense impact it got from the soul—Raon was already enough when doing this, but this cursed and unlucky bastard who’s usually cold and aloof doing something—cute like this is making his heart jumping as if some arrow struck to it.
Because.
Because Cale looked—
(He refused to say it.)
(But gods.)
(He looked like a damn child. A cute one. The kind you ruffle the hair of and defend in every parent-teacher meeting, even when they’re clearly guilty.)
He looked… fragile and endearing. Eruhaben’s mouth opened. Then closed, then opened again.
He cleared his throat sharply and leaned back. “Tch. Whatever. It’s not… it’s not that big a deal.”
Cale blinked. “It’s not?”
“No. I’ve decided they’re… creative with language. Good for combat situations, builds character.”
Cale nodded solemnly. “Of course. Character-building, personality, naturally.”
Silence settled again, ta steamed gently between them.
Then—
“Eruhaben-nim,” Cale said, setting his cup down.
“Hm?”
“…Can I braid your hair?”
The dragon blinked. “What?”
“I think it’d suit you?”
“…You want to braid my hair?”
“Yes, sit still.”
Cale scooted closer on the couch, still smiling. “I’ll be good, Eruhaben-nim~”
“Stop, stop doing that in your voice."
“What voice, Eruhaben-nim~?”
The dragon clutched his chest. “You’re going to give me a heart attack. I’ll turn to ash at this rate.”
“Then I’ll sweep you into a pretty urn and carry you around.”
“That’s horrifying.”
Cale grinned. “You’d look good as an urn, because you’re a mighty golden dragon.”
Eruhaben groaned. “I came here to scold you.”
“And I deeply respect your effort.”
Silence.
Cale had already shifted forward, nimble fingers gathering golden strands with the focus of a seasoned stylist. Eruhaben sputtered, but didn’t stop him. Because how could he? The brat was already humming softly, in thought, hands gentle and so easing.
“You’re very pliable.” Cale chuckled.
“I am not.”
“You are, it’s charming.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“But cute~?”
“Absolutely not.”
Cale giggled softly. Minutes passed. The braid was elaborate, it was just a regular braid but Eruhaben felt like preserving it for eternity for some reason.
“There,” Cale said with a small smile, tying the end with a gold ribbon. “Perfect.”
Eruhaben touched the braid hesitantly. “…Hmph.”
He stood, brushed his robes, adjusted the ribbon with care—and said nothing as he lefr.
Except later, when he encountered Raon—
“Do you like the braid?” Eruhaben asked casually, tipping his head just so.
Raon gasped. “It’s so cool, goldie gramps! Who did it?!”
“Cale.”
Next, to Choi Han—
“Yes, that unlucky bastard braided it.”
To Rosalyn—
“Of course he has good taste, that unlucky bastard was my child after all.”
To everyone—
“My troublesome kid made this. Got a problem?”
He never took it off, not for three days, because yes, Cale Henituse was a headache.
But he was his headache.
A cute headache.
zZz
4. Choi Han
The rhythmic sound of wood striking wood echoed in the empty training ground. Choi Han’s sword danced under the moonlight, His breath came in sharp, sweat soaking the collar of his shirt. His hands were raw, as his muscles trembled from the sheer repetition.
It had been a week since he last took a break.
No—longer. He couldn’t remember the last time he allowed himself true rest, not when Cale-nim was always hurt, always bleeding, always walking forward and sheilding everyone when an unexpected obstacle happened in a battle and he’s at the front where everyone will only gaze at his back and it makes Choi han want to scream.
So, he trained. Because if he were just a little stronger, faster, smarter, maybe Cale wouldn’t have to push himself so far.
Choi Han’s sword slammed against the post one final time, the impact ringing louder than before. His chest heaved, and for a moment he stood still, sweat dripping from his chin onto the dirt.
A prickle ran down his spine.
Someone was watching him. He turned slowly, and there he was.
Cale Henituse stood at the edge of the training ground, arms folded, eyes filled with exasperated resignation.
“...Cale-nim?” Choi Han blinked, straightening.
“What are you doing, Choi Han?” Cale said flatly, walking toward him, holding a water bottle like a peace offering. “Again?”
Choi Han took a step back instinctively, as if caught doing something forbidden.
“Training,” he replied, but his voice lacked conviction. “I just… need to be stronger.”
Cale handed him the water. “You’ve said that the last five times I’ve caught you pushing yourself like a lunatic.”
Choi Han accepted the water, fingers brushing against Cale’s. He stared at the bottle, not drinking. “You always get hurt, Cale-nim. You always throw yourself into danger, and I—”
“Stop.”
Cale sighed, then closed the remaining distance. He looked up at Choi Han with a kind of weary fondness that made Choi Han’s stomach twist.
“Do you want to slice this planet in half?” Cale said. “Is that it?”
Choi Han didn’t answer, he couldn’t.
“You’re strong already, Choi Han. One of the strongest people I know. But you’re not a machine. You’re a person. A very emotionally dense, overly loyal, sword-obsessed person, but still, a human.”
Choi Han looked away, jaw tight.
“And before you argue,” Cale added, “let me try something.”
Then—
Cale puffed his cheeks, tilted his head, and with slowness, poked Choi Han’s cheek.
“Han-ee,” he cooed, voice high and teasing, “goooo rest, be a good boy and rest,”
Choi Han froze.
His brain broke.
“…Huh?” he whispered, eyes wide.
Did Cale-nim just… did he…?
“W-What did you call me?”
“Han-ee~” Cale sang again, poking his other cheek. “You don’t like it? It sounds cute, doesn’t it?”
“Y-You—C-Cale-nim!!”
Choi Han’s ears turned red. “Y-You’re doing this—this on purpose!”
“Of course I am,” Cale said cheerfully, stepping back and examining his handiwork. “You won’t listen unless I break you psychologically.”
“I-I-I’m not—! I’m not—!!” Choi Han stammered, sword arm twitching helplessly at his side. “T-That’s… that’s not… you can’t just… call me t-that—!”
Cale tilted his head innocently. “Call you what? Han-ee~?”
Choi Han clutched the water bottle like a lifeline. “Y-Y-Yes!! That! T-That’s—th-that’s so—!”
“Sweet?” Cale supplied.
“U-UNFAIR!!” Choi Han shouted, voice cracking. “I—You can’t just—my brain—!”
Cale laughed. Actually laughed. The sound was warm and light and horrifyingly effective at making Choi Han’s knees weak.
He buried his face in one hand.
He knew this style, it was pretty popular back in Earth, aegyo, he never expected for this man—someone who was known for being logical and strategic with a blood made of cold steel to do this.
Was this real? Was he dreaming? Was this punishment?
“You’re insufferable," Cale said nonchalantly. “All puffed up and flustered like a kicked puppy.”
“I—I’m not..." Choi Han cried, voice thin and desperate.
“You’re literally whining.”
“I—! You—!” He sputtered, red-faced and frantic. “I was just… I wanted to protect everyone…”
“And I want you alive and well, not passed out from overwork.”
Cale tugged on his sleeve. “Now, escort me to my room.”
“W-What? W-Why would I—”
Cale turned and began walking, waving a hand behind him. “You heard me, Han-ee~”
Choi Han made a sound, it was not human.
Still, he followed, shambling like corpse behind Cale as they walked through the quiet corridors of the villa. The night air was cool, carrying the scent oses from the garden. It should have soothed him. Instead, his chest was tight.
Cale was being so… warm.
Too warm.
“You don’t have to escort me like a guard,” Cale said suddenly. “You’re just Choi Han.”
“I-I don’t—I don’t know how to be ‘just Choi Han,’” he muttered. “That’s… I’ve never been just—just me…”
Cale slowed, letting him catch up.
“That’s because you keep defining yourself by how useful you can be.”
Choi Han said nothing.
“I never asked you to become stronger for us,” Cale continued. “I just wanted you to be happy, everyone also want that. Whatever that looked like.”
Choi Han stayed quiet.
“We need a friend who doesn’t die from sleep deprivation,” Cale snapped, spinning on his heel. “Listen to me, Choi Han. You’re not a tool, you’re not a sword. You’re you.”
Choi Han bit his lip. “But I—”
“—am tired,” Cale cut in. “And so are you. Let’s both go rest.”
They reached Cale’s room. The door clicked open softly. Cale turned to him, and—
He puffed his cheeks again.
“Han-ee~ rest well, okay?”
Then, with a mocking expression, he blew a tiny kiss with his fingertips.
It floated through the air.
Choi Han caught it instinctively.
He was gone, Cale slipped into his room and closed the door, leaving Choi Han in stunned silence.
His knees gave out, he leaned against the wall, clutching his chest with both hands, face burning.
“I’m… going to die…” he whispered. “I’m going to… actually die.”
His heart raced like a war drum. Every nerve in his body was alight. He could still feel Cale’s voice in his ears, his warm gaze, the way he said ‘Han-ee’— even the White Star never make him this so defeated.
Choi Han slid down the wall, burying his face in his arms. “T-That wasn’t fair… that wasn’t fair at all…”
He didn’t realize how tired he was until the adrenaline wore off, his eyes fluttered shut, as he went back to his room in daze and for the first time in days, he went to bed without drawing his sword. He dreamed of warm smiles, flying kisses, and stuff.
He woke up.
And he wished that the night would be longer.
And he felt more alive than he had in weeks.
zZz
5. Alberu Crossman
The royal office of the Crown Prince was quiet, save for the slow scratch of a quill against paper. Prince Alberu Crossman sat at his desk, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to ward away the rising tide of exhaustion clawing at the edges of his mind.
Another crisis, another headache. And, of course—
"Cale Henituse."
He said the name aloud as if invoking a curse. A beautifully coiffed, destruction and a headache wrapped curse with deadpan eyes and a talent for igniting metaphorical (and sometimes literal) fires across the continent.
He hadn’t even looked up when the door swung open without so much as a knock. The only person in the entire Roan Kingdom bold enough to ignore etiquette so brazenly was also the only one with an entire folder in the royal archives titled [“Cale Henituse: Reason why I’ll die young"]
Alberu looked up slowly.
Cale stood at the office, as casually lazy as always, holding his usual teacup like he was attending a lazy garden party rather than confronting the Crown Prince. His expression was unreadable, but Alberu knew the signs—that shine in the eye, that slightly-too-innocent set to his lips.
“Your Highness,” came the unrepentant voice of Cale Henituse, his tone smug and suspiciously cheerful. “the sun, the moon, the stars alighned just for you–”
“Cut it out.”
Alberu lowered his teacup slowly, stared blankly at the redhead entering with a spring in his step and, was that a suspiciously official-looking request form in his hand?
No. Not again.
Trouble, approaching fast, he developed a trouble radar because of this punk.
Cale strode in without waiting for an invitation, stood in front of Alberu's desk, and with all the serenity of a man ordering a food on a restaurant,
"I need another golden plaque."
Alberu stared.
"Another?"
Cale nodded once. "Urgent business."
Alberu set his quill down slowly, very slowly. "You mean like the 'urgent business' last time that involved setting an enemy warehouse on fire in the middle of a city?"
Cale blinked. "It was strategically efficient."
"It was arson, with my name attached."
"The plaque came in handy."
Alberu leaned back, folding his arms across his chest as he narrowed his eyes. "Cale Henituse, do you know how many times I've had to issue diplomatic statements assuring everyone that the royal family is not, in fact, endorsing organized arson as foreign policy?"
Cale sipped his tea. "Was it effective?"
Alberu stared. Then, with a sigh carved from the depths of royal suffering, he muttered, "I am this close—” He raised two fingers, dangerously close together. “—to naming you Prime Minister so that every ounce of paperwork you generate ends up on your desk instead of mine.”
Cale froze.
Absolutely, utterly froze.
He stared at Alberu like the man had just said the world was ending tomorrow. “You wouldn’t.”
Alberu smirked. “Try me.”
There was a moment of silence.
Then.
Cale’s lips twitched. His shoulders relaxed in a way that was far too unlike of him. He stood slowly, approached the desk, and placed both palms flat on it, he leaned in.
And then.
He pouted.
“Oppa~” Cale sang, voice lilting, eyes unnaturally wide and shimmering with the exact same weaponized cuteness, “How could you do this to me~? Didn’t you promise me a slacker life~?”
Alberu’s brain short-circuited, like Eruhaben.
He had, in fact, promised Cale a slacker life. But logic fled from him as Cale tilted his head, lower lip jutting out, and then—then—put two fingers on his cheek like a fake teardrop was about to fall.
And Cale—Cale Henituse, alleged slacker, self-declared trash, demon in human form— has his both palms to his cheeks and tilted his head.
He fluttered his lashes, his voice lilted into a soft, sugary tone that made Alberu's ears burn, as Cale continued.
"Oppa~! How could you? Didn't you promise me~ slacker life forever?~"
Alberu blinked.
He blinked again.
The man who had orchestrated the downfall of a once mighty Mogoru Empire and defeat the white radish that no man is able to do so… was acting… like this.
And calling him "Oppa."
Every thought screeched to a halt.
It was wrong, it was criminal It was illegal in at least three provinces. Alberu was sure of it.
What the hell was that expression?
Cale had even added a slight bounce to his shoulders, the hands under his chin, the twinkle in his eyes and the goddamn faintest pout.
Alberu's soul recoiled and felt lime about to combust.
He opened his mouth to argue and to scold or to talk back ad usual but the words wouldn’t come.
All that came was one traitorous thought,
He’s so goddamn cute.
No. No, absolutely not, Alberu clenched his jaw. But his traitorous heart had already sprinted three laps around the palace.
He hated this. He hated how his breath hitched slightly. He hated how his gaze kept returning to the way Cale’s fingers curled under his jaw, how his lips curved upward like he knew exactly what he was doing.
He probably did know, that little bastard.
Alberu wasn’t even mad about the plaque anymore. His hands were trembling slightly, and not from rage, but from the sheer effort it took not to let the words “You’re fucking cute what the fuck” leave his mouth.
Instead, he muttered something like, "You're unbelievable."
Cale’s aegyo intensified. "You wouldn’t want your cute little dongsaeng to suffer through political meetings, would you?~ You want me to be happy, right, Oppa~?"
Alberu made a sound that might have been a gasp or a sob.
Was this retribution? Was this karma?
He could feel the heat crawling up his neck. He swore his heartbeat echoed through the four cornered of this room.
The Crown Prince of the Roan Kingdom was not prepared to be called Oppa by Cale Henituse.
He coughed. “You—You’re not getting out of this with—”
Cale poked his own cheek. “Oppaaaa~”
Alberu dropped his head into his hands.
Inside, his mind was not calm. It was a war zone. Screaming voices of reason tried to shout over the louder, louder voice that said, “He’s adorable. You’re weak, you’re his Oppa, he’s your dongsaeng, Give him what he wants.”
“No,” he said aloud, weakly. “No, no, no, absolutely—”
Cale walked around the desk, leaned in closer, and held out his hands in the shape of a heart. “Pretty please~?”
Never this.
Somehow, this was worse.
He handed over the golden plaque with the resignation of a man admitting defeat. Not in battle, but in life.
Cale grinned as he plucked the plaque from Alberu's limp hand.
Then, with both palms, he formed another heart.
"Thank you, Oppa~"
Then, just like that, he turned and walked out.
Left him alone, with his thoughts.
Then he dropped his face into his hands.
"What the fuck." It came out muffled.
He leaned back, hands covering his eyes, trying to will away the image of Cale pouting and cooing Oppa.
He failed.
Because every time he blinked, he saw that soft expression, that adorable mischievous tilt to Cale's lips. The way his voice lilted with perfect timing and the way his lashes framed his pale eyes.
Then whispered, "He’s driving me nuts."
And the worst part?
He wasn't sure he mind it.
zZz
Cale Henituse was having a very productive day.
He had successfully done nothing for five straight hours.
The cushion beneath him wa perfectly to the shape of his spine. The tea next to him was cold, which was exactly how he liked it. The sunlight filtering through the window had warmed his lap in a way that made napping nearly inevitable.
And, most importantly, no one had come to knock on his door and scream about how the world is a mess and full of bad things or that he need to attend a noble gathering again with fucking too much noise that was bad for his eardrums or multiple people scolding him or a God whispering to his ears to do an errand for them.
For once, the world was quiet. He was wrapped in a thick blanket like a man-shaped loaf of bread and contemplating whether it was worth it to roll over and go back to sleep.
Yes. It was worth it.
He yawned, pulling the blanket over his face.
“I will sleep for fifteen more hours and lay around all day.” he mumbled with satisfaction. “No one can stop me.”
There was a pause.
And then—
BOOM.
The door to his room flew open like a hurricane had kicked it down and revealing three figures.
“Human!”
Cale didn’t even flinch. His soul simply curled up tighter.
“No,” he said instantly from beneath the blanket. “Whatever it is, I refuse.”
“But we haven’t even said it yet!” Raon cried, flying into the room with a burst of energy that makes Cale wanted to crawl away.
“Doesn’t matter,” Cale muttered, with a blanket wrapped and unrepentant. “I said no.”
Hong leapt onto the edge of the bed. “But it’s important nya!”
“...What is it,” he said flatly.
On, trailing behind with a very patient smile, added, “We’re going to the North, nya!”
“No.”
“To see the aurora lights, human!”
Raon flew directly into his blanket nest and began unraveling it with glee. “Let’s travel! To the north! The aurora is visible tonight, Human!”
Hong leapt onto the window seat, nearly knocking over Cale’s untouched tea, and shoved a crayon drawing under his nose. It was a sketch of them beneath a shimmering green and purple sky.
On tilted her head, very politely. “We thought it would be good to make a memory together, nya.”
Cale blinked.
“I thought,” he said slowly, “I made it very clear this week that I was going to rot in bed.”
“But we need to see it! Goldie gramps said it was magical!
“No.”
Raon’s head popped into his field of vision. “Come on, human! Don’t be lazy!”
Cale peeked one eye open. “Still no.”
On stepped closer to the bed. “We brought extra cloaks and made an itinerary nya .”
“I want to be with one with the bed” Cale replied calmly. “Just grab Choi Han or other adults.”
"...Human."
He cracked an eye open.
The three of them were staring at him.
Three sets of enormous, shining, glassy eyes. Round cheeks slightly puffed, paws clasped in front of their chests.
Cale stared.
Raon blinked slowly, fluttering his lashes if a dragon even have one “Pleaseee~?”
Hong added, “Please go with us nya~!”
On gave the finishing blow, “We’ll be sad if you say no, nya~"
Silence fell.
Cale slowly lifted the blanket over his mouth like a shield. “You’re blackmailing me emotionally,” he muttered.
The three tiny demons nodded proudly, he stared at them for a moment longer.
“Cale,” On said softly. “Please?”
He narrowed his eyes, they were all standing now.
“Cale nya you promised to rest with us~!”
"Human, pretty pwetty please~?"
On simply tilted her head, voice perfectly mild. “If you don’t come, I might be very sad nya”
Silence.
Cale stared at them.
They stared back.
He groaned and rolled dramatically onto his stomach, stuffing his face into a pillow like it could shield him from their powers.
“This is abuse,” he muttered. “I am being emotionally manipulated.”
Raon blinked his huge, sparkly eyes. “Huh?”
Cale sat up with the weariness of a man ten seconds away from collapsing back into bed.
“Do you all know,” he said, looking them over with exhausted affection, “what I was going to do today?”
They blinked.
Cale held up a single finger. “Nap.”
Another finger. “Read five pages of a book I will never finish.”
A third. “Drink lukewarm tea and contemplate life.”
A fourth. “Nap again.”
Then, with all the melodrama of a retired war supreme commander, he let his hand fall.
“And yet here I am. Being peer-pressured by children to go to a cold place to look at the sky.”
Raon puffed out his chest. “Because you love us, human!”
Cale sighed.
He did.
That was the problem.
He stared at them, still wrapped in his blanket like a sad dumpling and their hopeful little faces. Hong’s eager bounce as On’s quiet, calm insistence and Raon’s starry-eyed glee. All of it struck him with the weight of karma because he had also been doing this to others. Karma, is it?
“…Fine,” he muttered.
The effect was immediate.
Even Cale Henituse, itself was weak to aegyo.
“YAYYYYYYY!” Raon shot into the air like a confetti cannon. “I knew it!! I knew it!! Human, you’re the best!!”
Hong was already packing the travel bag, On was helping him.
He rubbed his face. “I should’ve just runaway to nowhere, that no souls can ever find me.”
“You’d miss us if you did nya, ” Hong said cheerfully.
Cale gave him a long stare. “Don’t flatter yourselves.”
But he pulled on his coat.
Raon zipped back to his side and held out his small claw. “Let’s go together!”
Cale looked at it.
He sighed again.
And then—he took it.
He couldn't help the little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as the three of them started cheering and tugging him out the door like he was a particularly grumpy balloon.
But as Raon pressed closer and On and Hong wrapped their tails around his arms, Cale supposed… it wasn’t so bad.
A little noisy.
It's a little chaotic, but not so bad.
A slacker life dream come true.
Still, he would demand double the nap time when they got back.