This house… this place. It shouldn't exist.
Not here. Not in Sheol.
A quaint barn? Chickens? Firewood stacked like someone actually lived here and gave a damn about dry kindling?
It was like finding a teahouse in the middle of a battlefield.
No.
Worse.
It was like finding a mantele with your lover's perfume in a war trench--comforting, but impossible.
Keiser narrowed his eyes, sweeping the perimeter like a wolf sniffing out a trap disguised as hospitality.
And then he saw it.
He moved past Lenko, not even bothering to shove him aside, because why waste energy?
He headed toward the trees surrounding the clearing. His gaze scanned the bark like a hound on the scent.
There.
Runes.
Not just one.
Everywhere.
Etched into trunks like whispered prayers. Hidden so well you'd miss them unless you were looking. Unless you were… like him.
Keiser stepped closer, fingers brushing one of the sigils. Faint, yes--but deliberate. Nestled in the grooves like secrets.
Some were familiar. Some weren't. Most twisted in ways that tickled the edge of comprehension, like trying to remember the face of a dream.
'Seen-not-remembered.'
'Hide-from-those-who-seek.'
'Only-those-allowed.'
Keiser let out a low whistle, half awe, half amusement.
"Well. Someone was very committed to their introversion."
The pieces slid into place with a soft, sickening click.
That's how Muzio survived.
He didn't run.
He vanished.
Protected by magic so subtle even the horrors of Sheol didn't sniff it out. This wasn't backyard wizardry or charm-of-the-week scrollcraft. This was mastery--crafting veils not just of sight, but of memory, emotion, presence.
Muzio… the sickly prince, the obscured-born ghost, the nobody… had this.
A rare, raw instinct for magic. Not the polished, academy-taught kind. Not the dueling-sigil nonsense nobles pranced around with. No--this was deeper. Like breathing. Like dreaming.
In the Kingdom, magic was celebrated.
Feared.
Respected.
They called it mana--the art of weaving belief into reality. It required will, clarity, and most annoyingly.
Imagination.
Keiser had none of those.
At least, according to everyone.
"Too logical," Aisha once told him. "Too grounded. Too fond of reality to twist it."
He'd been fine with that. He didn't need spells. He had a sword. A damn good one, forged with mana cores and gifted by Gideon himself.
A bitter taste welled up in his mouth at that thought.
But not now.
Grieving could come later.
Because right now…
He had a second chance.
And by the gods, he was going to make it count.
If this was before the Gambit--before everything turned to rot and ruin--then he'd play the game differently.
But first?
Keiser glanced down at himself.
Mud-soaked tunic? Check.
Damp sleeves clinging to his arms like a second, colder skin? Check.
Blood on his hands? Check.
At least some of it was his. Probably. Maybe. Hopefully.
The rest? That was a mystery best left to rotting corpses and godless things that didn't bleed red.
His boots squelched ominously with every step, each one sounding like a sad trombone underwater. There were unidentified twigs tangled in his hair, and something suspiciously slime-like oozing down the back of his neck.
He looked like a demon that had rolled through a swamp, lost a drunken wrestling match with a ghoul, belly-flopped into a cursed well, and then been politely escorted out of hell for 'poor hygiene, general unpleasantness, and violating dress code.'
And he smelled like it.
He sniffed his sleeve--instantly regretted it.
"Yep," he croaked. "That's despair. And horse."
He gave the damp cloth a disgusted tug. "Possibly cheese, too. Is that cheese? Why is it sour?"
He reached up and flicked a crusty leaf off his shoulder. It stuck to his fingers.
He stared at it.
The leaf stared back.
"Nope."
With a full-body shudder, he flung it across the room like it owed him money.
"A bath," he muttered to no one in particular, tugging at his collar like it might somehow detach itself and slither off to die. "A bath. Clothes that don't smell like trauma. Maybe a pants that wasn't involved in a blood ritual or used as a mop."
He paused, thinking.
"…And food. Preferably one of those accursed chickens that keep giving me the evil eye. Or not, unless Lenko decides to weep over it again instead of cooking it. Gods forbid I offend the soul of a poultry ghost."
He raised an eyebrow at a feather drifting by.
"Yeah. You heard me."
He rolled his shoulders, wincing at the faint crunch of dried blood and regret in his joints.
"Preferably in that order. But I'll negotiate after."
***
Keiser sat near the hearth, bowl in one hand, cup in the other.
The bath had not been warm, but it had been water, and he no longer smelled like battlefield stew.
His clothes were still too loose, the boots didn't quite fit, and the tunic might've once belonged to a child's scarecrow--but at least it was dry. And horse-free.
He took another long sip, sighed, and leaned back until his spine gave a satisfying crack.
Then, he set his cup down with a solid clink.
Dinner had gone better than expected. Lenko had doubled the usual portion, probably terrified he'd get murdered in his sleep otherwise. The boy was now tending the rock stove, cheeks red, blowing softly at embers like it was his pet dragon.
He looked… content.
Too peaceful.
Keiser decided to ruin it.
"Do you know Sir Keiser?" he asked.
The words left his mouth before he could stop them, like a dagger flung too early.
And gods, did it sound wrong.
Like saying your own name at a party and realizing too late you weren't invited.
Lenko froze mid-blow, going rigid. His hands stopped moving. His smile flickered like a dying lantern.
"W-Why do you want to know, Your Highness?"
Ah.
There it was.
That note of panic Keiser had grown fond of.
"I asked if you knew him," he repeated, voice calm but low, leaning over the table just enough to loom.
Lenko looked away.
"Who wouldn't?" he muttered. "That crazy dog of the Fourth Prince?"
Keiser blinked.
Then blinked again.
"What did you just call me?" he snapped, instinct overriding reason.
Lenko flailed. "I-I mean him! I meant him! Sir Keiser, the knight who fought in the border wars, right? Not you--you're Muzio. Super Muzio. Prince Muzio. Very much not a dog."
There was a pause.
Then.
Keiser leaned back, arms crossed.
"…Did you just call me 'Super Muzio'?"
"No--maybe--I don't know, you're scaring me."
Keiser grunted, biting back a smirk.
So the world still remembered him.
Even if the details were fuzzy and he was apparently a 'crazy dog.'
Still. That meant something.
He still existed.
Which meant he had a shot.
To find himself.
To warn himself.
To change the ending.
And this time… win.
Lenko sighed, glancing toward the fire.
"Well… he's a war hero, you know? People say the one entering the Gambit instead of the Fourth Prince might be him. Guess they figured he was more capable. Especially after the Fourth Prince is…" He trailed off, eyes flicking toward Keiser.
"Ah… too gray?" Keiser scoffed.
Lenko flinched at the barb. He must've caught the shift in Keiser's tone because he coughed and added quickly, "There's even talk he might've won. If he'd entered."
Keiser exhaled slowly, quieting the storm building in his chest.
So he was alive. Somewhere.
Still walking the path.
Still headed for the cliff.
And Keiser had time.
Time to change it.
Lenko fidgeted, twisting his fingers as he glanced at him again.
"Are you really sure… you want to go back?"
Keiser looked up. Of course he would ask that again.
Lenko had followed him into hiding without complaint. Tended a quiet life, this gentle lie wrapped in sigils and illusion. Maybe he even hoped they'd stay here forever.
But peace, in Sheol, was an impossible dream.
And Keiser could feel it--something was coming. He didn't know what. But the sigils wouldn't hold forever. They weren't built to withstand fate.
"I do," Keiser said, rising. "Starting now."
He scanned the room for anything remotely useful.
Lenko gawked. "W-What? Now!?" He stumbled after him, nearly tripping over a rug.
"H-How about the house? The barn? The stables? The garden!" Keiser paused.
He'd never been a domestic man. Even during peacetime, his idea of relaxation was oiling weapons or plotting siege routes. Not… digging carrots. Or naming chickens.
"Who'll take care of them?" Lenko asked, looking as if he'd just asked who'd cradle a dying friend.
Keiser rubbed the back of his neck. He had a point.
The wards that kept this place hidden were proximity-based. If they left, the sigils would fade, mana would fray, and the illusion would crack. Then Sheol would see them.
And Sheol remembered.
"I'll go alone," Keiser said gruffly.
But Lenko shook his head with such force that his hair blurred. "No can do, Your Highness!"
Keiser sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Lenko looked torn between loyalty and… love--for the life they'd built here.
"Fine," Keiser muttered. "Sell what you can. Use the coin to get us to the capital."
Lenko's shoulders dropped. His face crumpled into something small and quiet, but he nodded.
That sounded better than letting everything rot. Or letting it be torn apart by monsters. Or worse--humans.
Keiser glanced around the room.
That meant one more day. One more day for Lenko to pack. To say goodbye to every horse, cow, goat, and chicken--probably by name.
Of course, he had that kind of heart.
Maybe that part of Muzio still lingered in this body.
Or maybe that softness had never belonged to Keiser at all.
He wouldn't know.
Because this place--this quiet corner of Sheol--held no warmth for him.
No memories. No peace.
Just a borrowed body. A past that wasn't his.
And ahead of him?
A future he had to intercept.
He should be thinking about what to say.
How to convince his former self--the real Keiser--that he wasn't a spy. Or an enemy. Or a curse.
Because if someone like him--like Keiser--ever saw a red-eyed stranger claiming to be him...
He'd strike first. Ask questions later.
And if there was one thing Keiser remembered about Muzio's body…
It was the eyes.
Red.
Just like the King's.
And that's not a good sign at all.