By the fourth day things had changed around the house. It wasnt just somewhere to crash anymore. It felt more like a stage for whatever was going on.
Minjae woke up way earlier than he planned. Even his usual routine hadnt kicked in yet. Outside the small window the sky hung in that weird in between light not quite night not quite morning. He lay there for a bit after his eyes opened just listening. The house made these soft creaks like it was getting comfortable. Then from somewhere inside a floorboard groaned a little someone probably shifting in their sleep. Breathing sounds too faint and not steady. It hit him that he wasnt the only one alive here.
That part stuck with him kind of heavy.
He got out of bed without making noise and pulled on his old charcoal hoodie the one from university days. It was worn out at the edges but it felt safe somehow like protection. In the kitchen he made coffee black and strong without flipping on the light just going by feel. The smell cut through everything sharp and real almost too human.
Stepping outside the air hit him right away cold and crisp like it was sizing him up. He breathed out slow walking onto the gravel next to the house. The mountains looked half awake their edges blurred in mist as if the whole world was still figuring itself out.
This time of day suited him best. Nothing needed words or reasons yet.
He took the path behind the house narrow and twisting like it wanted to stay hidden. It went to this old greenhouse all broken down glass gone frame twisted in like broken bones around nothing. Moss took over most of it now and thistles popped up where plants used to grow I guess. The spot seemed left behind not thrown away exactly but let go. It made the house feel different too more like that stage idea lingering.
Minjae stopped just short of the threshold.
For a moment, he hesitated. Not out of fear, but calculation. Old instincts stirred, layered beneath newer ones. Dragons didn't hesitate. Humans did. He wondered, briefly, which instinct he was honoring.
Then he crouched and pressed two fingers into the damp soil.
The runic equation came naturally—not memorized, not recited, but assembled. Each stroke was deliberate, clean, stripped of ornamentation. No excess. No flourish. This wasn't a spell meant to impress. It was meant to function.
Kindle.
He didn't whisper it. There was no need.
The glyph sank into the earth like ink into paper. A faint glow followed, pulsing once—twice—and then sparked.
A small flame rose above the soil.
It didn't crackle. It didn't consume. It simply existed, hovering, steady and quiet, a denial of every rule this world believed in. Not fire as humans understood it. No heat distortion. No smoke. Just a contained, obedient expression of energy.
Minjae watched it with an expression that didn't quite settle into relief or satisfaction. If anything, it was something closer to confirmation.
It worked.
More than that—it translated.
For the first time since reincarnating, he had taken something ancient and instinctual and forced it through a framework this world respected. Symbols. Equations. Constraints. Magic, reduced to methodology.
He didn't need to roar to be a dragon.
That thought lingered longer than he expected.
He extinguished the flame with a single motion, brushing the glyph away until the soil looked undisturbed. No trace. No witnesses.
Or so he thought.
When he returned to the house, the morning had begun in earnest. Light spilled through the windows now, thin but persistent. The smell of boiling water and something faintly herbal greeted him as he stepped inside.
Seori was leaning over the kitchen island, flipping through an old local recipe book she'd found in one of the cabinets. She looked absorbed, brow slightly furrowed, lips moving silently as she read.
Yura had her head resting on her arms at the dining table, hair spilling everywhere, eyes half-lidded in a way that suggested she was awake only in the technical sense.
Yuri stood at the stove, already dressed in hiking gear, pouring hot water into a teapot with unnecessary precision.
Minjae slipped inside quietly, setting his mug down.
"You smell like burnt cinnamon," Yuri said without turning around.
He froze.
She continued, calm as ever. "Did you go lighting things again?"
Yura cracked one eye open. "Or is that your cologne now, Mr. Heir? Very rustic. Very mysterious."
Seori looked up from the book, one eyebrow lifting. "Should we be concerned?"
Minjae stared at them for a beat longer than socially acceptable. "...Are you three stalking me?" he asked, genuinely.
"We are on vacation with you," Yura replied, stretching lazily like a cat reclaiming territory. "Statistically speaking, that makes us your closest observers. Also, your mom's been texting us."
His hand tightened around the mug. "She what?"
Seori calmly slid her phone across the counter.
The screen was a wall of emoticons and messages.
Make sure Minjae eats before 9am! He pretends not to be tired when he's tired.
Please scold him if needed.
Yura, I'm trusting you with lunch today.
Yuri, no sneaking extra alcohol.
Seori, you're in charge of his moods!
Minjae closed his eyes.
"I'm being managed by a triumvirate," he muttered.
"Correction," Yuri said brightly, finally turning to face him. "A mother-sanctioned triumvirate."
Yura grinned. "We take governance very seriously."
Seori said nothing, but her smile lingered just long enough to be dangerous.
Later that afternoon, they decided to hike a nearby ridge.
The suggestion came casually—no formal vote, no real debate. Shoes were swapped, bags were packed, and suddenly they were on the trail, the house receding behind them as if it had done its job and no longer needed to intrude.
The path was wide enough for four people to walk side by side, but unspoken rules still formed.
Yura took the lead, camera slung around her neck, steps confident and sure. She moved like someone used to deciding direction, even when she pretended not to.
Yuri stayed beside Minjae, close enough to be annoying but not enough to be suffocating. She handed him water without asking, nudged his shoulder whenever his gaze drifted too far inward.
"Stop brooding," she said at one point. "You'll miss the view."
"I'm literally looking at it."
"You're looking through it."
Seori walked slightly behind them, unhurried. Watching. She didn't interrupt the rhythm, didn't force conversation. When she smiled, it was small and private, like she was collecting impressions rather than reactions.
Halfway up, they stopped under a pine canopy where the air smelled sharp and resinous.
Yura sat on a large stone, fiddling with her camera settings. "The lighting up here is ridiculous," she muttered. "If this doesn't turn out well, I'm blaming the mountain."
Yuri stood off to the side, hands in her pockets, staring out over the valley without commentary. That, in itself, was unusual.
Minjae leaned against a tree, eyes half-lidded, feeling the quiet press in around them.
Seori approached him after a moment. "You're quiet again."
"Just thinking."
"About what?"
He hesitated. Not because he didn't know—but because he wasn't sure which answer was safe.
"Back there," he said finally, "something worked. Something impossible. And instead of feeling relieved, I feel… unsettled."
"Why?"
"Because I don't know where the line is anymore," he admitted quietly. "Between what I can hide and what I owe."
Seori considered that. "Maybe the line doesn't matter as much as why you're drawing it."
He looked at her then. Really looked. Her expression wasn't probing. It wasn't demanding. Just present.
That was somehow worse.
When they returned to the house, evening had softened the edges of everything. The light turned warmer, shadows longer. Inside, the girls gathered around the living room table, arguing over which board game to play.
"No strategy games," Yura declared. "He'll destroy us."
"I resent that," Minjae said from the kitchen doorway.
"You should," Yuri replied. "It's accurate."
Seori tilted her head. "What about something cooperative?"
Yura laughed. "That sounds suspiciously like therapy."
Minjae watched them from the edge of the room, drink in hand, something heavy and unnameable settling in his chest.
His phone buzzed again.
Did you three go on a honeymoon trial run? Asking for HR statistics.
He sighed, locking the screen.
The rumors had taken root.
And this time, even he didn't have a ready excuse to deny them.
Worse—some part of him no longer felt the urge to.