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The first thing Cale Henituse noticed was that his boots were burning.
The second thing he noticed was that everything was on fire.
Flames curled around the blackened stone beneath his feet like eager cats, licking at his legs, his coat, his chest. The heat did not touch him—somehow. But the air pulsed with thick, humming tension, as if the world itself were holding its breath.
Cale blinked.
He was just at a diplomatic banquet five minutes ago. There was pie. There were nobles. There was Alberu making veiled threats in the form of flirtation. And then—
“Ah.”
Right. The weird artifact he accidentally touched. That stupid orb with glowing runes and something that whispered straight to his mind like a hyperactive Raon on sugar rush,
“Calian of the Holy Flame shall return.”
Cale rubbed his temples.
“…What the hell did I just transmigrate into?”
Like, uh?
Been fucking there, done fucking that.
He turned slowly, finding himself at the center of what could only be described as an ancient battlefield. Ruins stretched endlessly. Scorch marks painted the earth. And yet, from behind the smoke and cracked pillars, a group of cloaked figures emerged, robes singed, eyes wide with religious fever. Crazed, touched and all of things that Cale... had unfortunately used to see daily from Clopeh,
They knelt. And hurled themselves to the floor.
“Kneel before the Heavenly Phoenix!” one cried, tears streaming down his face. “The World-Ender has returned!”
"Hurrah, hurrah for the master of the holy flame of destruction!"
"..."
“…No,” Cale said automatically. “Return me. Return me right now.”
But the flames only crackled louder.
....
Cale Henituse had survived many horrors: being stabbed, drowned, force-fed healing potions, and dragged into heroism by choice and not-choice.
But nothing—nothing—prepared him for this.
He was seated on a marble throne.
A throne.
Made of literal bones, polished obsidian, and apple pie offerings balanced delicately at the armrests.
Around him, a hundred hooded figures bowed in total silence, heads lowered, chanting in a low, humming tone:
“Calian the Flame… Devourer of Fate… Bringer of Mercy Through Fire…”
Cale rubbed his temples. “This isn’t happening.”
It has only been 5 minutes after this freak incident where some lunatics leave a highly dangerous multidimensional artefact laying unattended on a banquetㅡ
One cultist shuffled forward reverently. “My liege. The Faith awaits your command.”
“What Faith?” Cale hissed, On will be so proud. “The cult? The insane one you built around a corpse that isn’t even mine?”
The cultist teared up. “He speaks in riddles. Praise thee.”
“He speaks in riddles. Praise thee.”
Another voice joined. Then another. Until the entire temple echoed:
“Praise thee!”
“Praise thee!”
“Praise thee!”
Cale nearly choked on a slice of pie someone had lovingly fed him.
...
Meanwhile, observing and watching,
A shadow moved atop a ruined tower, through a round black artefact.
Light, reddish brown eyes narrowed.
So the prophecy was true. The Phoenix had returned. And he looked exactly like from the... vision—the one who will burned the world to ashes with a smile and pity in his eyes.
The man in white, caress the black book in his hand, dressed in holy robes and an air of calm madness, turned to his disciple.
“Send word to the faithful. Begin the cleansing. Let the people greet their god.”
...
He couldn't believe it.
The Henituse Duchy, in ruins?
...Ha!
Cale had escaped successfully from the hands of those clingy insane cult in a heartbeat with the sound of wind. Their cries still makes his skin prickle with heavy mix of disgust and anxiety.
“Ron,” Cale snapped, because who else could fix this kind of mess? He needs information, badly.
No answer.
“Choi Han?” he tried.
Still nothing.
That’s when he saw someone.
A figure moving with fluid grace from behind a broken column. Black coat, dark sword, moonlit eyes—and for a heartbeat, Cale felt relief.
“Choi—”
But the figure stopped, sword drawn.
Silent.
Untrusting.
And strangely older.
Cale’s throat tightened. “It’s me.”
The man didn’t respond.
Just stared.
Then, a soft voice, hoarse from disuse,
“…You died five years ago.”
“…Excuse me?”
And then, he woke up.
...
“I suppose I should welcome you back, my little disaster,” came a silky voice from behind him.
Cale whipped around to find Alberu Crossman, hair now longer and half-tied, dressed in plain noble black—looking tired, sharper, and too amused.
Alberu stepped close. Too close. Tilted his head. Smiled that usual slimy smile of his when they first met. Like a man with too many secrets.
//It seems that Choi Han had knock him out and carried him all the way to...this dingy, underground place to meet with Alberu...//
“You’re supposed to be a corpse, 'Cale Henituse'.
And yet, here you are… setting my war camp on fire.
Care to explain why I should let you live?”
// 'Cale Henituse'? He says that with such venom, what is happening? Choi Han is acting strange, he said I've been dead for five years?//
Cale scowled. “I was gone for five minutes.”
Alberu leaned in.
“It’s been five years, darling.”
...
//Being chained by this dimension's Alberu in his bed, for...whatever reason Cale choose not to dwell, slowly, darkness began to creep from all of the 'excitement'.//
That night, Cale dreams of a tower in the sky. A stone like egg wrapped in chains. Cracks appear there and there on the small beloved casing, the small black egg wiggle gently, almost cheerful even. Chiming like bells.
A voice whispering— urgently.
“Human, hurry, hurry... They’ll burn everything”
And he wakes up. Again.
Cale wakes up, and the walls are literally smoking around him. Which is probably never a good thing.
Uhm?
What the fuck is happening now?
.
.
.
After managing to dose off the fire with some difficulties, cause what the heck with that fire? It's won't come off even with the sky eating water. He can only dose it off using fire of destruction, ironically.
Alberu bursts into the room half-dressed.
Cale stares at him.
“…Why do you look like that.”
Alberu smirks. Leaning on the door like some sort of sexy politician. Which is, definitely only fictional, Cale, or rather, Kim Rok Soo, had never seen a sexy politician before on earth.
“Why do you keep catching fire? 'Cale'? Or should I say, Calian? The great destroyer?”
Alberu corners him slowly, casually pushing him against a stone pillar.
His hand braces beside Cale’s head, their faces close, breathing heated.
“You want to burn the world, don’t you, 'Cale?'”
“No.”
“Then why does it look like it already started… the moment you returned?”
Cale stares at him.
Alberu’s eyes glitter—genuine, dangerous, and something else.
Then he leans in, brushing his lips near Cale’s ear.
“If the world falls to your fire, just make sure I’m the last thing you burn.”
...
Cause it's inevitable. Cale Henituse has been dead for five years.
And this Calian, the one who stole that feautee of their greatest heart, a dear friend, who had fallen because they just. Can't. Protect. Him.
Not as well as he protected them.
The face, mocking them of a regret so great that can't be undone. The perfect little destroyer, created by the damned gods. Perfect in every way.
...
'What was that all about?'
After that truly, truly unpleasant moment with this dimension's Alberu, Cale, physically unwell and mentally drained, sitting down to think about what to do now and how to leave this horrible place.
Sitting down, he felt something digging his neck when he lays down on the pillow.
Cale almost screamed.
Hysterically, full of wronged, bloodthirsty soul of the damned.
When a familiar black book sit itself politely on besides his pillow. Which is definitely never a good thing.
"I knew it! I fucking knew it!"
It's the fault of that motherfucking God of Death!
The black book flying to his face as if it missed him, so cheerfully and energetically.
//My child! You have to help me!//
...
Alberu Crossman, the Crown Prince of Roan, was trying very hard not to laugh.
It was difficult, considering the following:
1. Cale Henituse was currently being worshipped by a continent-wide cult.
2. Said cult had diplomatic recognition in three kingdoms.
3. And Cale had absolutely no control over them.
He leaned across the silk-draped war table, fingers laced, tone sweet as poison.
“So, darling 'Cale'. How does it feel to become a religious figurehead?”
Cale, still reeling from being hand-feed information about this godforsaken experimental world gone wrong world by the God of Death, growled, “I didn’t ask for this.”
“But it suits you,” Alberu purred. “The people love a martyr. Especially one with such…”
His eyes dropped to Cale’s lips for half a second.
“…devotion.”
Cale narrowed his eyes. “You’re enjoying this. For some reason.”
Alberu smiled with teeth.
“Oh, tremendously.”
"Oh, dear crown prince who is as bright as the—"
"..."
...
They sit in a war council meeting hours later.
Ministers from other nations. Spies. Nobles. A few high-ranking priestesses from The Ashen Faith. Everyone tense, eyes flicking between the flaming red-haired ‘Phoenix’ and the ever-poised prince.
And then a minister says:
“We suggest Lord Cale gives a public blessing in the capital. The people must see their god.”
Cale chokes on his tea. “EXCUSE ME—??”
Alberu, ever calm, sips his wine. “I second this motion.”
Cale shoots him a glare hotter than his blood’s explosive core.
“You want me to play god?”
Alberu smiles slowly. “You already are one, aren’t you?”
He leans closer, voice dropping to a whisper only Cale can hear.
“Play your part, Calian. I’ll protect you from behind the curtain… or pin the knife to your throat, if you prefer.”
Cale’s breath catches. Their eyes meet. Too long. Too sharp. Too knowing.
It's definitely a familiar feeling.
...
Cale’s golden-red hair now appears fiery under moonlight, and no one knows why.
His powers are leaking in strange, divine ways.
When he speaks, people cry.
When he gets mad, the room warms unnaturally.
When he says “shut up” and they chant it as scripture.
He is slowly becoming what the prophecy says.
The Phoenix.
The almighty Phoenix. The destroyer.
The looming death.
And he’s absolutely losing it.