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The ancient dragon sat alone in the vast, dust kissed library of what remained of the old Henituse lands. Centuries had worn the mansion’s stones smooth, ivy crawling like forgotten memories across the walls that once echoed with chaotic laughter and the clink of teacups. His long midnight black hair, streaked with faint veins of crimson and silver from the weight of endless years, was pulled into a high ponytail that swayed gently as he turned another fragile page.
The book was old. Older than most nations now. Its title, faded but still defiant: The Hero Who Defied the Gods.
“Weak human...” Raon murmured, the words both a tender insult and the deepest endearment his ancient heart could form. His clawed finger, trembling ever so slightly, traced the illustration of a red haired man with that lazy smirk and eyes far too ancient for his face. The artist had failed miserably. They could never capture the exhaustion in those eyes the kind that came from carrying the weight of the world while pretending it was nothing more than a mild inconvenience. The way Cale would sigh, flip his hair back, and mutter about wanting to slack off, even as he bled for everyone else.
There’s no way a human can hold multiple ancient powers in the same body. That’s just impossible.
Raon’s lips curved into something bitterly sharp. Mortals and their comforting lies. They had rewritten the war until it became nothing but myth. A children’s bedtime story told to soothe fears, something to dismiss over wine and laughter in the glittering spires of the new Westin City. They did not know. They could never know the truth of the man who had been everything.
He closed the book with a soft snap that echoed through the silent halls like a breaking bone.
Raon’s steps were heavy as he walked the long corridor, each footfall a reminder of time’s unrelenting cruelty. The mansion felt emptier with every decade, the silence pressing down like an invisible mountain. He stopped before a familiar door, the one that had remained untouched for decades, warded with spells older than the continent itself. When he pushed it open, the hinges creaked like a mourning song that refused to end.
Inside, a young man slept.
Choi Han looked no older than nineteen. His black hair fell across a peaceful face, sword resting beside the bed like a faithful hound waiting for its master’s command. Raon sat on the edge of the mattress, careful not to disturb the blankets that smelled faintly of old battles and unspoken loyalty. His hand—elegant, pale, tipped with faint black scales—rested gently on Choi Han’s chest.
The heartbeat was steady. Too steady. Unchanging.
“Strong Choi Han...” Raon whispered, his voice cracking despite centuries of practice at indifference. “When will you be awake...?”
He had asked the same question for eighty-seven years. Choi Han had refused to accept it. The swordmaster had fought the very concept of loss until his body simply... stopped. A self-imposed curse of endless sleep, waiting for the one person who would never return. Raon envied him sometimes, in the quiet depths of his draconic soul. At least Choi Han could dream of Cale. Raon only had memories that cut deeper with every passing year.
He rose slowly, as if the air itself weighed him down, and moved to the balcony. Pushing open the glass doors, cool night air rushed in, carrying the scent of mana-laced wind, distant spells, and the faint, heartbreaking perfume of wild roses. Below, the garden had gone feral. Crimson blooms spilled across every inch like blood on fresh snow, climbing over trellises and stone walls with reckless, thorny abandon. They had been Cale’s favorite, once. Planted by the young master himself in a rare moment of quiet sentimentality, back when he would grumble about “useless plants” while secretly tending to them with those scarred hands.
Raon’s shining blue eyes, glowing faintly with suppressed power, stared toward the glowing horizon. Westin City once the heart of the Henituse Territory blazed with artificial light. Flying drones wove between spell-lit towers like mechanical fireflies, and the Roan Empire was now nothing more than a footnote in polished history books. The Henituse name survived only in corporate logos and diluted noble bloodlines that knew nothing of true sacrifice.
No one remembered the real story.
No one remembered the man who had laughed while coughing up blood, who had called ancient powers “annoying” even as he wielded them to tear apart a false god. No one remembered the weary redhead who had traded his own future for everyone else’s peace, who had shielded them all with a tired smile and a flip of his hair.
But Raon remembered. Every single moment.
His broad shoulders trembled as the weight of it all crashed down.
“I miss you...” He breathed into the wind, the words raw and trembling.
Tears rare, precious, burning like dragonfire slipped down his cheeks and fell onto the flowerpot below. They glistened on crimson petals like morning dew laced with sorrow. One tear traced a slow path down a vine, falling finally onto cold, unyielding stone.
There, half-hidden beneath the wild roses, lay the tomb.
Simple. Unadorned. Exactly as the hero had requested in the will no one had believed he would ever need.
REST IN PEACE
HERO OF THE CONTINENT
CALE HENITUSE
Raon gripped the balcony railing until the stone cracked beneath his fingers, shards digging into his palms like the thorns of the roses below.
“You stupid, weak human...” He choked out, his voice breaking into something raw and draconic, a growl laced with centuries of unspoken pain. “You promised you’d rest after the war. You promised you’d be annoying and lazy for the rest of your life, just lounging around with your wine and your silly excuses. So why? Why are you the only one who isn’t here? Why did you leave us behind to carry this emptiness?”
The wind carried no answer, only the distant echo of fireworks blooming over Westin City. They celebrated some new festival, some shiny new era of peace and progress. They did not know that the peace they enjoyed had been bought with red hair, a tired smile, and a father’s quiet, unbreakable love. They did not know the cost.
Raon sank to his knees on the balcony floor, forehead pressed against the cold stone as great, heaving sobs wracked his ancient body. Sobs that sounded too human, too broken, for a creature who had lived for millennia. In his heart, Cale had never been just “human.” He had been the one who found a lonely, frightened hatchling and gave him a name, a home, a family. Raon had never admitted it aloud not once. Not even in the darkest nights after the war. But to him, Cale was father. The only father he had ever known or needed. The one who taught him strength through sarcasm, protection through sacrifice, and love through endless, exasperating acts of care disguised as annoyance.
He cried for the red haired young master who had called him by silly nicknames with that infuriating smirk, ruffling his hair when no one was looking.
He cried for the days filled with chaos and family and impossible plans, where Cale would shield them all without ever asking for thanks.
He cried for Choi Han, still waiting in his endless sleep, clinging to a hope that mirrored Raon’s own shattered one.
He cried for himself an ancient, powerful, and so terribly, terribly alone without the man who had made him feel seen, wanted, and safe.
The roses swayed gently in the breeze, as if trying to offer comfort with their thorny embrace. Their petals brushed against the tomb like a final caress, thorns gleaming like tiny swords under the moonlight.
And high above, the stars watched silently over a world that had forgotten its savior. While the last witnesses remained, guarding his grave and his broken promises with everything they had left in their hollowed hearts.
In the bedroom, Choi Han’s fingers twitched once, a faint stir in the long silence.
But Raon did not see it.
He only whispered again, voice hoarse and shattered beyond repair, tears streaming endlessly:
“Come back...Father.....Please...Cale.”