Chapter Text
Cale dies in flames after twenty years of desperate fighting and borrowed time. He isn't sad to go out in a literal blaze of glory, but it's not the painless death that most soldiers dream of in place of unachievable peace.
Forgive him if he's a little short when he wakes up and is immediately asked to make a deal.
"What the hell?"
The God of Death—who is apparently a being that Cale can say he's conversed with now, what the hell—nods patiently. "I understand it's quite a lot, but I can only keep you in limbo for so long. I'd appreciate you deciding quickly."
Cale wants to sigh. Or scream? Probably rolling his eyes would suffice, even. Yet still, he's probably standing in front of the real-deal 'Death', so he refrains. "A deal," he echoes instead of losing his shit.
"Yes!" Death brightens like a child. "See, your world has come to ruin. I can't interfere directly to fix that, but should I send a champion in my stead..." He trails off, giving Cale an imploring look. It's probably some other god-rule that he can't say his plan to bend the rules directly. Cale just nods to show his understanding, feeling impossibly more exhausted. So he sends a champion to kill the White Star. What does that have to do with Cale? "This champion will awake in your eighteen-year-old body, which is why I'm asking you to make this deal with me. You'll need to... loan it out, per say, to another soul, who can save your family and protect the world."
Cale's brain screeches to a halt.
His body (why?? why???) at eighteen (??????). Okay. Fine. Maybe he's in a convenient place politically; this champion can make strange moves without being questioned to prepare for the White Star's attacks, since he's involved in nobility but widely regarded as brainless and useless.
Cale doesn't want to question what soul Death just has at his disposal to shove into Cale's teenage body, because that's not his business. "You're sure this bastard will protect my family?" Cale has lived on twenty years of borrowed time. If his eighteen years of shitty living are thrown down the drain to be adopted by some random... is that really too steep a price to pay? "And... where does my soul go?"
He imagines that he'll just stay here forever. This limbo. Or, maybe, he'll find some sort of afterlife? He's not counting on ending up lucky, but it'd be nice.
Death shakes his head. "This soul is pure and good. Your family will be safe. As for where you go—I can't leave you to linger in the afterdeath, because your soul would dissolve and my champion's will be destabilized."
Oh. What a wonderful thought, actually vanishing into nothingness. It's so kind of Death to offer an alternative.
"You have two choices, instead. I can send you to my champion's world, where you'll take over his body and life—" ah, Cale would feel a bit bad about that, but it's not an awful possibility— "or you'll be sent to a world similar to your own—similar people, similar magic, and similar social rules, where Cale Barrow—er, White Star—is not an existence who can create havoc."
Cale's gut drops to his feet. He's sure his voice is trembling when he asks, "My—my family? They're alive? Lily, Basen, Mother and Father?" He'd been content not moments ago to never see them again, so long as it meant their lives and happiness were preserved under the protection of Death's champion.
But... the idea of being able to reach out and hug Violan, call her 'Mother' in the way he'd run out of time to—to pat Lily's head, tell Basen he will always be proud, to hug them both tightly and remind them he loves them...
It's too tempting to bear. There has to be a catch. "Why would I choose the first option? What's the 'but' on the second?"
Death hesitates, and Cale tenses. "Should you accept my champion's life, your mother will be reincarnated into a girl who is your niece. You'll be able to live happily with her. Should you choose the second life, there are certain expectations you must meet so that the void of my champion's soul is filled."
That... ah. It's not the catch Cale was looking for, but it still settles as a lump in his throat. His mom versus the rest of his family, is essentially his choice. Who does he love more? Who does he want more badly.
"What's... the expectations of the second world. What does that mean?" he asks, voice shaky as he desperately tries to ignore the way he knows what his answer will be.
Death pats his head tentatively. Cale barely reacts, mind finally deciding to shut down with the absurdity of that action. "The magic of that world, like your own, has alchemy. Your body in that world is sickly, lacking anything but fragments copied of your soul and unable to properly function as a result. Should you take it over, you'll be restored to health, but I ask you to produce an alchemic solution using those excess fragments to stabilize my champion's original body."
"I'll do it," Cale agrees before even processing what's being asked of him. He'll see his family, alive, without any impending doom to fight off, and all he has to do is stick the extra soul fragments in a bottle?
Cale loves his mom. He loves her more than life itself. But Basen was the little brother Cale never got to see grow up and become the fantastic Count he could've been. Lily was the baby sister he practically raised from age seven to age fifteen, the baby sister who he saw die before his eyes because she wanted to protect her weak brother. His Mother and Father were the people who shielded their children with their own bodies, who would've given anything to watch them grow and bid them well on their wedding days.
Mom... is a distant memory that Cale longs painfully more. He's grieved her triple the time he's known her; he can hardly recall the shape of her smile, most days.
And as much as Cale would love to see that smile again, even on a niece that looks nothing like Cale remembers, he yearns even more achingly to pat eager, bobbing heads of brown.
"Send me to the second world, and tell this champion I bid him best of luck."
Cale's eyes slip shut.
Cale wakes in a familiar bedroom, a hurried knock at his door. "Young Master?" a nervous voice calls.
Cale can't help the way he deflates slightly. Hans. Some selfish part of him had been hoping...
Ah. There's no point to that now. He hums, loud enough to be heard through the door. "May I come in?"
Cale almost sighs. It's been a long time since Hans was nervous around Cale. Maybe it was helped by the fact that he saw Cale break down for weeks on end, left completely mentally compromised by the destruction of the territory and his family's deaths. "Sure," he grunts, monotone and scrubbing a hand down his face. How much information can he get out of this Hans without giving himself away?
Hans enters, looking almost surprised. "I-I'm extremely happy to see you awake, young master! I almost didn't believe my ears when Mr. Ron told the news. He'll be back quickly, by the way. He's just gone to retrieve a meal from the kitchens."
Cale relaxes without meaning to, eyes opening slightly with delight. So Ron is still-!
He shakes it off. He's too old to behave so childishly. "Would you like me to help you out of bed, Young Master?" Hans asks, hands hovering nervously as Cale shifts and slings his feet over the edge of the bed.
Cale casts him a curious look. Hans still sounds nervous, but he's not afraid to reach out to Cale in the way most people were due to his trash reputation.
...Death had said that, since this Cale lacked a complete soul, he'd been sickly. Perhaps too sickly.
"Hans," he murmurs, grunting as he pushes himself to his feet. He winces slightly. He's skin and bones; not a hint of muscle to be found. He should probably work that back on quickly. Even if there isn't any White Star-induced war to come, it'd be foolish to be unprepared. Death had said, after all, that the social structure was similar to Cale's original world. If that's the case, then Basen is at risk now that Cale's health has been restored. It's like if Taylor Stan, before his death, had miraculously regained the use of his legs. "How long have I been sick?"
It's perhaps a blunt question, but Hans's face only creases with sympathy, lacking suspicion. "Well... of course, young master has always been frail, but it's been about thirteen years since the late Countess's funeral after which you fell sick and never recovered."
Hah, Cale thinks. Even in this world, she was what held my soul together.
Hans becomes nervous again. "Young Master you... you are aware of the Countess Violan, Young Master Basen, and Young Master Lily, yes? You... recall them?"
Cale almost winces. That would've been a hard pill to swallow, if Cale truly was comatose all this time and had little recollection of everything. He might've broken down and cried himself back to ill health. "Of course," he says instead of whatever Hans might've feared. "They're my younger siblings and Mother. How could I forget them?"
Even as he speaks, vague memories he knows aren't his flit past his eyes, of Violan watching him with worried eyes as his shaky hands sip his tea under the shade of the garden gazebo. Lily marching beside him, acting as a crutch and declaring that she'll one day become a swordmaster steadfast enough to fight off his sickness. Basen, sitting in his room, reading to him and repeating what he'd learned with his tutors in hopes that Cale will at least be entertained.
A soft smile crosses Cale's face as he even recalls flickers of Father, doting worriedly and joining him and Mother for tea despite how she'd scold him for his frazzled appearance.
"Can I... go to see them?" he asks, his voice softer than he'd meant for it to be.
Hans beams, immediately agreeing. "If the young master would like to bathe once Ron returns with food, I will go immediately and inform them you wish to see them while you wash!"
Hm... Cale wants to rush him, but he feels quite disgusting. And, looking at the sorry state of him, some food would be nice. "Alright," he concedes with a nod. "Please do so then."
Word has spread through the Roan National University like wildfire. Cale Henituse has made a miraculous recovery, and he'll be joining as a first-year in the fall semester.
Perhaps more curious than that is the official statement he'd released once he'd restored his physical state to some semblance of normality, having been extremely frail upon initially waking from his months-long coma. He'd named Basen Henituse, the Henituse stepson, the official heir, and declared that he would be attending their esteemed National University in hopes of pursuing 'other fields'.
Once that broke the news, everyone began pestering Alberu, current third-year and student council president, to find out what major Cale had selected in his (of course accepted) application.
Alberu has remained tight-lipped, citing that there was no good to come from spilling the business of the nobility to those uninvolved with them, but he's turned over his own questions have arisen.
Cale Henituse has chosen to double-major: swordsmanship and alchemy.
It's given him a severe headache just to think about the repercussions of putting such a person in those courses, not to mention neither of them being requested as minors. Cale is weak-bodied, and without the years of training the majority of those in swordsmanship classes have. Alchemy—it's self-explanatory! How could a person who had spent most of their life bedbound, missing tutoring lessons, possibly survive in a course even geniuses have dropped out of, cursing as impossible and unlearnable?
And still, Roan National University holds itself to a standard of acceptance and equality above all, so Alberu has no viable grounds ('are you a fucking idiot?', of course, not being an option) on which to deny Cale entry to the two majors he's allotted for himself.
"Haah..." Alberu sighs, chugging down his tea as though it's vodka. He wishes it was, but it's too much of a risk to be inebriated in public. Even if his aunt Tasha serves dutifully as school security staff, people take drastic measures to collapse power while it's weak.
He just hopes that this Cale Henituse is quiet and unobtrusive when he arrives at the university, and will be just as quiet and unobtrusive when he inevitably drops out.
Cale has a few options going into this.
See, he's just gone ahead and declared Basen heir. It'd done no good to try to subtly push his father in that direction in his last life, and this gives him the opportunity to focus his attention on Death's alchemical task for him.
Of course, given Cale has absolutely no interest in alchemy, he'll just use that course as a cover for his experimentation and drop out to fully dedicate his time to swordsmanship once the potion is complete. Lily had been ecstatic to hear that the reason he'd been so vigorously training was because he wanted to enroll as a swordsmanship major at the National University, so he can't give up even if the strain becomes extensive.
He has twenty years of fighting in a war behind him, anyway. Even if none of that is particularly refined, Cale is sure that he'll regain all the lethality that kept him alive through those hellish years once he puts all his muscle back on.
He almost weeps at the thought of it. All that hard-earned bulk... gone to the body of a sickly nineteen-year-old! It's just cruel! And it was hard earned, too!
He steels himself. Back to important decision-making! He can do one of three things entering Roan National University:
- Resurrect the Trash Act™ and ensure none of the vassals have enough attention to spare to badmouth Basen now that Cale is again a viable heir prospective. This is currently his last-resort option, because Cale really likes the good relationships he has right now. He doesn't want people to be scared of him again.
- Become the most annoying doting older brother on the planet and praise Basen endlessly to make it clear that Cale is entirely genuine in his support. This is his second option; Cale would love to sing Basen's praises endlessly, but he worries it'll come off as forced and bring more scrutiny onto Basen and the Henituse.
- His favorite option: be as unnoticeable as possible because it's awkward to attend a school with people he's fought war with!
Even thinking of it now, it seems unlikely Cale will have the mental capacity for any acting. Just studying for these major-specific proficiency exams are making him curse himself. It's not as though any of it is particularly difficult and Cale can easily replicate most of the information after a single review, but studying is so tedious!
For the gods' sakes, he's a veteran of a twenty-year-long war! He's killed countless people! Why should he have to sit in a classroom and measure how much beetle dung he should put in a bottle?!
Just preparing for the beginning of his first semester is headache-inducing. Between uniform alterations (Mother's insistence, saying a Henituse should stand out proudly; Cale is helpless to deny her.), trying to dissect this world's magic system disguised as cram studying years of 'missed' lessons, and recovering his body to at least workable standards, Cale is completely mentally drained.
He pops open a bottle of champagne the night before he leaves despite Ron's radiating disapproval, for old times' sake, and politely pours himself a glass. He's not going to go that deep into it, after all. It's been decades since he last touched alcohol, sober even at times he'd rather be anything else. It tastes just as awful as he remembers, despite the high quality of it, and he stops after a single, half-filled flute.
There's no reason to indulge. This body is weak, anyway. There's no way Cale has the tolerance he's used to.
Yes, that settles it. Option 1 is firmly struck out; Cale will probably end up blending numbers 2 and 3, if he gets so lucky as to get to know Amiru, Eric, and Gilbert in this life.
They could've been close, the four of them, if Cale had seen past his own stupid ideas and Eric hadn't gone off and gotten killed first. He'd been the glue that held them together, and with so much death in each of their own lives, Amiru, Gilbert, and Cale made sparing effort to reconnect in the chaos that followed.
It wouldn't have done much; Gilbert died just months after Eric, and Amiru a few years following.
Cale, as usual, was the last one standing.
"Young Master?" Ron prompts, sounding like it isn't for the first time. Cale jolts out of his thoughts, turning to Ron with a questioning look. "Would you like this Ron to bring you tea before you sleep, or another book?" Cale has been requesting a new book almost every night, after all, tearing through them at an inhuman pace. The material is laughably simple, in most cases, so he has no problems skimming.
"Ah, I'm fine," he murmurs, shaking his head to dislodge the last of those lonely thoughts. His old world is in good hands now; Death had assured him of that.
And... just this once, Cale wants to be selfish, and live happily in this peaceful life that's been given to him. Why shouldn't he? He'll fulfill his end of the deal, and his original world will be saved. Is it wrong of him to want to grasp tight the new opportunities he's been given here?
Cale is an idiot. This isn't a peaceful life; this is a prettily-disguised hell.
In less dramatic terms, he is lost. He was walked to the Dean's office—Headmaster Eruhaben, is the ethereally beautiful man's name, apparently the most powerful mage of their era—by a staff member, Professor Harol. He teaches history, though he seems impeccably average for such a school. He claims that he was referred by the martial arts instructor, 'Master Toonka'.
Cale vaguely remembers Amiru complaining about a man from Whipper by that name, who'd come into her territory and caused a ruckus shortly after the Plaza Terror Incident.
Urgh. This is already becoming annoying. What other figures from Cale's original life will appear as mere teachers here?
Anyways, after meeting the Dean to get his schedule and sort out any rooming accommodations he might need in the case that his health again worsens, Cale bows himself out politely—that aura is undoubtedly one of a dragon, after all, and drinking half his life away has miraculously not infected Cale with stupidity—and turns with an unwarranted confidence in his step, glancing down at the listed room numbers and turning a few corners, watching the labels tick by.
Except the farther he walks, the more he comes to realize that the organization system of this school makes no fucking sense.
It's not number descending or ascending. Not even-odd per side. It's not even alphabetical, in the rare cases that a room has both a number and letter label!
Cale glances out a window, finding himself significantly higher up that he was before, and almost tears out his hair. How is this his life? He feels like a cliche in a commoner's fantasy novel; new student enters fancy royal academy, gets lost, gets found by romantic protagonist.
He shudders at the thought. He's too world-weary for romance.
He walks a while longer, overly conscious of the time passing, and carefully scrutinizes the passing labels. The one time he actually does pass a class he's a part of, the damned door is locked when he tries to enter! It's not near the allotted class time, but for the love of the gods! They couldn't have made this any harder?!
Cale gives up and whirls on his heel, marching to the nearest door and shoving it open in a huff. He's just going to pretend he's in whatever goddamned class—
That is Alberu Crossman in his dark elf form, talking to another dark elf wearing a school security uniform.
Cale stops and stares, eye twitching a bit. There's no way they're going to make this his problem, right? They can't make this his problem. In fact, he thinks, slamming the door shut in his own face, I am going to march away and make this even more not-my-problem.
Of course Cale knows Alberu is part dark-elf; he and the King were... close in his last life, when Cale rose through the collapsing ranks and became invaluable in spywork and strategy. Even still, he'd like to not be involved with the university-aged versions of these people who he, again, knew most intimately in the setting of war.
Cale would be more surprised that Alberu's dark elf thing carried over here if it weren't for the fact that his life has always just been so damn unlucky.
"Young Master Cale!" a voice calls after him, bright and falsely cheery. Cale freezes in his hurried steps, wanting to melt into the ground. "I apologize for not greeting you when you entered! Will you come back to my office for a chat?"
Office?! Wasn't Alberu some kind of council president for the school, and a fellow student? Why would he have an office?!
Cale grits his teeth and tries to fix his face, repeating his brand-new mantra: Not My Problem! "I'd be honored, your highness," he returns, a little surprised at the ease of his voice. "Please don't let me disturb your private conversations. I thought your office was my classroom."
Alberu's face is just as annoyingly fake as his voice. "Oh, that's hardly an issue. Come in! I'll go over your schedule with you and escort you to class." More like hold a knife to your throat and make you swear to keep my secrets, Cale thinks, but whatever. He can understand the sanctity of maintaining an image.
Granted, the image he's familiar with maintaining is that of a drunkard lout, but... eh, close enough to be comparable.
He walks into Alberu's office with all the casualness of a person who doesn't know a potentially career-ending secret about their peer, and sits with just as much nonplussed grace. Alberu watches him carefully the whole time.
"Forgive me for my directness, young master," he says when he finally speaks, polite hesitance coloring every syllable, "but what you saw—"
"It doesn't concern me in the slightest."
Alberu's voice chokes off and he twitches, staring baffledly at Cale. "Wh—sorry?"
"What I saw is none of my business. Don't tell me anything about it, I don't care. If you're worried about me saying something, you're wasting both our time. I want to get to class." Now, 'want' is a strong word to use here, but Cale would really rather be anywhere but here having this conversation, so it's honestly not terribly much of an exaggeration. "Can I—"
Use a Vow of Death.
Cale jolts, head whipping from side to side. "D-did—" he stammers, "Did you hear that?"
Fuck, this is making him paranoid! He just got here and he's already lost his marbles enough to be hearing things. When Alberu only apologizes and asks what he's talking about, Cale shakes his head. "It must've been the wind, forgive me." Alberu politely ignores how the window is tightly shut and magically-enforced to prevent creaking.
Offer your hands and invite him to a Vow of Death.
Okay, damn! Pushy fuckin'...
Ah. The God of Death is whispering in his ear, because of course he is. Because of course loaning off his body to some 'champion' wasn't enough, but he's gone off on his own and decided he's gonna drive Cale insane by talking into his head whenever he pleases.
Cale grits his teeth into an irritated smile, completely too fed up to bother with acting. He offers his hands, palm up as he vaguely recalls seeing priests of Death do in the past. "If you really want the insurance, I'll just perform a Vow of Death." Cale isn't sure when he gained the ability to do that, but it's fine. He's really beyond the point of questioning this world's fucked-up magic system.
Alberu's eyes widen. "E-excuse me? A what?"
Cale wants to kill himself.
They don't know what a fucking Vow of Death is?! He's just out here inventing these!?
Fuck! What about his low profile life, you shitty god?!
Cale grits his teeth harder. "A Vow of Death is a binding oath facilitated through divine energy—" that, at least, Cale is certain exists, an offshoot of regular magic practiced by priests instead of standard mages— "in which the ones making the oath, should their end of the deal be broken, die." He huffs, choosing to ignore Alberu's open gaping and stretch his hands out again, more insistently. "I'll swear not to tell, so just take the damn oath."
As though possessed, Alberu reaches out and lays his hands on Cale's. Cale claps his fingers around him, as Death instructs. Invoke me, Death commands. Cale wants to bite that he doesn't know what the fuck that means, but then words fill his head and flow naturally from his mouth. "I call on you, O divine patron of eternal rest, to oversee this vow."
A shadow—no, a void that seems to glow, impossibly enough—hazes out the sight of their clasped hands. Assuming that the magic bit is over, Cale starts to talk. This pattern, at least, is familiar to him, having invoked so many goddamn vows of secrecy over his life that it comes as second nature. "I, Cale Henituse, swear to never through any method reveal the secret of Alberu Crossman's association with or lineage of dark elves unless he, Alberu Crossman, himself permits it."
As he speaks, the words scrawl themselves in ink up his arm, pulsing that same void-like glow. "Blessed be He, eternal rest, who oversees this promise."
And then the void and the ink fade in sync and Cale retracts his hand, stuffing them in the pockets of his uniform. "Satisfied?" he asks, head cocked to the side.
"Uh," Alberu gawps dumbly, and Cale can't help staring at him with a little annoyance. This young man is nothing like the King Cale dedicated his life to serving. He's nowhere near as impressive; he in fact seems rather incompetent at the effortless nonchalance Alberu constantly seemed to exude, even when Cale was forced to indelicately deliver mana bomb-equivalent news.
Cale sighs, standing. "I've definitely missed my first class by now. I wish I'd been here for orientation..." he laments to himself, already walking to the door. He turns back, bowing shallowly. "Thank you for your time, your highness. Please rest easy."
"W-wait!" Alberu stammers, rising quickly from his seat and finally seeming to collect himself. "I apologize for my lapse in attention. I will show you to your class; it's right around the time second period should begin." As if on cue, the dismissal bell for first rings out. Alberu smiles, holding the schedule Cale had forgotten on his desk, and so Cale sighs and gestures for him to lead the way.
The halls fill with students as they walk, though Cale notices the crowds are thicker the lower they get. Cale... hadn't realized how many flights of stairs he'd walked up in his frustrated wandering.
"If I may, young master," Alberu hedges, though his voice is low enough not to catch anyone else's attention. "Why did you choose alchemy and swordsmanship as your majors? Your manipulation of divine power is... unlike anything I've seen. You'd excel."
Cale shrugs. "I have no interest in serving gods. They've never done me any good." For twenty years, he'd pleaded for a miracle, and for twenty years he'd watched his loved ones, one by one, die. Death may have given Cale this second chance, but it was at the cost of loaning his entire body to a stranger and entrusting the family he'd grieved for so long to that man's hands. Cale will give Death his praises, but a priest is a servant and that is a level Cale will never lower himself to for the useless divine.
That seems to give Alberu pause, though he looks Cale over once and nods to himself as though he's made some sort of sense of it.
Cale doesn't care to correct whatever—no doubt mistaken—conclusion he's come to, almost rejoicing at the sight of his classroom within reach. Finally, he's here! And this is his alchemy class! Blessed be!
Cale can't help his childish grin, a little excited at the prospect of hard work that doesn't require running another human through with a sword. He likes keeping busy, keeping his mind and hands occupied, but he'd never quite had the time or reason to indulge in something so... academic.
"Thank you for your help, your highness," he murmurs, too distracted to spare anything but a curt nod for the prince before hurrying into the classroom. He's too eager to wait. After this frustrating morning, a rigorous class is exactly what he needs!
The classroom is extremely sparsely filled when he enters, none of the faces immediately familiar. Cale droops a little in disappointment. None of them look half as excited to be here as he is, most already grim-faced with dread.
Except for a red-headed woman whose hair is even brighter than Cale's, who's positively glowing.
There's plenty of empty seats, but she's missing a partner, and really, who's it hurting? Cale untucks the chair quietly, catching the woman's attention. He offers her a small smile. "Is it alright if I sit here?"
"Of course!" the woman agrees hastily, shuffling her own books and bag out of the way. "Haha, sorry for the mess! There wasn't anyone else here on orientation, so I didn't..."
"Ah, I was sick back then," Cale admits easily, settling in beside her. She's trailed off at the proper sight of his face, no doubt realizing he's the fragile young master the kingdom had been abuzz about since his 'miraculous recovery'. "It's no issue now, though, so I thought I'd catch up on my studies." He smiles again, turning to her and offering a hand. "I'm Cale."
She brightens again, laughing lightly. "This isn't quite the class to 'catch up' on studies, but I feel like you'd enjoy it! I'm Rosalyn!"
Ah! That's why she looked so familiar! Archmage Rosalyn was one of Choi Han's closest companions, and the one who initially convinced Choi Han to actually work with Cale at first when they both still clung to their, er... past grievances.
Has she run away from her kingdom to become a mage in this world, too? "It's a pleasure to meet you," he murmurs, sort of admiring her firm grip, but a thump at the front of the room catches both their attention and they straighten in their seats. A red-haired man (is that a theme with alchemists?) with a scowl and a smattering of freckles stands behind his desk, which he'd just slammed a heap of books on.
"Hello. I'm Professor Rex. Call me what you want. I'm your alchemy teacher. We're doing proficiency tests."
Hm. Succinct. Cale can appreciate that, but there's really no need for such a bad attitude. Rex, of all of them in this room, is the one who most certainly chose to be here. The sound of a proficiency test does excite him somewhat, though. He's of course learned the theory as thoroughly as he can, but he has yet to actually try anything in practice.
They're directed to their stations, already stacked to bursting with various vials and equipment. Cale can only think that this kind of haphazard setup has to be a safety risk. Just looking at some of these bubbling liquids tells him they're dangerous.
Then again, maybe 'surviving' is part of the aptitude test. Alchemists have always been crazy; Cale wouldn't put such a requirement past this particularly grouchy-looking one. He looks around first for a pair of gloves. Just about every manual he'd skimmed had stressed the importance of limiting direct contact, and Cale's not stupid enough to think it'll affect him any more kindly than the average person, with how weak this body still is.
He waits for directions, then, arms crossed and shifting from foot to foot for lack of anything to lean on. A few long moments drag on as other students look around confusedly, waiting for Rex to give more instructions. "New students," he barks suddenly, "raise your hands."
A few students, including Cale, raise their hands. Cale notes nervously that none of them have gloves on but him. Was he supposed to wait to touch these?
Ah, fuck it. He'd rather survive chemical burns and get reprimanded than the other way around.
"You!" Rex barks, expectedly, at Cale. Cale withholds a wince. It's ten o'clock in the morning; that's too early to be yelling like that. "What's your name?"
Cale sighs, hand dropping. "Cale Henituse, sir." So much for being respectful; he's been on his best behavior and is still going to get lectured on his first day here. Maybe he should've just taken his chances joining an independent alchemic guild.
"If you had your hand raised and your name isn't Cale Henituse, get the fuck out of my classroom. Are you too stupid to look around you and notice everyone else putting gloves on, or did you just intentionally ignore the way the number one rule in every one of your assigned readings was to reduce direct contact?" he snarls. "Either way, get out! I won't have incompetence ending lives!"
One student bursts into tears, being led out by his slightly less teary-eyed companion. The rest make their walk of shame to retrieve their things and duck out of the door quickly.
...Ah. That explains why the students had looked so grim. And why there are so few of them. Cale withholds a huff. He feels a little above petty scolding by a teacher, but it definitely would've been a blow to his ego if he'd been among those marching out.
"Alright, runts. This proficiency test is going to be different than last year's, because apparently I went too easy and one of you got hurt. I weed you out so accidents don't happen, understood?"
"Yes, Professor," the class chimes in unison. Cale misses his chance to join them, and instead nods his assent. Yikes. If this grouch has somehow made the proficiency test harder, Cale's not sure if he's actually going to make it to the first proper day of class. Theory, he's learned the hard way, rarely ever matches up to the real thing.
Still, there's no point in giving up without even trying. It's a proficiency test, not a final exam; if it's not perfect, well, Cale's here to learn.
"Your first task is to create a simple potion; Grade Four." The lowest of the four potion grades, a slight adjustment from Cale's last life. Simple potions like intoxication, short-term sleep draughts, coolants, and the like.
Nobody moves, waiting for further instruction. Rex frowns harder at them. "Did I say stand there and look stupid? You've all been in my class for at least a semester but Henituse. You don't need me to spoon feed you recipes. Get to work!"
So they all turn and get to work, Cale included. He's a little annoyed at being singled out without even being compensated with some assistance. All the rest of these bastards have a head start on him!
Then again, it's not as though he needs the recipe in front of him. All the 'basics' of each grade are engraved in his mind; he could write them all out now. It's probably a holdover of spending so much time in his last life holed up in Mogoru Empire filing cabinets, memorizing documents and then scurrying off to create copies for the King.
Huh. Who would've thought spying has so many transferrable skills.
At first picking through the dead insect ingredients is a little strange, but Cale falls into the rhythm easily. Squish flat under his blade, chop, set to the side. Swirl the flask. Wait five seconds. Bubbling? Yes. Dump grasshopper head. Stir. Wait ten seconds. Purpling. Wait three more seconds. Pale blue. Swirl. Drop in fireflower grains. Crush the seedlings. Mix with locust blood. Infuse paste with mana. Swirl flask. Dump in slowly. Bubbling, bubbling, pull back. Stir stir stir. Finish pouring the paste. Dark blue. Swirl. Orange.
Cale huffs when the fire starter potion sits, complete, in the bottle he's transferred it to. It seems like about the right shade, there'd been no excess or shortage from what he'd intended to procure.
...Nice. This alchemy stuff isn't as hard as Cale thought it was going to be. It's almost like cooking, although Cale finds cooking to be significantly more difficult than this. There's no way to undo a charred meat and there's no color indication when more cilantro needs to be added. It's such a pain.
"Turn your potions in at the front when you're done with a label! No names!" Rex calls, buried in some box or other at the opposite end of the classroom. To prevent accusations of bias, Cale assumes, although with such a small class Cale has no doubt Rex can recognize most of these peoples' handwriting. It's not like he's particularly concerned about favoritism. This guy seems concerned with results over anything else. A fitting mindset for an alchemist.
Dutifully, he scrawls 'fire starter' on a slip of paper and places his potion on Rex's desk on top of it. Most of the others are finishing around the same time, although Cale winces when he sees one girl spill her potion and start to panic. Her friend comes in quickly to soothe her, though, and Cale is relieved that it's not his problem. He turns around, only to flinch back and barely avoid screaming when Rosalyn is directly in his face. He places a hand over his thundering heart, trying to catch his breath. "What the fuck?" he hisses, annoyed at being caught off guard.
Rosalyn smiles sheepishly. "Ahah, sorry. I got a little excited. Was that a fire starter? That looked literally perfect, Cale, that's crazy! Like, textbook-level perfect shade of orange!" she praises.
Cale flushes without realizing, a little caught off guard at the sudden barrage. "Ah—uh, it's really not that impressive..." he murmurs, scratching his arm awkwardly. "I memorized the basic recipes before coming, so I probably had an easier time..."
"Come on, don't be humble," Rosalyn scolds, though she never stops smiling. "All of us have been in here long enough to memorize the basics, but I don't think I've ever gotten my fire starter through all the phases that perfectly." She laughs. "I almost messed up my own sleeping draught because I was so busy gawking at what you were doing."
Cale becomes rapidly aware of his face burning as he backs away slightly, nodding his awkward thanks and wanting to end this interaction quickly. He really likes Rosalyn, but isn't all this praise a little unnecessary..? He really doesn't see what's so impressive.
Rex finally reemerges, all the potions laid out neatly on his desk, and he goes through each one, popping open the cap, examining the color, wafting the scent. It's a tedious process as he critiques every single one. Annoyingly enough, Cale's is towards the back end of the line, and Rex skips it! He takes a breath and reminds himself not to go storming up and shaking his new teacher; maybe Rex has an extra-long list of critiques and doesn't want to waste his breath until he's done with everyone else.
He lifts Cale's potion up last, proud and orange. "Who made this?" he asks, scowling again. Cale winces. He must've really fucked it up, damn. Maybe Rosalyn's colorblind.
Cale raises his hand reluctantly, not eager to get yelled out of the classroom.
"Come up here." Well, that's not the command Cale was expecting, but he goes. Rex is glaring when Cale meets his eyes. "I don't accept store-bought potions in this class, kid," he hisses, shoving the bottle back towards Cale, "so pour this back into whatever flask you got it from and get out."
Well, hold on now. Cale feels his own face contort into a scowl, annoyance surging in him. He's worked too damn hard to let some shithead tell him what the hell is and isn't his work! "Fuck you, bastard, I made that right here in this classroom!" he snaps back, manners be damned. "You too blind to see your missing supplies?!"
Rex scoffs. "As though you couldn't have just tucked things away at random."
"I don't waste shit needlessly," Cale snaps.
"Sure," Rex challenges. "Explain to me how exactly you 'made' this potion, then?"
Cale smiles, mean and toothy. "Better yet, why don't I show you, bastard?"
So Cale marches his happy ass right back to his station and, with the eyes of every single one of his new classmates on him, performs every step he'd just completed in the same exact way. When he's finished, a scowl firmly on his face, he's shoving an orange flash at Rex that's exactly the same shade as the shit in the bottle.
Rex gapes and Cale smirks. "Right. So, remind me again what you were saying about store bought potions?"
Rex doesn't rise to the bait, slamming the bottle down indelicately. "What other recipes do you have memorized?" he demands. "Any higher-grade potions?"
Cale startles, stiffening slightly. "Hu-uh?" he grunts, hostility melting away in favor of vague confusion. All of Rex's scowling is gone now, and he's instead staring at Cale with the eagerness of a scientist about to dissect a lizard. Cale does not appreciate being the lizard in this analogy, so he pastes his scowl back on and jerks his gaze away. "I... know a few of every grade, though I'm not practiced. I could definitely do a light healing potion, heavy-duty sleep-inducement, and I could possibly make a jitter-pain potion if that helps."
"Make them all!" Rex demands, hands on Cale's shoulders. "Henituse, kid, you're a fucking prodigy, do you understand that? Make your damn potions and pray that some of your talent will rub off on your classmates."
Cale glances around to said classmates for assistance, perhaps to burst Rex's bubble and remind him that Cale is in fact in his first ever semester, but they're all staring at him with those same lizard-dissecting eyes and he suddenly gets an intense feeling that his limbs will actually be at risk if he doesn't get to work immediately.
So, he gets to work. He assumes going up the gradescale will be easiest, so he starts on the low-grade healing potion. That's a grade 3, and made especially easy with his newfound access to divine power. It's easier to block out the stares of the people around him when he gets into the movement of it, eyes glazing over as he reviews his mental checklist. Swirl, cut, grind. Mix, infuse, pour. Mix mix mix, wait, heat for thirty seconds, let cool.
It sits in front of him, completed and sunny yellow, barely ten minutes later. That's the one thing Cale can appreciate about these 'basics' outside their utility. They're incredibly quick to make!
Rex, like a madman, splits his fingers open on a nearby knife and snatches at the potion as soon as it's finished cooling. Cale splutters and tries to stop him, worried that something will go wrong with his amateur-made potion, but the wound closes up rapidly and Cale untenses in relief. "...Incredible," Rex breathes out, staring at his fingers blankly. "How...?"
Cale swallows and ignores him, turning around to work on his heavy-duty sleep draught. It comes out, like the previous three, the right baby blue shade it's supposed to be, and Rex laughs a little hysterically. It's sort of frightening, and so Cale turns away again to frantically work on his jitter-pain potion.
The pink of it is pretty cute, if it didn't have such annoying effects. Cale had accidentally spilled some on himself while he was studying the potions his family had on-hand for color realism, and he hadn't been able to hold a pen for the rest of the week. This one, he refuses to let leave his grasp, eyeing his crazy professor warily. "I won't let you pour this one on yourself," he warns when Rex reaches for it anyway.
He receives a glare in thanks for his efforts. "I'm not that stupid, brat, hand it over!"
Reluctantly, Cale does. Rex laughs disbelievingly again, beginning to pass the five bottles off to the other students to observe. "If I didn't with my own eyes watch you make these, I'd have thought you were the highest bidder to an exclusive alchemist's sales."
Cale scowls at the repeated implication that his work is stolen. "Well, you did, and it's mine. I'd appreciate not being undermined again."
"Of course, of course," Rex waves off, pulling a scrap of paper and fountain pen from gods-know where and beginning to scribble nonsense on it, mumbling to himself. Cale backs away from the crowd of distracted madmen very carefully, relieved to check the clock and find that the period is nearly over.
Surely it's not a crime if he slips out just a few minutes early..?
"Ah, I'm sorry!" Choi Han apologizes hurriedly, turning around to check on—on the most beautiful person he has ever seen, oh wow. Red hair falls loosely over lithe shoulders, tied back with a little white ribbon. That face is sharp and elegant, brown eyes sharp enough to cut but apologetic smile soft enough to sleep on.
Choi Han can't even tell if they're a man or woman at first glance. They're all wearing the unisex training uniforms, after all, so it becomes a little hard to distinguish.
He swallows, throat feeling suddenly dry as he takes in this beautiful stranger.
"It's my fault," the—man, probably a man—says, sounding awkward and stiff and avoiding Choi Han's eyes. Choi Han wants him to stop doing that because he kind of has very beautiful eyes. "Ah, Cale Henituse. Sorry." He extends his hand, and Choi Han is so glad he has his gloves on to cover his sweaty palms because his assuredly red face is already embarrassing enough as he shakes Cale Henituse's hand eagerly.
"I'm Choi Han!" he introduces. "Ah, I don't have a family name. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."
Ahhhh! he screams internally when Cale smiles again, losing some of that awkward tension as Choi Han stops outwardly gawping. He's so pretty and I'm holding—shaking his hand! Oh my gods!
"You as well, Choi Han," Cale nods, and Choi Han regretfully lets him draw his hand away. "Are you in Sir Edro's class this period?"
This beautiful angel from the heavens, Choi Han celebrates, internally weeping, is in my class! "I am," he replies cooly on the outside. "And you?"
Cale smiles again, and Choi Han decides he's going to end up doing a number of embarrassing things to make Cale smile. "Me as well. Ah, I'm a bit nervous. I was recently pretty sick, so I doubt I'll measure up well. It's good to know at least one person here. I hope it becomes less embarrassing."
"I'm sure you'll be great!" Choi Han retorts without thinking, mood dropping a little as Cale's does. He seems too nice to be worried about embarrassing himself. And—recently very sick? Choi Han can't help wondering about that, but he can sympathize with the pains of it. Missing out on workouts for sickness is the worst.
They walk into the arena-style classroom together, shoulder to shoulder. It makes Choi Han a little giddy to see other students' eyes flicker to them. Yes! This beautiful person is my friend! he wants to crow proudly.
Maybe friend is a bit of an exaggeration given how few words they've yet exchanged, but Choi Han will make sure he can keep hanging around a person with such a radiant smile and mysterious eyes!
This is exactly the kind of exciting university experience Rosalyn promised him, and he's becoming increasingly more excited to see her during their break period to gush about his new in-class crush.
Cale wants to cry.
He'd failed to avoid Alberu. That was fine; he tied off that loose end with a Vow of Death and Alberu will probably avoid him for the rest of his life. Perfect. Then, his second period contained Rosalyn, who he befriended without meaning to. Also acceptable, until the she and the professor both lost their minds calling him some kind of prodigy. He's already shuddering thinking about returning to that class, but he's soothed by the thought of dropping out as soon as he figures out how to dump all his extra soul fragments into a pot and send it merrily off to Death's champion's original world.
And now, as though taunting him, he's stumbled into Choi Han who is now in his third period class sitting beside him.
Cale will be taking swordsmanship for the rest of his tenure here. He will be taking swordsmanship with Choi Han for at least until the end of this year.
Cale wants to cry really, really bad.
And he hadn't even had the guts to be rude and scare Choi Han off! Not because he's afraid of Choi Han—they'd buried that hatchet long ago in his old life—but because this Choi Han looks so... light. He looks older, even, than that immortal teenager Cale had known. Aging suits him, and it'd stolen Cale's breath to see the miserable person he might dare to call a friend living and growing happily.
He'll tolerate being around Choi Han, just for now, to see him thrive. It'll be his repentance for what he'd said about Harris Village that awful night so long ago. There's no better revenge for Choi Han to take, Cale thinks, than to live well.
But still. His Option 3! It had been such a solid plan! 'Avoid everyone you know' was even going well in the morning, when Professor Harol (unknown) had introduced him to Headmaster Eruhaben (unknown!!!)!
Urgh!
This sucks. This sucks massively. And that's even without mentioning the fact that, in not too long, Sir Edro will be conducting a proficiency exam on them in the form of a spar. He'll let them choose, he says, between a partner among their classmates or himself. If someone doesn't have a partner, they'll spar against him.
Cale is going to cry. He's going to embarrass himself so bad! Forget getting yelled out of the classroom by a crazy teacher. This will be an ego blow to him like none he's ever known. How can he cope with the evidence in front of him that he's gone from a hardened war veteran to the body of a frail, sickly boy? He's barely an adult like this! Even the lean muscle he'd earned in his frantic training before coming to the University isn't enough to hold up decently in a spar.
Cale should probably ask to spar with Choi Han. At least that defeat will be less embarrassing, since Choi Han won't mock the shit out of him. And yet... Cale shivers, the memory of pain-pain-pain blooming where all the scars he no longer has should be.
He's not ready to put himself on the business side of Choi Han's blade just yet. Either way, a girl comes over and begs Choi Han to spar with her so she doesn't embarrass herself with her girlfriend, and Choi Han is too sympathetic to ignore her and so he's off with a regretful look sent at Cale. Cale waves him off, looking around for some other random stranger to humiliate himself in front of.
Except, when Cale looks around, he's the only person standing alone.
Sir Edro looks over, a smile on his elderly face. "Ah, Cale! It seems you'll be my partner for this assessment," he remarks kindly. Cale wants to punch him in his wrinkled face and smiles back fakely. Edro doesn't comment. "Alright, everyone! You'll decide what order you go in, but I'll be observing each spar. Ground rules: no mutilation, no verbal spats, and mockery of the loser is strictly prohibited. A sore winner will be excused from my class."
"Sir!" they reply in sync, all of them straightening. A male duo marches up first. It's a decent show; their techniques aren't flawless, but they're clearly practiced. They'd win as show ponies, but they'd be dead in seconds in a real war. Sir Edro remarks as such.
The next pair goes, and the next. Most have similar criticisms. Too pretty, not gritty. Some of them—like Choi Han's—are praised as 'grounded'. Choi Han beams at the praise and glances over to Cale, who claps politely. The boy seems to perk up impossibly more. Then the train stoppers, only a few left in the clump of people—namely, Cale and two other pairs.
Fuck.
"Would either of you pairs like to go first?" Edro asks, and all of them avoid his gaze, shuffling their feet. Cale wants to scoff, even as the churning of inevitable embarrassment twists his gut.
"I'll go," he murmurs, stepping forward and unsheathing his sword. That motion, at least, has not gotten any less smooth, the muscle memory seasoned into him even despite the new body.
"Oho," Edro laughs, readying himself. "You're practiced with the sword," he remarks.
Cale cocks his head, wondering if that's the truth. "Not really," he admits eventually. "I'll apologize in advance for my poor performance." That, at least, should lower Edro's expectations for the abysmal showing he's about to endure.
Edro hums, eyes squinted mysteriously, and calls Choi Han over to play referee. "3, 2, 1," Choi Han counts down, arm chopping down through the air.
Cale doesn't twitch, and neither does Edro. This man was Lily's sword instructor in his last life, and a formidable opponent to the end during the attack of the Wyvern Brigade, but Cale would be lying if he said he was familiar with Edro's style. It's safer to wait for him to attack first, especially since Cale will be on the defense for the most part.
"Go Cale!" someone cheers from the audience, and Edro launches into motion. He's quick, despite his age, but it's clear that speed isn't his main strength. Guessing from his muscle distribution, and—Cale grunts, flat of his blade braced against his palm as he defends against Edro's strike—his hit force...
Cale slips away, leaving Edro to overbalance slightly. He takes the brief opportunity to slam the flat of his blade against Edro's back, but he doesn't have the force behind it to be worthwhile, and it leaves him open. He ducks away on a roll to escape Edro's following slice, heart thumping faster, faster, with the tempo of battle.
This is easy. To sink back into the violence. It's nice, even, to be able to do so without having to worry about aerial attacks or surrounding troops or subordinates. It gives Cale enough time to flint his eyes and really think.
Speed is his advantage here; he's all lithe muscle. And of his blunt force attacks are essentially useless against someone as densely-packed as Edro, so his best bet is reusing Edro's strength against him. Deflecting the power.
But Edro is a sword master and Cale is currently nineteen, so he's at a disadvantage there, too. Any of the easy tricks he'd use are just as easy to see through, and anything more advanced is something he'd use when he was better-built than Edro.
That, he supposes, is where the speed comes back in.
Metal clangs again, and someone screams as sparks fly into Cale's eyes. He hisses and jumps back, pupils narrowing to dots as his vision unfocuses. And suddenly it's an Arm soldier standing in front of him and Lily screaming for help behind and it's life or death-death-death and Cale will not die like this. Not when Lily still needs him, her strong orabeoni.
He bares his teeth and surges forward, two crucial things on his mind: speed and deflection. Run past him, twist his sword with your own. He saw it coming and pulled back. Jump away. Terrain? Stadium-like. Gain height. And then he's up, high, higher, and then he's jumping down with a snarl on his lips, executioner's blade hanging above that head. Metal clashes on metal and Cale is tossed to the side. He scrambles back up while the soldier is still reeling from the impact and swings with his whole body weight into the lunge of his sword. He's behind the soldier and his sword is level their neck; it's game over.
Until—
"Cale!"
The soldier whips around and wears the face of—
Cale's pupils redilate and he rapidly overcorrects, swinging up at the last second and barely avoiding chopping Sir Edro's head clean off. He pants, sword feeling heavy in his hands, as his surroundings refocus around him.
He's not on any sort of battlefield, and Lily is nowhere in sight. Bile rises to his throat as he meets Sir Edro's eyes, bowing shakily. "I-I apologize, sir. I lost myself."
Edro chuckles, steady hand landing on Cale's head. Cale jolts a little. "I'm just relieved I didn't lose my head. Thank you, too, Choi Han. It seems you snapped your friend out of it."
Cale rises, though he keeps his burning eyes fixed to the ground as he returns to the stadium seats where the rest of the class sits to watch the remaining two pairs shakily spar. Cale feels bad as he ignores them completely.
A boy with terribly familiar white hair sidles up to Cale, green eyes sparkling with awe. "Cale Henituse, right? That was amazing! You really looked like you were going to kill him!"
It's not a sentence which should be said with so much awe, Cale thinks, even as a concentrated desire for murder arises in him. Clopeh Sekka. Unmistakably, this terrifying man with a gleam in his manic eyes, staring at Cale with admiration, is Clopeh Sekka.
The Henituse Family's murderer.
Cale clenches both his hands into fists and hides them on his lap, black gloves against black pants distracting from their furious tightness. "I overestimated my strength," he says, laughing tightly. "I thought I could stop it at his throat in the way they do in storybooks."
"Haha!" Clopeh laughs, either oblivious or pretending not to notice the tension lining Cale's every limb as the sickness crawls up farther, farther, farther. "You're far better than the storybooks! Though, I wasn't talking about that. You moved that sword out of the way with the grace of a master," he praises. "I was talking about your eyes. The way you looked at Sir Edro... it was like you didn't recognize him as our teacher! I really believed, for a moment, that you wanted to behead him!"
Cale's vision swirls. I want to behead you, bastard, he thinks, and Clopeh again ignores his obvious cues and continues rambling on and on and on, and Cale feels diseased as their shoulders come into contact with the way Clopeh is wildly gesticulating.
Cale falls onto the below row of benches on knees and doubles over to puke. He hurls and hacks until he's crying and his nose stings with the distinct iron of blood. He gasps and chokes until he's out of breath, and the iron keeps coming and all Cale can think of as he squeezes his eyes shut and sobs is that same voice behind him, now asking if he's okay, laughing atop a wyvern as Cale's entire family, his entire territory, lies decimated around his feet.
All he can think of is those wild eyes, swearing in a shaky voice to become legendary before the head of pretty white is severed from its awful body.
Hands land on him and Cale lashes out, vision blurred and terror thrumming through him. He won't be touched by That Man anymore, he refuses. He'll cut off every inch of skin infected by him.
He wants his sister. His brother. His parents. He wants to make sure they're all okay, still breathing, still alive, if this dream world Death had promised him is really still in tact when he opens his eyes from this pain-pain-pain.
"—orry, Yo—... I hav—o this," a voice murmurs, fading in-out-in-out, and then all the swirling pain-fear-disgust-worry fades to black.
Somewhere far away from Cale Henituse's third period, Alberu twitches. Tasha looks over at him worriedly, and he smiles half-heartedly, waving her off. "I just got a bad feeling."
Tasha huffs. "You need to loosen up! You said everything ended well this morning, right? There's no reason to worry."
Later, Alberu will exhaustedly call her words dramatic irony.