The morning came too bright.

  Light poured over the Kang estate, as if it meant to scour away every shadow that still clung to its walls.

  Gold and white slashed across the stone floors, too loud with hope, arrogant in their promise of a new beginning.

  I hated every gleam of it.

  Because hope like this was fragile. Daeryon knew it too. He stood in the courtyard, back straight, arms folded, staring into the rising sun as though it had issued him a challenge.

  His aura didn’t flare, but it simmered low, pressing outward as if daring the day itself to prove worthy.

  “This is it,” I muttered, drifting at his side. “First step. New era. You ready?”

  Daeryon didn’t answer right away. His jaw flexed, teeth clenched on silence.

  At last he exhaled, slow, steady. “I am ready.”

  I studied him. The dragon in him stood tall, unbending, but I felt the cracks beneath the scales.

  Raion’s laughter still clung to him. Saeryun’s touch lingered. His storm hadn’t broken, only shifted.

  “Good,” I said. “Because the plan starts now. One step at a time. One bond at a time. And first, Giron.”

  Daeryon’s brows knit. “Why him first?”

  I drifted closer, locking onto his eyes with all the weight I could summon.

  “Because he’s the eldest. Because he’s the one you keep mistaking for her. If you can’t face him, everything else crumbles.”

  His aura rippled, dangerous. The air thrummed like a bowstring drawn tight. But I didn’t back down.

  “You told him he needs discipline, will, strength,” I pressed, voice sharp.

  “But what he really needs is recognition. Not as a tool. Not as an heir—”

  My voice carved sharper. “As your son. If you can’t give him that, then you’re not saving this family, you’re just letting her speak through your mouth.”

  Daeryon’s eyes narrowed, storm-dark, and for a heartbeat I thought his aura alone might smother me out of existence.

  Then he turned away, shoulders rigid. His silence wasn’t agreement, but it wasn’t denial either.

  I allowed myself a thin smile. “That’s it, Daeryon. Come on. Time to face Giron.”

  The clang of steel reached us before the courtyard came into view.

  Giron was there again, body already slick with sweat though morning had barely started.

  His blade carved arcs through the air, too precise to be casual, too relentless to be joy.

  Each strike was exact, deliberate, a rhythm of survival, not play.

  When Daeryon stepped forward, Giron froze mid-form. He bowed, sharp, proper.

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  “Father.”

  Daeryon’s tone shifted without hesitation, as if slipping into armor.

  “Your form is tighter than yesterday. How many sequences have you completed today?”

  “Thirty-one,” Giron answered instantly. His voice was clipped, respectful, cold. A soldier’s report, not a son’s.

  Daeryon’s chin lifted, just slightly.

  “Too few. Your strikes should not stop until even your shadow tires. If discipline falters here, it falters in battle. You must not—”

  “Stop.”

  My voice cracked like a whip. I darted in front of him, glaring up at his stone-carved face.

  “Don’t. Not now.”

  Daeryon’s brow furrowed, irritation burning beneath the surface.

  “He must understand the weight—”

  “No. Not like this.” I snapped, cutting him off.

  “That’s her voice, not yours. You sound just like Seohwa. Is that what you want? To let her keep raising him from the grave?”

  His aura flared, sharp and furious. I pressed harder.

  “You want to save him? Then stop treating him like a soldier with quotas. He’s your son. Look at him. See him, not her shadow. Him.”

  For the first time, Daeryon faltered. His lips pressed thin, jaw tight. But his eyes flickered toward Giron, not his stance, not his blade. Him.

  Daeryon’s silence stretched, heavy as stone. His eyes lingered on Giron, but his tongue stayed trapped in that old, cold mold.

  I sighed. “Alright,” I muttered, drifting close to his ear.

  “You’re not talking to a recruit. You’re talking to your son. No commands. Just… start simple. Recognition. Tell him what you see.”

  Daeryon’s jaw clenched, but he gave the faintest nod. His gaze steadied on Giron.

  …Your form is strong,” he said at last, his voice low, rough. “Stronger than yesterday. Your stance is sharper.”

  Giron’s head lifted a fraction. His eyes flickered, surprised, uncertain.

  “Thank you, Father.”

  I nudged Daeryon again, impatient. “Good. Now further. Don’t just acknowledge the blade, acknowledge him.”

  Daeryon exhaled sharply, as if the words were chains he had to tear loose.

  “You are disciplined, Giron,” he said, slower now. “That is your strength. That is why you are growing.”

  The courtyard stilled. Even Giron faltered, blade lowering to his side.

  For a heartbeat, the soldier’s mask slipped. His lips trembled, not with defiance, not with pride, but with something rarer.

  Hope.

  I pressed again, voice urgent.

  “Don’t stop. He’s listening. Really listening.”

  Daeryon’s brow furrowed. His fists curled, then uncurled. His storm of chi flickered, lighter, not weaker.

  “…When I was your age,” he said slowly, “I bled to prove myself. I thought only pain could forge strength. But you—”

  He hesitated. “You have already surpassed me. You don’t wait for wounds to mark your worth. You fight with purpose. And I…”

  His throat caught, just for a second. “…I am proud of you.”

  The words struck harder than any blow.

  Giron froze, blade slipping in his grip. His chest rose and fell unevenly.

  For the first time in his life, the iron mask cracked, and what broke through wasn’t duty, wasn’t obedience.

  It was light.

  A smile, raw, unguarded, spread across his face. Not the stiff pride of an heir. Not the shallow satisfaction of recognition by sweat.

  Happiness.

  “Father…” His voice shook, a whisper tangled between disbelief and joy. “…Thank you.”

  The blue screen shimmered into view, bright and sharp:

  [Daeryon Kang → Giron Kang: 30% → 38%]

  Not a miracle. Not perfection. But a step, a real step.

  I exhaled, more shaken than I’d expected. My chest tight, my ghostly hands trembling.

  Because as Giron smiled at his father, I saw another man.

  Another day.

  Another moment carved into me like a scar.

  The world had been collapsing around us, brick, flame, screaming.

  My father’s arms were the only steady thing. His hands were rough, scarred, but when they wrapped around me, I believed nothing could touch me.

  The ceiling cracked above us, stone groaning. He shoved me forward, hard enough to knock the breath from me.

  He caught me again, arms trembling, blood streaking his face.

  With one last breath, he hurled me through the shattered doorway, out into the firelit night.

  I hit the ground hard, air ripped from my chest. I turned back. I shouldn’t have. But I did.

  I saw the roof give way. Saw him raise his arms. Saw him hold up the world, if only for a heartbeat. Long enough for me to live.

  The crash swallowed him whole.

  And still, even as the dust choked me, even as my body dragged itself from the ruins, I remembered his face. Not afraid. Not angry.

  Proud.

  Proud of saving me.

  Proud of being my father.

  My voice cracked in the present, softer than I meant.

  “…He’s learning, Dad. Learning to be like you.”

  Daeryon hadn’t heard me. He stood staring at his son, something raw flickering in his dragon eyes.

  But I knew.

  I knew my father would’ve smiled.

  And for the first time since being trapped in my story, I felt something other than guilt or dread.

  I felt… happiness.