This house… this place—it shouldn't exist. Not here.
A home, a barn, stables—in Sheol?
It defied reason.
Keiser's gaze swept the perimeter until he found what he was looking for. He moved past Lenko and toward the trees surrounding the clearing, eyes scanning the bark.
And there, he saw it.
Not once. But again and again.
Carvings.
Runes.
Sigils.
Keiser stepped closer, brushing his fingers over one of the runes etched into the wood. The markings were faint but deliberate—cleverly hidden amidst the bark's natural grooves.
Some were familiar to him. Others were not.
Most bore intricate designs that twisted in strange ways, speaking in old tongues, in meanings more felt than understood.
'Seen-not-remembered.'
'Hide-from-those-who-seek.'
'Only-those-allowed.'
Keiser exhaled slowly, the pieces falling into place.
That's how Muzio hid.
Hidden in plain sight, protected by magic so subtle even the monsters of Sheol passed by without noticing. This wasn't simple spellwork.
This was mastery.
Muzio might not have been skilled with a sword or known for physical prowess, but he possessed something even more formidable—a rare, intuitive talent for magic.
In the Kingdom, magic was celebrated. Reputed.
Who wouldn't revere the ability to weave reality with mere runes and belief?
They called it mana—the ability to create from intention, from will. With enough belief, the impossible could be drawn into being.
Keiser had never possessed it.
They said he lacked the imagination. The belief.
Aisha once mocked him for it. "You're too boring to bend the world," she'd said.
And so, like many others, Keiser relied on enchanted relics—items infused with cores of beings born with mana.
His sword, his most trusted weapon, had been one such gift.
Given to him by Gideon.
The bitter taste of memory rose in his throat, but he swallowed it. There would be time to grieve, to curse, to unravel where and when things had started to fall apart.
Not now.
Now, he had a second chance.
If this was before the King's Gambit—months before the betrayal—then Keiser intended to use every moment wisely.
But first…
He glanced down at his current state—muddy, stained, still damp, still aching in a body that felt far too thin and unfamiliar.
A bath. Clean clothes. Something to eat.
Then, he would begin again.
***
"Hey."
Keiser called out, setting his cup down with a dull clink.
Dinner had been more filling than expected—Lenko had to double the usual portion just to satisfy him. Now, the boy was tending the rock stove, blowing softly at the embers, his freckled face flushed with warmth and exertion.
He looked… happy.
Lenko glanced up at the sound of Keiser's voice.
"Do you know Sir Keiser?"
The question slipped from him like a blade drawn too quickly. And Keiser regretted it the moment it passed his lips.
A shiver crawled down his spine.
Hearing his own name like that—spoken as if it belonged to someone else—it felt wrong.
But he wasn't Keiser now. Not here.
He was Muzio.
He had to play the part.
Lenko froze mid-blow, his expression stiffening.
"W-Why do you want to know, Your Highness?"
Keiser frowned.
That tone—tight, uncertain, guarded.
"I asked if you knew him," he repeated, leaning slightly over the table.
Lenko looked away.
"Who wouldn't?" he muttered. "That crazy dog of the Fourth Prince?"
Keiser blinked.
"What did you just call me?" he snapped instinctively.
Lenko flinched and waved his hands in panic.
"I—I didn't mean you, my lord! I meant Sir Keiser. The knight who fought in the border wars, right?"
Keiser's gaze narrowed, catching the awkward laughter, the nervous fidgeting.
Lenko didn't seem to recognize the weight of his words—or maybe he did, and was now scrambling to recover.
"Yeah. Him," Keiser said, sitting back with a slow nod.
So he still existed in this world. His name was still spoken, still carried weight—even if it came with misremembered rumors and sharp-tongued nicknames.
Good.
That meant he had a chance to find himself.
To warn himself.
Lenko sighed, glancing toward the fire.
"Well… he's a war hero, you know? People are saying the one entering the Gambit instead of the Fourth Prince might be him. Guess they figured he was more capable, especially after the Fourth Prince is…"
He trailed off, eyes flicking toward Keiser.
"Ah… too gray?" Keiser scoff.
Lenko must've caught the shift in his expression, because he coughed awkwardly and added, "There's even talk he might've won—if he'd entered."
Keiser exhaled slowly, trying to quiet the storm building in his chest.
He was alive. Somewhere. In this world.
That body, his real body, was still walking a path that would end in betrayal and blood.
And he had time—time to change it.
Lenko fidgeted, twisting his fingers as he watched Keiser.
"Are you really sure… you want to go back?"
Keiser looked up.
Of course he would ask that again.
Lenko had lived peacefully here for years. He'd followed his young lord into hiding without question, probably thinking they'd never return to the capital again. And now, after all that… Muzio—Keiser—was saying they had to go back.
But Keiser was sure of one thing.
They wouldn't survive if they stayed.
Even if he didn't know how or when, he could feel it in the pit of his gut. Something was coming. The sigils might protect them for now, but wards didn't stop fate. And whatever magic kept this quiet place hidden wouldn't last forever.
"I do," Keiser said, rising to his feet.
"Starting now."
He turned, scanning the room for anything useful to take on their journey.
Lenko gawked, mouth hanging open.
"W-What? Now?!"
He scrambled after Keiser, nearly tripping over himself.
"H-How about the house? The barn? The stables? The garden!"
Keiser frowned.
He'd never been one for chores or domestic life. Even during rare moments of peace, he'd spend his time sharpening blades, cleaning armor, or running drills—not planting carrots or tending to livestock.
"Who'll take care of them?" Lenko asked, pale and wide-eyed.
Keiser hesitated.
He had a point. The wards around the property—those sigils carved into trees and posts—worked because of proximity. If they left, and the distance grew too wide, the mana anchoring them would fray. The illusion would fade. And when that happened… monsters might come. Or worse—humans.
"I'll go alone," Keiser offered gruffly.
But Lenko shook his head with such force that his hair blurred.
"No can do, Your Highness!"
Keiser sighed, rubbing his temple. Lenko looked conflicted—torn between loyalty and love for this quiet life he'd helped build.
"Fine," Keiser muttered. "Sell what you can. Use the coin to get us to the capital."
Lenko's shoulders slumped. His expression crumpled into something quietly mournful—but he nodded.
That sounded better than abandoning them to rot or fall prey to passing beasts.
Keiser glanced around.
That meant they'd have to stay at least one more day—for Lenko to pack, sell what he could, and probably say goodbye to every horse, cow, goat, and chicken by name. The boy seems to have that kind of heart.
And maybe… maybe that sentimentality also belonged to Muzio.
But Keiser couldn't tell.
He had no memories of this place.
No warmth, no peace, no ties.
Only a borrowed body and a past that didn't belong to him.
He should be thinking about how to explain himself.
How to convince his former self—his real self—that this wasn't madness. That he wasn't a spy. That he wasn't an enemy. Because if someone like Keiser—him—heard a red-eyed stranger claiming to be him, he'd strike first and ask questions later.
And if Keiser remembered anything about this body—about Muzio's eyes—it was that they looked just like the King's.