Chapter Text
"My child, I know you’re a little annoyed… But I promise, this time, you will live a peaceful life." The quiet murmur slipped from the lips of a tall man seated in an armchair. Looking at him, one might think he was calm and unbothered—except for his trembling hands. Not knowing where to place them, he nervously brushed his snow-white hair back. "I can’t… I just can’t leave you like this after everything. I-I truly…" His voice betrayed him, trembling. "I truly tried to save you and move you to a more peaceful Earth. But none of them could accept an otherworlder except for Earth4627 and 8951… Stay in one of them until your body in Roan recovers."
Forcing his raven-black eyes, as dark as a crow’s feathers, onto his companion’s face, the man watched for any reaction, bracing himself for anything his saint might do.
Yes.
The saint of the God of Death himself.
And that very saint, previously known as the Hero of the Silver Shield—though he preferred "the Great Purifier"—sat across from him. A young man who appeared to be no more than twenty years old. His blood-red hair, cascading down to his shoulders, resembled freshly spilled wine. His crimson-brown eyes commanded fear and respect from anyone who dared to look into their piercing depths. His pale, aristocratic face betrayed no emotion, a stoic mask perfected over countless battles.
The study where they sat was cloaked in silence, broken only by the ticking of an antique clock, its rhythmic beat a sharp contrast to the heavy atmosphere. The oppressive stillness gnawed at the white-haired man. His lips twisted into a wry smile, his gaze faltering and breaking eye contact.
“Ha-a…” The brown-eyed man exhaled tiredly, closing his eyes as he processed the god's words. The Record—a peculiar ability to recall and replay events with perfect clarity—began to activate on its own, heedless of its owner’s protests.
During his last battle with the Redhead, when the hero plunged a dagger into his own heart for a decisive strike, the White Star cast an unknown spell. The blow struck their poor commander, but the dagger, made from the Root, had already pierced one of the reincarnator's rings. It was too late to retreat.
And then, everything went dark.
A void so profound that even his own hands were invisible enveloped him. The familiar sensation of death breathing down his neck sent shivers racing across his skin. Then came the anguished cries of his family, mingling with the mad laughter of the Redhead.
“If I am to die, then I’ll take you with me, Cale Henituse!” Barrow’s scream echoed. This was the end. The end for them both.
No. Shaking his head, the red-haired man tried to banish the Record. Calm down. It’s not that bad. Not everything is lost yet. Right… The sooner he began, the sooner he could return home. Back to his family. And then, he’d fulfill his dream—becoming a slacker.
“Lay it out. What are these worlds?” His frostbitten gaze opened, cutting through the tension. The god perked up and began rummaging through the papers on his desk, searching for a pair of manga-anime worlds where his child might reside.
When Cale opened his eyes, the first thing he noticed was a white ceiling. His body felt unbearably heavy, but summoning all his strength, he turned his head. Without leaving the comfort of the soft bed, he began scanning the room.
A brightly colored wardrobe stood against the wall. Shelves filled with photographs of a seemingly happy family of two adorned the corners. Childish wallpaper surrounded the room, and a desk cluttered with elementary school textbooks sat to one side. A backpack lay haphazardly on the floor.
From these clues, it didn’t take long for him to deduce his approximate age.
First things first, he needed to gather information, confirm his suspicions, and formulate a plan for dealing with anyone familiar to this body.
But...
The sheer laziness weighed on him. His eyelids grew heavier with each passing moment, resistance futile as he succumbed to sleep.
°°°
Now, back to before.
“And… What will you choose?” The black eyes shimmered with a starlit gleam, reminiscent of a night sky dotted with bright stars.
Two anime-styled covers and their titles lay before the red-haired man.
On one cover, a blond boy about twelve years old sported a headband and three whisker-like marks on each cheek. His tan skin, bright blue eyes, and grin—an unapologetic display of “thirty-two teeth”—gave him a lively appearance. Naruto.
On the other side, another character bore a striking resemblance, though slightly older: blond hair, similarly blue eyes, and a grin. However, his face was bruised, and his body bore scratches and scars. He wore a school uniform with a black jacket draped over his shoulders, emblazoned with the word "Toswa." Tokyo Revengers.
A choice had to be made: live in an underdeveloped world riddled with endless wars, train endlessly as a shinobi, and eventually die at the hands of some Madara. Or… dwell in a semi-modern setting with a decent level of technological advancement, only to be surrounded by juvenile delinquents lurking around every corner.
The choice seemed obvious.
°°°
By the evening, a loud knock on the door of the modest apartment echoed throughout the rooms. Loud enough that the red-haired boy could hear it from his room.
He had no intention of investigating who dared disturb his slumber.
Cale burrowed deeper under the warm blanket. “Ugh, stop wasting both your time and mine. Take the hint, realize you’re being ignored, and leave.”
More than thirty minutes passed, but the person behind the door showed no signs of giving up.
Knock-knock…
Or rather, the knocking paused—only to intensify with renewed vigor.
Letting out a disappointed sigh, the boy sat up abruptly. His head spun slightly, but he ignored it. Leaving the warmth of the blanket behind, he opened the door to the children’s room and followed the persistent noise.
“How much longer are we going to stand here?” A complaining, irritated voice sounded from the other side of the door.
“Give it a little more time. He’s probably sleeping, as always,” replied what seemed to be the knocker.
“I’m ti~red, Kenchin!” Another voice, this one more childish, whined dramatically.
Cale froze in place for a moment as the words and the nickname used began to sink in. “No… I didn’t hear that. I heard nothing.”
Expressionless, Cale turned away from the door and quietly headed to the bathroom. After what he’d just heard, sleep was no longer an option.