That Time I Got Reincarnated as a King (Old Version)

Twilight fell like a velvet curtain across Vel'Serin.

The garden was waiting.

Kael stepped through the silken archway alone—no Rimuru, no escort, no armor save the quiet weight of his name. Even the guards had stopped before the veil, as instructed. Here, it seemed, power was meant to disarm, not defend.

The path ahead curved through flowering hedges so meticulously pruned they might've been painted into place. Blue-lantern lilies bobbed gently in bowls of starlight-fed water. A marble pond stretched wide across the heart of the garden, smooth as glass, untouched by wind.

But it wasn't the beauty that unsettled him.

It was the stillness.

Nothing moved except the light.

He stepped forward, boots silent on the petal-strewn stone, until he reached the center—where a single table stood beneath an arched bloom of glass thorns and spiraling vines. Two chairs faced each other.

One was already occupied.

Seraphaine sat motionless, hands folded gently in her lap, as if sculpted from the same marble as the garden. No crown tonight. No entourage. Just a muted gown of iridescent shadow-rose silk that shimmered between black and violet. Her hair was pinned with a single glass thorn.

A tea set rested on the table—porcelain white, rimmed in faint gold, steam curling from both cups in symmetrical spirals. But neither had been touched.

Music played faintly from somewhere unseen.

Not instruments. A recording, perhaps—strings and flute filtered through some magical veil so the melody never fully arrived. Only fragments, like a song remembering itself.

Kael stopped just short of the chair.

"Is this what peace looks like here?" he asked. "Still air, perfect silence, and tea no one drinks?"

Seraphaine looked up slowly.

Her smile was practiced. Beautiful. Distant.

"Peace," she echoed, "is an arrangement of pleasing elements. That is what this space offers."

Kael sat. The chair was too smooth. Too cold. He didn't reach for the tea.

"And what do you offer?" he asked. "Permission to pretend?"

That earned a flicker. Not a frown, not anger—just a pause, like a script forgotten for half a line.

"You speak boldly," she said. "That's rare here."

Kael leaned forward. "So is honesty."

Another silence fell, this one heavier. A petal drifted from the vine overhead… and didn't fall. It hovered midair for a breath too long, then settled gently on the rim of her cup.

"You came without Rimuru," she observed.

"You said this was private," Kael replied. "And I thought if we were going to lie to each other, we might as well do it without an audience."

Seraphaine's lips twitched. It wasn't a smile. It wasn't not.

"You believe I'm lying."

"I believe you're surviving," he said. "That's not the same."

A breeze passed then—just enough to stir her veil. Just enough to remind Kael that the garden was real, even if nothing in it dared act real.

"You seem uncomfortable," she said.

"I'm not," Kael said. "I'm angry. There's a difference."

She tilted her head. "Why?"

"Because this garden is more alive than the people who walk through it."

That landed. She looked away for the first time.

Somewhere, in the distance, a bird sang three notes.

Then silence again.

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Kael sat back, watching her carefully.

"You don't have to pretend here," he said. "Not with me."

She didn't answer.

But the veil slipped. Just slightly.

And that was enough—for now.

Steam still rose from the untouched cups, curling upward like ghost-script.

Neither reached for them.

Kael watched the way her fingers rested, unmoving, against the porcelain. As if touching the cup might break something.

He leaned forward, voice softer now. "Have you ever loved without permission?"

The question didn't echo. It simply landed—and stayed.

Seraphaine's breath caught. Just faintly.

She didn't blink. She didn't respond immediately. But something in her posture shifted—an invisible crack along the spine of a statue.

Her eyes met his, and this time, they didn't deflect.

"I've never felt anything real," she said.

Quietly. Not ashamed. Just… tired.

"Not once."

The words hung there, more honest than anything he'd heard in this continent dressed in perfume and pretense.

She turned slightly, gaze drifting toward the edge of the pond where lily-glass blossoms floated perfectly symmetrical. Not one of them moved with the wind.

"I was kissed for the first time during a coronation," she said. "It was announced in advance. I practiced it with an etiquette tutor. Five rehearsals. Three adjustments. Two illusions to hide the nerves."

Her voice stayed level. Flat. But not cold.

"I wept once," she said. "When I was nine. My nursemaid told me it was a defect. She offered a potion to 'help regulate my honesty.' I drank it. I smiled for two weeks straight. My father was so proud."

Kael didn't move.

Seraphaine smiled now, but there was no pride in it.

"There is no word in our dialect for want," she continued. "Only for appropriate desire. Wanting without approval is considered… unrefined. Dangerous, even."

Kael's fingers tapped the table once.

"So every feeling you've ever had," he said slowly, "was measured, monitored, and… optimized."

"I am a vessel," she said simply. "For the ideals of the throne. For the comfort of the court. For whatever illusion makes the people believe in bliss."

Kael shook his head. "That's not a vessel. That's a prison made of praise."

Another silence.

Then her voice, softer: "You think I'm tragic."

"No," he said. "I think you're tired."

He reached out—not to touch her, but to conjure.

A flicker of blue-white light ignited in his palm. A petal of flame, not a blaze. Just there.

"Phoenix Flame," he said. "It doesn't hurt unless I make it. It doesn't purify by force. It just… exists. Because I asked it to."

She watched it dance. Light played across her cheekbones in soft waves.

He let the flame hover above the table between them. "You can't feel everything at once. But you can start somewhere."

She looked at the fire.

And this time, she blinked.

The flame hovered between them—blue and white, feathered at the edges, flickering in silence.

It didn't burn. It didn't consume.

It simply was.

Seraphaine stared at it as though it were the first real thing she'd seen all day. Maybe all her life.

Her voice, when it came, was almost a breath. "Is it always that quiet?"

Kael nodded. "When I let it be."

She tilted her head slightly. "In Luxuria, flame is either a punishment… or a seduction. You don't use it like that."

"I didn't invent this flame," Kael said. "But I invited it. It only responds when I mean it."

Seraphaine studied him, and for the first time, she wasn't looking for a tactic or a motive. Her gaze was stripped of script. Just a girl staring at something warm and unfamiliar.

She looked down at her hands.

"They trained me to smile without joy. To cry without loss. To bless without belief." Her voice quivered, just barely. "And I learned. I passed every test. But they never told me what came after."

Kael watched her fingers clench gently in her lap. Not from rage. From frustration—like someone trying to remember how to open a door they've never had the key to.

"I don't even know if I'm capable of real feeling anymore," she whispered. "What if the vessel's empty by design?"

Kael's answer came without hesitation.

"Then maybe it's time to fill it with something that's yours."

She looked up.

The flame glowed between them, soft and waiting.

"You don't have to fight anyone," Kael said. "Not right now. But you can choose what enters the vessel. What stays."

He opened his palm wider.

The Phoenix Flame pulsed—gently, like a heartbeat.

"I burned because I was broken," he said. "But this… this flame isn't just pain. It's memory. It's belief. It's mine."

Her lips parted. No words came.

Just breath. And maybe—for a single, tremulous moment—hope.

Kael let the flame drift toward her, stopping just short of her fingers. It hovered there, offering nothing. Demanding nothing.

Seraphaine didn't touch it.

But she didn't pull away.

And that was enough.

The flame faded.

Not extinguished — simply released. Its warmth lingered like breath in the air, curling gently between them before vanishing into the hush of the garden.

Kael rose from his chair.

He didn't bow. Didn't offer a clever line or a farewell wrapped in diplomacy. He just looked at her—really looked—and spoke as plainly as he ever had.

"If you ever want to feel something real," he said, "don't wait for permission."

Seraphaine said nothing.

Not because she didn't have words.

But because—for once—she didn't need them.

Kael turned and walked back down the stone path, the soft pads of his boots the only sound. No music rose to follow him. No wind stirred. Even the illusions knew to stay quiet.

He disappeared beyond the veil.

Seraphaine sat in silence.

The teacup in front of her had cooled completely, its steam long gone. She picked it up slowly, cradling it between her hands. The porcelain was delicate. Flawed now, she noticed — a faint chip along the gold rim.

She traced it with her thumb.

Then set the cup down again.

Across from her, the chair Kael had occupied still faced her, empty. A single blue-white feather — not real, not flame, but something between — rested on its seat.

No magic kept it there.

She didn't know how it stayed.

She closed her eyes.

And breathed.

No illusion shimmered around her. No mask. No veil.

Just her.

For the first time in years, the Queen of Lust felt not beautiful, not poised, not perfect…

…but present.

And in the silence that followed, there was no applause.

No curtain.

No cue.

Just stillness.

And maybe — finally — a beginning.