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

The Temple of Empathy had not changed in centuries.

Its walls still shimmered with soft-hued mosaics that caught the light like water. Rose quartz and moonstone tiles arranged in impossibly delicate patterns, each depicting moments of grace and quiet defiance from rulers long past. Marble floors veined with pink and ivory stretched in wide arcs, polished smooth by pilgrim footsteps. Incense smoke drifted gently toward the ceiling, where it vanished beneath a skylight shaped like an open hand — the ancient Luxurian symbol for mercy offered freely.

This was where the Rose Queens were remembered — not for conquest, not for pageantry, but for compassion. Their likenesses were carved in silkstone and illuminated by memory-light that pulsed in time with silent prayers.

But now, something new waited on the west wall.

A pair of Luxurian nobles entered the sanctum, their robes whispering against the floor. They came expecting stillness, reverence, the quiet chill of sacred space. But something tugged at their attention before they even reached the central aisle.

Their steps slowed.

Their gazes lifted.

"Is that—?" the younger one asked, his voice catching.

"Yes," murmured the elder.

The center fresco shimmered beneath the sunlit dome, its surface catching hints of lavender and gold as the day shifted. Seraphaine stood in the mural's heart, as she always had — robed in layered dream-silk, her expression open, hands extended in welcome. But now, her silhouette was not solitary.

To her right, newly etched in glass-touched stone, stood another figure.

Kael.

Not in armor. Not crowned. His shoulders bore a mantle of blue fire, not harsh but warm, curling behind him like a cloak stirred by unseen wind. One hand reached outward—not toward Seraphaine, not toward power, but toward others, open as if inviting them forward.

His face held no judgment. Only quiet strength. A calm that came not from certainty, but from the will to try.

And behind him, rising not in wrath but in radiant stillness, unfolded soft petals of rose-light—arched like wings, built not of flame, but of memory.

Of forgiveness.

"I thought alterations to the Temple's mural required High Council approval," the younger noble whispered, blinking hard, as if the fresco might shift again before his eyes.

"They weren't alterations," came a soft voice behind them.

A temple scribe stood barefoot in the mosaic's glow, veiled in gossamer layers, a faint trace of ink still visible on her fingertips.

"The mosaic reformed itself."

The elder noble turned, brows furrowed. "That's not possible."

The scribe bowed her head, unfazed. "Apparently, history disagreed."

By afternoon, word had spread like spilled perfume across Luxuria — impossible to contain once noticed. Noble salons buzzed with speculation. Mirrored parlors, where illusionists once traded tales for favors, now echoed with softer, awed whispers:

"The Queen walks with him."
"They share a crown, whether or not it's named."
"A healer and a sovereign — what continent will they walk next?"

Some dismissed it as myth-making, a romantic flourish. Others saw prophecy. And some, somewhere deeper, simply felt hope—that the past didn't have to repeat, that mercy could walk beside fire.

In the Temple itself, the crowd grew by the hour. Velvet hems and travel cloaks alike pooled on the marble floor as people stopped not just to look, but to reflect.

One noblewoman, known more for cynicism than ceremony, reached out to the mural with a gloved hand. Her fingers traced the curve of Kael's fire just shy of the stone.

She didn't smile.

But her voice, when she spoke, was reverent.

"We have two monarchs now," she said. "One born… one burned."

And no one corrected her.

The mirrored chamber pulsed with filtered light, every gleam deliberate, every reflection sharpened to precision. Polished walls refracted not flame, but something colder—calculation rendered in glass and control. Each surface caught the figures within and fractured them into a thousand precise shards.

Stolen novel; please report.

This was not a place of worship.

It was a place of containment.

Clerics of Superbia stood equidistant around a central prism, forming a perfect circle. They wore high-collared robes that shimmered like spun glass, stitched with runes so fine they vanished when you blinked. Their faces were unreadable—masked, mirrored, faceless by design. Even their breath seemed engineered for silence.

Within the prism, a hovering projection of Ashveil flickered and turned slowly. Not a map, but a diagnosis. The city bloomed across the display like a spreading stain, each district color-coded and pulsing with data: mana densities, dream-resonance frequencies, ambient empathy levels. Emotional volatility charts spiraled outward like storm models.

One quadrant flashed amber.

Then crimson.

A voice cut through the stillness. Genderless. Clipped. Cold.

"Phoenix Dream invocations have increased by seventy-two percent in the last forty-eight hours."

Another cleric responded, gloved fingers moving through the air, manipulating overlays with minimalist gestures. Red and gold filaments threaded through the projection.

"Sympathetic sigils are spreading beyond Ashveil. Luxuria's border towns are registering emotional signature drift. Citizens are reenacting shared illusions without Church sanction."

A third voice followed, quieter but edged.

"Fire and dreamlight are coexisting. Overlapping. That level of synthesis isn't possible without a blood-bonded fusion event."

Silence.

Weighted. Heavy. Then—

"One Scourge reshaping a continent is tolerable," said the senior cleric at the far end of the chamber.

Their voice held no anger. No emphasis.

Just conclusion.

"Two… is dangerous."

No one disagreed. No breath stirred. No masks turned.

A scribe moved quietly to the archive console and pressed a sigil-seal into a scroll. Red wax sealed the document. Letters glowed faintly through the page.

PHOENIX-BLOOM SYMBIOSIS
Classification: Unstable Hybrid Resonance
Origin: Ashveil Dominion
Primary Vectors: Kael of Wrath, Seraphaine of Luxuria (Abdicated)
Immediate Action: Monitor. Isolate. Prepare nullification assets.

A low chime signaled its entry into the Deep Record.

Outside the chamber, mirrored corridors stretched into cold geometry. Reflections shimmered, bent, vanished. Footsteps echoed—but only briefly, swallowed by architecture designed to suppress sound as efficiently as dissent.

And deeper still, beneath the echo-proof sanctums and logic-calibrated scriptoriums, a single watcher sat in a lightless alcove, inscribing longhand notes in mirrored ink.

Their quill never paused.

No runes. No spells.

Just a line of script, plain and unblinking:

"Compassion is becoming contagious."

And they underlined it twice.

Ashveil's map room buzzed with low chatter, rustling scrolls, and the quiet scrape of ink across parchment. The table in the center had expanded twice this week alone — not because the camp had grown, but because Kael's influence had.

Too many territories now sought Ashveil's counsel.

Too many cities invoked his name.

Kael stood near the edge of the room, reviewing a caravan request that claimed to represent his "will." He hadn't seen the petition. Hadn't made the decision. But it bore his flame crest in soft blue wax.

A pair of advisors debated nearby.

"Kael will grant clemency," said one, tapping the edge of a parchment. "He forgave the Red Thorn Council, didn't he?"

The other nodded. "That's what the bards are singing. It must be true."

Kael raised an eyebrow.

The Red Thorn Council? He hadn't even heard of them until now.

He turned slowly to Rimuru, who was hovering nearby with a cup of herbal tea and a look that was far too innocent.

"I haven't forgiven anyone named Red Thorn," Kael said.

"Sure you have," Rimuru replied.

"No. I haven't."

Rimuru took a long sip. "Well… the idea of you did."

Kael exhaled.

"People are quoting decisions I haven't made."

"They're quoting the version of you that lives in murals and lullabies," Rimuru said, turning upside-down in the air. "Congratulations. You're now both a king and a campfire ghost story."

Kael ran a hand through his hair.

"It's not power anymore," he said softly. "It's perception."

Outside, children were singing a new verse of The Flame That Forgave.

Kael closed his eyes.

And for the first time… felt the weight of being more symbol than self.

Ashveil's refugee kitchens bustled with twilight rhythm — pans clinking, oil sizzling, children laughing between spoonfuls of thick root stew. Lanterns swayed above wooden rafters, their soft blue glow casting playful shadows across tarp-covered tables and hanging laundry lines.

Near the edge of the clearing, just behind a half-built mess tent, a strange sound rose above the warmth.

"Laaa—flame—laaaa—love—bloom—OW—stop stepping on me!"

A dozen tiny slimes wobbled in uneven rows, each wearing a crooked blue bowtie stitched from scavenged cloth scraps. One had a feather sticking out of its head. Another jiggled slightly off-rhythm, producing a bubbly squeak on every fourth beat.

Rimuru floated above them like a conductor, baton in hand, expression far too serious.

"Again! From the chorus! With feeling, gelatinous fools!"

Kael stopped mid-step as he turned the corner, blinking.

"…What is this."

Rimuru spun, radiant. "Ah, perfect timing! Rehearsal's ahead of schedule!"

Kael raised an eyebrow. "Rehearsal for what?"

Rimuru gestured proudly to the scene.

"The wedding, obviously."

Kael froze.

A beat of silence.

"…There is no wedding."

"Which is why we must be prepared," Rimuru said, waving his baton like a prophet. "Spontaneous declarations! Surprise ceremonies! Enchanted cake explosions! You think miracles wait for planning?"

Kael pinched the bridge of his nose.

Behind him, Seraphaine arrived carrying a basket of woven bandages. She stopped as she took in the scene.

Slimes in bowties.

Rimuru flapping like a proud pageant mom.

Kael half-imploding.

"Is this…" she began carefully, "…a wedding rehearsal?"

Rimuru turned with utmost composure. "Not a rehearsal. A precaution."

Kael groaned.

Seraphaine didn't respond.

But she didn't walk away, either.

Not before Kael caught the tiny, honest smile tugging at the corner of her lips.