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

The courtyard still smelled faintly of illusion-burn. That peculiar tang—half ozone, half scorched perfume—clung to the air like a memory that refused to fade.

Faded banners drooped from cracked stone walls, their once-glamorous sigils reduced to ghostly outlines where magic fire had licked them clean. Charred edges fluttered in the breeze like the tattered remnants of a story no one wanted to tell anymore. The Lust-town had been quiet for days now—too quiet. Not the stillness of peace, but of aftermath. A fragile pause where people relearned how to breathe without orders barked at them. Without someone else deciding where their next step would fall.

But here, in the broken training ring at the courtyard's heart, laughter was returning.

Soft at first—like something uncertain of its welcome. Then brighter. Louder. A sound that didn't belong to the past, but to the moment taking shape.

Kael knelt in the dirt, chalk in hand, sketching a wide circle onto the ground. Around him, a dozen children crouched close, their faces smudged with dust and old tears, their clothes a patchwork of what could be salvaged. None of them looked older than ten. Most bore that hollow, guarded look Kael had come to know too well—the look of those who had seen too much, too soon. Not the look of pain. The look of endurance.

He tapped the circle's center with a fingertip.

"This," he said quietly, "is your ground. You don't let fear take it from you."

A boy with a crooked scarf and sleeves too short for his arms hefted a wooden sword so heavy it made him tilt. His voice was small, but stubborn. "What if the fear's bigger?"

Kael smiled—not to dismiss, not to pretend—but with a calm, steady certainty.

"Then you breathe," he said. "You remember who you are. And you tell it: Not today."

A girl in a frayed sun hat, its brim shadowing half her face, fidgeted with the hem of her tunic. Her voice was a whisper lost on the wind, but Kael heard. He always heard.

"What if I can't fight at all?" she asked.

Kael's gaze softened. He crouched a little lower so their eyes could meet.

"Then you stand beside someone who can," he said. "And one day, when you're ready, someone will stand beside you."

He rose, slow and deliberate, and dusted his hands on his cloak. The children watched him, some with wonder, some with doubt, but all with something they hadn't had before: attention fixed on a future instead of a fear.

Kael stretched one hand toward the center of the courtyard, where the breeze stirred the ash and dust like a promise not yet fulfilled.

Above, Rimuru drifted lazily in a lazy orbit, juggling wooden spoons as if the fate of the world depended on his performance. "Welcome, one and all, to the Blue Flame Basic Training Program™!" he announced grandly, baton appearing in one hand as if by magic. "Step one: Don't poke yourself in the eye."

The children burst out laughing—bright, unguarded laughter that rang off the broken stones like bells.

Kael shook his head, exasperated but grateful. The laughter mattered. It meant something.

Not that the past had been erased.
Not that the scars had vanished.

But that something new was trying—slowly, stubbornly—to grow.

And in this battered courtyard, with its ruined banners and cracked stones, that was enough for now.

The lesson had ended, but the children lingered.

Some flopped beneath the shade of a battered fig tree, tracing sword shapes in the dirt with sticks, their imaginary duels slow and thoughtful now that the weight of instruction had lifted. Others chased Rimuru along the crumbling garden wall, shrieking with laughter as he morphed into increasingly ridiculous balloon shapes: a winged teapot puffing imaginary steam, a squawking chicken with rubbery legs, a giant flower sporting crooked sunglasses and a lopsided grin.

The air smelled of dust, chalk, and the faint sweetness of wild mint growing between the cracks.

Kael knelt by the chalk ring, coiling the practice rope with slow precision, his hands grateful for the simple work. His gaze drifted, following the sound of laughter, the soft slap of bare feet on stone.

That was when he felt the tug.

Small. Hesitant. But insistent enough to draw him from his thoughts.

He turned.

A girl stood behind him—maybe seven, small even for her age. Her curls were tangled into wild knots, her cheeks streaked with dirt and the faint shine of dried tears. She wore a faded tunic that hung off one shoulder, and her ribbon was tied so tightly at her neck it made Kael want to loosen it on sight. In both hands, she clutched a single daisy, its petals drooping, half-wilted from the heat.

Her eyes were steady. Too steady. The kind of steady that came from surviving things no child should.

Kael blinked, caught off guard by the gravity in her stare. "Hey there."

She didn't blink back.

"I heard you're gonna marry the Queen," she said, voice small but certain.

Kael froze, rope forgotten in his hands. For half a heartbeat, the sounds of the courtyard seemed to fade—only the breeze remained, ruffling the edge of his cloak.

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"…Did you now?" he managed.

She nodded with complete seriousness. "So I'm going to be the flower girl."

Kael glanced instinctively toward Rimuru, who had stopped mid-transformation—half flower, half chicken—his wide eyes glittering with amusement.

"Oh," Rimuru said, voice dripping with anticipation. "This I need to hear."

The girl stepped closer, holding out the daisy as if it were a royal scroll. Her hands trembled just a little, but her chin stayed high.

"I already practiced," she declared proudly. "I can throw petals and kick bandits."

Kael accepted the flower with ceremonial care, as if it were the most important gift he'd ever received.

"Well…" he said, voice softening, "if that day comes, I'll need someone strong by my side."

She straightened, shoulders back, feet planted. "I'm very strong."

"I can tell," Kael said, the edges of his mouth curling into a true smile. "You're hired."

Her face lit up—pure, unguarded joy. She beamed, showing all front teeth and a missing one where triumph seemed to glow in its place. Then she turned on her heel and dashed off, calling over her shoulder about the armor she planned to build—out of flowerpots and glitter glue and maybe the lid of an old stew pot if she could find it.

Kael watched her go, the daisy turning slowly between his fingers. He felt the weight of it—light as air, but heavy with everything it meant.

He turned toward Rimuru, who floated closer, arms crossed, grinning like a cat who'd seen the whole play.

"…Do I correct that?" Kael asked quietly.

Rimuru tilted his head, smile softening at last. "Why? Let her dream."

The breeze stirred the petals of the daisy in Kael's hand.

And for that moment, he didn't mind carrying the dream a little longer.

The sun dipped low behind the eastern ridge, spilling long amber streaks across the cracked training yard. Shadows stretched like fingers between broken flagstones, and the air grew thick with the scents of woodsmoke, stew, and the faint sharpness of cooling metal. Most of the children had wandered off—drawn by the promise of dinner or swept into evening chores. The courtyard, moments ago alive with chatter and play, had quieted.

Except for one.

Kael looked up from securing a crate, the rope rough against his palms. The soft clatter of wooden sandals on stone reached his ears—rapid, determined, impossible to miss.

She had returned.

But not as a flower girl.

As a commander.

The same little girl from earlier marched down the courtyard's centerline with fierce intent. She wore a tunic at least three sizes too large, cinched at the waist with a length of frayed rope. A paper crown, artfully battered, sat askew atop her wild curls—crafted from ration wrappers and scraps of old temple decrees, their faded lettering barely visible beneath layers of smudged charcoal and child's determination.

In one hand, she gripped a wooden sword, its edge notched from practice swings. In the other, a battered soup pot lid, newly transformed into a shield, bore the scuff marks of imagined battle.

She came to a sharp stop before Kael, lifted her chin, and snapped a salute so crisp it would've impressed a seasoned knight.

"I am Commander of Petal Defense," she announced, voice ringing across the yard. "Sworn to protect all weddings, soup lines, and cabbage patches from evil and thieves."

Kael froze mid-motion, then slowly set the crate aside. His lips twitched, but he kept his expression steady. With equal solemnity, he gave her a small bow.

"Commander," he said, his voice low with respect.

Overhead, Rimuru—who had been lazily orbiting, watching from above—let out a delighted squawk and spun dramatically in the air.

"At last!" he cried. "A commander worthy of leading my elite forces!"

From behind the crumbling garden wall came a soft, rhythmic blorp-blorp-blorp.

A dozen tiny slimes bounced into view—each bearing a haphazard pennant made of twigs and torn cloth, blue sashes tied somewhere between their tops and middles, if slimes could be said to have such things. One wore a single leaf like a helmet; another dragged a spoon twice its size like a standard.

"Presenting," Rimuru intoned, voice grand as a bard at court, "the Slime Cavalry of the Third Glorious Petal Legion!"

The girl squinted at the slimes, sword resting against her shoulder. She studied them like a general surveying new recruits.

"Acceptable," she said at last, with a decisive nod.

Without hesitation, she spun on her heel, thrust her wooden blade toward a nearby cabbage patch at the courtyard's edge—a scraggly garden that had survived the siege against all odds.

"That one looks suspicious," she declared.

The slimes wiggled into formation with unnerving precision, banners flapping, sashes fluttering like battle standards in the breeze.

"Charge!"

At her command, they surged forward—a jiggling, wobbling tide of determination, their high-pitched war cries blending with the girl's own battle shout:

"FOR SOUP AND PETALS!"

Kael covered his face with one hand, shoulders shaking as he tried very hard not to laugh aloud.

From the edge of the yard, an elderly gardener paused, hoe in hand, watching the charge with wide eyes. The man blinked, then slowly removed his cap and held it over his heart in silent tribute to whatever noble battle had just begun.

And Kael, still gripping that daisy from earlier, let himself smile—wide and unguarded. Because here, in this battered yard at the end of a long day, something bright had taken root.

And no siege, no fear, no memory of fire could stamp it out.

From the rooftop above the training yard, Seraphaine watched the world below unfold in impossible, ridiculous joy.

The little girl in the paper crown led the charge like a knight in a tale told by candlelight—wooden sword raised high, the fraying rope at her waist trailing like a royal sash. Her face was alight with pure purpose, fearless and certain. Behind her, a dozen slimes bounced and bobbed in her wake, their makeshift banners flapping wildly, blue sashes slipping sideways with each enthusiastic wobble. The cabbage patch never stood a chance.

Rimuru circled above the chaos like some unholy blend of conductor and cheerleader, baton flashing in the last rays of sun, shouting orders between hiccups of his own laughter.

And Kael—Kael didn't stop them.

He didn't correct them.
Didn't remind them of the weight of the world, or the scars that ran deeper than the broken stones beneath their feet.

He just stood there at the edge of it all—arms folded across his chest, head tilted slightly, watching that storm of innocence like a man who wanted to look stern, but couldn't quite hide the soft ache beneath his gaze. Like someone trying, and failing, not to be moved.

And Seraphaine smiled.

Not the way she used to—no carefully arranged lips, no calculated curve of charm that could disarm a court. Not the way the nobles had taught her to, where every smile was armor, every expression a riddle meant to please, to mislead, to survive.

This smile… simply was.

Gentle.
Crooked at the edges.
Honest, in a way she had almost forgotten was possible.

She leaned into the chimney's cool stone, the rough edge grounding her, hair coming loose from its pins to flutter in the evening breeze. The sinking sun caught in her eyes, turned them to molten gold.

And for the first time in longer than she could name, there was nothing between her and the moment.

No mask.
No illusion coiled around her throat like silk and steel.
No spell smoothing the worry lines from her face.

Only breath.
Only warmth.
Only this—

A kingdom of soup pots and daisy crowns.
A flower girl leading the charge, armed with wood and will.
A healer of flame who hadn't asked to be followed, but was anyway.

The cabbage patch rustled under the slimes' enthusiastic assault. Rimuru let out a victorious whoop. The girl's battle cry echoed against the stones:

"FOR SOUP AND PETALS!"

Seraphaine closed her eyes, let the wind kiss her cheek, and whispered to no one but the twilight:

"So this… is what it means to be followed."

Below, the courtyard rang with laughter, as the sun slipped behind the ridge and the world softened to gold.