The Arkanveil mansion—once a monument of discipline and grandeur—now felt alive.
Not with rigid decorum, but with something rarer.
Joy.
The marble halls rang not with war chants or mission briefings, but with laughter—sharp, full, unrestrained. Magic flickered harmlessly in the air, woven by curious hands. Knights sparred in the garden, not in drills, but in playful bouts. Siblings dashed across corridors, blurs of color and mana.
It was chaos.
Beautiful, controlled chaos.
And at its center sat the MC.
Not above them, not aloof in some distant tower like a scheming noble from his old life.
Among them.
He lounged on a wide stone bench in the sunlit courtyard, leaning back against a warm pillar. His older sister, fresh from another fire test, grumbled as she tried to scrape soot from her sleeves. Aleron stood nearby, correcting their younger brother's sword form with the patience of a monk and the authority of a seasoned killer.
Their mother floated by, quite literally, as her Light-infused aura hummed in soft gold. Her hands glowed faintly even as she passed out warm sweetbread. Their grandmother was nearby, laughing gently as she scribed new healing formations, surrounded by three fascinated maids taking notes.
Elric was seated on the ground by the training circle, helping his little sister draw shapes in the dust. She was giggling about something—probably a "flower trap" she swore would catch a fairy.
The MC's eyes trailed to her.
And then…
A small tug at his sleeve.
He looked down.
His youngest sister, smiling with all the purity of someone who had never known war, held up a freshly made crown of daisies and bluebells.
> "For the Prince of Serious Faces," she announced.
He raised an eyebrow. "Still not a prince."
> "You're Goldy. And Goldy is royal," she declared.
Before he could protest, the flower crown was nestled on his golden hair. She stepped back, hands on hips, proud of her handiwork.
He paused, then sighed—more for dramatic flair than annoyance—and leaned back again.
"I accept my coronation," he said, deadpan.
She and Elric's little sister burst into uncontrollable laughter.
Nearby, their older sister smirked. "Majesty suits you, little brother."
Even their father chuckled—actually chuckled—from where he stood overseeing a new group of knights practicing with tremor-resistant weapons.
The MC looked around.
Aleron's form was perfect as ever, but now lighter, freer.
His sister's flames burned with her now, not against her.
Their mother moved like a high priestess wrapped in divinity.
Their grandmother hummed spells older than any textbook.
His father no longer bore the quiet edge of pain in his walk—just solid, grounding strength.
Elric sat at ease, watching over his sister with a stillness that had once belonged only to soldiers. Now, it was peace.
And the MC…
He wasn't scheming, not today.
He wasn't planning Trait combinations or testing hidden potential or running mental simulations of who might betray who in three years.
He was here.
Present.
Just a boy.
Just a brother.
Just home.
---
Later that evening, when the sky had turned amber and the estate bathed in dusk, the family gathered under the Great Hearth Tree.
It was ancient, older than the Arkanveil bloodline itself—twisted bark and low-hanging limbs covered in silver leaves that shimmered with moonlight even before dark.
They always met here after moments of change.
A tradition.
A grounding.
This time, it was the MC who stood first.
> "We are not the same family that sat here a year ago," he said, voice calm, eyes steady. "We are stronger."
His brother stepped forward next.
> "But not because of power alone," Aleron said. "Because we stood together through change."
Their sister grinned. "And because fire is awesome."
Their mother chuckled. "And light, dear. Don't forget the light."
Their grandmother placed a hand on the MC's shoulder. "And because this one reminded us how to believe again."
He blinked at that.
Then, surprisingly, his father stepped forward. Arthis rarely spoke at these moments.
> "We rise not for titles," he said, voice carrying like distant thunder. "But for each other. For Arkanveil."
> "For family," their mother echoed.
One by one, they placed their hands in a circle—siblings first, then parents, then grandparents, and finally Elric, his small sister nestled in his arms.
The MC watched them all. Their faces. Their warmth. Their growth.
His mind flicked, briefly, to the long game. The world outside still spun. Wars brewed. The protagonist's path twisted closer. Dangers loomed.
But here?
Now?
It didn't matter.
Because in this moment, with flower crowns and scorched sleeves and echoes of laughter—
He smiled.
Not the mask. Not the calculating half-smirk he used for politics or deception.
A real one.
Soft. Warm. Unprotected.
The kind only family could earn.
And beneath the silver leaves of the Hearth Tree, the reincarnated soul who carried lifetimes of ambition simply leaned back… and let himself be loved.