For someone as fierce and battle-hardened as Calcharo, the sight of him being gentle was almost… unsettling.

Not because he was incapable of kindness, but because it was so unexpected.

And yet, here he was—one knee on the ground, letting a small child tug at the fabric of his coat, tiny hands gripping onto the edges as if testing its durability. He let them. Even when another kid reached up, tiny fingers brushing against the scar on his cheek, he didn’t pull away.

Instead, he let out a small sigh, his usual gruff demeanor softened ever so slightly as he muttered something under his breath. Whatever it was, it made the children giggle.

You had to blink a few times, making sure you weren’t seeing things.

Was this really the same man who could toss aside fully grown warriors with ease? The same man who could silence a room with a single glare?

And yet, when a little girl tugged at his sleeve, pointing at something in the distance, he simply scooped her up with one arm—effortless, as if she weighed nothing—and listened as she excitedly babbled about something only she understood.

He wasn’t particularly expressive. He wasn’t overly warm. But he didn’t push them away. He let them stay close. He let them laugh.

And for a man like Calcharo, that was more than enough to show just how gentle he could be.