I Became a Kindergarten Teacher for Monster Babies!-Chapter 575 A Chance to Be Better
Alina watched, transfixed, as the elder, clearly trying to maintain his usual stern expression, awkwardly held a toy in front of a little boy. The child couldn't have been more than three or four, with wild curly dark hair and wide curious eyes.
The boy laughed loudly, reaching for the toy, his small fingers grasping at the air. Completely unafraid. Completely trusting.
The elder looked annoyed. His brows were furrowed. His mouth was set in a thin line. But he still continued playing.
He moved the toy back and forth, back and forth, letting the child chase it with his hands. When the boy finally grabbed it, the elder made a sound, something between a grunt and a sigh, but he didn't pull away.
Alina's lips parted slightly.
"...Dee..."
Dante rested his hand lightly on the desk beside her.
"I assigned them to take care of orphan shadow children," he said calmly, his voice steady. "Children who lost their families. Children who have no one. They have no families of their own, those elders. They lived for power, for influence, for centuries without understanding anything else."
He glanced at the screen again, his expression unreadable.
"Elders did not care about emotions. About love. About connection. They thought those things were weaknesses."
Alina continued watching, her heart squeezing in her chest.
Another elder sat on a wooden bench in the background, two small children tugging at his sleeves. A little girl had climbed onto the bench beside him and was pointing at something in the sky, her voice too far away to hear but her excitement obvious. The elder looked irritated, his face pinched, his shoulders stiff.
But he did not push them away. He did not stand up and walk off.
He sat there, letting them pull at him, letting them talk, letting them exist in his space.
A third one was trying to fix something broken, a wooden cart, maybe, or a toy, while a little girl stood beside him, watching with bright eyes. He held the pieces in his hands, turning them over, trying to understand how they fit together. He looked frustrated, his brow furrowed, his movements clumsy.
But he was trying.
He was trying.
"They needed something that could not be controlled with power," Dante continued. "Something they could not manipulate or command. Something that did not care about their status or their strength."
He paused slightly, his voice dropping.
"Responsibility. Innocence. Dependency."
Alina watched Elder Roman on the screen, still holding the toy, still playing with the child who laughed without reservation.
Roman's expression was stern. His jaw was tight. His posture was rigid.
But the child in front of him laughed again, a bright, joyful sound that seemed to fill the whole square.
And this time, Roman's expression softened.
Just a little.
The tension in his face eased. The furrow between his brows smoothed. His eyes, always so sharp, so calculating, lost some of their edge.
He looked down at the boy in his arms and for a moment, he almost looked like he was smiling.
Alina slowly leaned back, her eyes still fixed on the screen, her hand coming to rest on Dante's arm without thinking.
Then she turned to look at him.
There was admiration in her eyes. Deep and quiet and genuine.
"Dee..." she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "You are wise and kind and ruthless at the same time."
She shook her head slightly, searching for the right words, for a way to express what was building in her chest.
"You took people who hurt you. Who hurt others. Who wanted to hurt me. And instead of destroying them, you gave them something they didn't even know they needed. You gave them a chance to become better. You gave them children to care for, to protect, to love."
She paused, her throat tight.
"You're... I don't even have words. There aren't enough words for what you did."
For a brief moment, Dante froze.
His hand stilled on the desk. His breath caught, barely noticeable, but she was close enough to feel it.
Then the faintest hint of color touched his face.
It was subtle, barely there, a soft warmth spreading across his sharp features that she had never seen before. His eyes widened just slightly, and then he looked away, his hand moving to his lips as if trying to hide the expression threatening to break through.
"...I am not that good," he said quietly, his voice rough.
Alina blinked.
"I have made mistakes," he continued, his voice softer now, almost vulnerable. "Wrong decisions. Choices that should not have been made. People who were hurt because of me. Things that cannot be undone."
His gaze lowered slightly, fixed on the desk between them.
"I am still learning. Every day, I am still learning."
The room grew quiet.
The afternoon light fell across them, warm and golden, casting long shadows across the floor. Somewhere in the distance, a clock ticked softly.
Alina watched him for a moment, her heart aching with something she couldn't name.
Then she stood up. She stepped beside him, close enough that her dress brushed against the arm of his chair.
Gently, she placed her hand on his shoulder.
"You are allowed to make mistakes," she said softly. "Everyone is allowed to make mistakes. That's how we learn. That's how we grow."
Her fingers tightened slightly, a small squeeze of reassurance.
"But not everyone learns from them. Not everyone looks at what they did wrong and tries to fix it. Not everyone sees the damage they caused and works to make it right."
She paused, waiting until he finally looked up at her.
His dark eyes met hers, and for a moment, there was nothing else in the room.
"And not everyone," she said quietly, "tries to fix things the way you do. Not just for yourself. For everyone. For people who don't deserve it. For people who hurt you."
She smiled faintly, her hand still warm on his shoulder.
"You gave them children, Dee. You gave them something to protect. Something to care about. Something that couldn't be bought or fought for or taken. And maybe they don't deserve it. Maybe they haven't earned it. But those children do."
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
