Reincarnated Without a Cheat, I Adopted the Former Hero as My Mom

Uriel stared up at the sky. It was a beautiful, cloudless blue, which only made his internal screaming louder.

Ten years. Fine. If the timeline was being measured in years, there was no point calculating mana drain anymore.

But a brand-new headache was already standing right in front of him.

He swept his gaze across the three faces on the rooftop. Lumina stood at perfect attention, Fenria's ears twitched at every sound, and Kira was still staring unblinkingly at the Witch.

The original blueprint was supposed to be a two-man show. The Witch handled the aggro, while he wrote the script and ran logistics. Now, three Mithril-tier heavy hitters had just dropped out of the sky.

On paper, this was a massive buff. In reality, his operational complexity had just skyrocketed. These three girls viewed his "Scribe" persona through a lens of absolute, unshakeable reverence. If he pointed east, they would march east without question. The only problem was that he didn't actually know where east was.

The barrier was still up, suppressing spellcasting. Clueless students were scattered across the campus. The exact number of the cultists, their boss, and their endgame were all just educated guesses.

Three overpowered girls had just parachuted into his lap. The good news was the extra firepower. The bad news was the extra variables he had to babysit.

He took a breath. Okay. Here's the play.

"Lumina."

"Here."

"Take the other two and shatter the barrier," he said, his mind racing. "Once it drops, the suppressed students will get their casting back. Lead the counterattack and lock down the perimeter."

Flawless. Zero danger. Absolutely zero main-character energy.

Uriel's internal calculator was clicking away happily.

They would play support and stabilize the chaos. Meanwhile, Mom would make a massive scene and wipe the core threat off the map.

But there was one glaring hole in the intel. He glanced at Lumina, hesitating for a fraction of a second. He hated looking dependent on their reconnaissance, but this blind spot was too big to ignore.

He rubbed his temples, bracing himself for the answer. "Your investigation," he said, looking at her. "Did you find a ringleader? Or anything close to it?"

Lumina answered without missing a beat. "Yes."

Then she dropped a name that caused Uriel's brain to completely blue-screen.

"Our intel suggests this attack is heavily tied to Academy Headmaster Oswald Rutherford. There is a high probability he is a member of the Curse Cult."

Uriel's poker face cracked, just for a second.

"Excuse me?"

His words came out twice as fast.

"Are you serious? Do you have proof?"

Oswald. The balding, heavy-bagged, thoroughly crushed middle-aged man who looked like he was surviving on caffeine and regrets. A cultist?

He had scanned the guy with his Observer. Mithril-tier, sure, but nothing beyond that. He didn't radiate any evil zealot vibes. If anything, he gave off the distinct aura of a middle manager drowning in quarterly KPIs.

"There is circumstantial evidence," Lumina stated. "His recent movements show anomalies that perfectly overlap with the Cult's timeline in the capital. Several of his contacts are also compromised."

The Witch's voice drifted over from the side, soft and melodic.

"I see."

Her tone was as gentle as ever, but the words carried absolute certainty, like she had just snapped the final piece of a jigsaw puzzle into place.

"No wonder little Uri told me to warn Little Seraphina about the Headmaster. Little Uri saw right through him from the start."

No, Mom. I thought he was giving off major creepy sugar daddy vibes.

He had no idea how his mother had connected those two dots, but the result was solid. And terrifyingly logical.

He looked back at the three girls.

All three faces wore the exact same expression.

Everything is proceeding exactly as the Scribe intended.

Uriel gave up. He cleared his throat and pointed his pen toward the western campus. Through his Observer, the Aether flow was visible. The barrier's anchor node looked like a tightly wound spool of thread, buried deep beneath the western buildings.

"The barrier anchor is over there. Break it, then head to the auditorium. The students should be corralled there. Get them out and organize a counter-push. Do not enter the main building."

Lumina nodded. No follow-up questions.

"The Witch and I will handle the rest."

The three girls acknowledged the order, turned, and vaulted off the roof in perfect sync.

Fenria's tail gave one final swish before she vanished over the edge.

Then, there were only two people left on the roof.

He still didn't fully buy it. Circumstantial evidence and timeline overlaps could mean a dozen other things. He needed to verify it with his own eyes. You didn't just slap a terrorism charge on someone without proof.

But if it was true...

Uriel turned to face the Witch in her black-and-white military coat. The sunlight caught the hem of her jacket as it swayed in the breeze. His expression hardened as he scanned her from top to bottom.

Here came the real problem.

"Mom. We need to go over a few things."

The Witch nodded, giving him a look that clearly said, I'm all ears.

"First, your voice and tone," Uriel said, holding up one finger. "You can't sound like your usual self. That's too kind. The Holy Sword Witch is a cold-blooded archetype. You need to drop your pitch, flatten your intonation, and deliver every word like you're handing down a death sentence. Got it?"

"Okay, little Uri."

"...From now on, do not call me little Uri. Call me Scribe."

"Okay, Scribe."

Acceptable. The name swap was smooth. Uriel gave a slight nod and gestured for her to try.

The Witch cleared her throat and dropped her voice half an octave. Then she spoke.

"...Good evening."

The pitch is lower. But the delivery is giving me major 'Ice-Queen' vibes.

Uriel frowned. It wasn't right.

"The tone, the voice, it can't be so..." He struggled to find the right word. "Soft. It breaks the lore."

"Ah." The Witch nodded thoughtfully and tried again, pushing her voice down a bit more, navigating unfamiliar territory. "Like this?"

Uriel listened.

"Better. Keep that frequency."

"Understood." The tone still sounded like she was humoring her son's request, but it was getting there.

"Second, your expression."

He stepped directly in front of her and tapped his own face.

"Your current face is a no-go. Too soft. The Witch doesn't do soft. She needs authority. Ruthlessness. The kind of glare that makes people's knees give out."

He gestured with his hands. "Eyes narrow. No smiling."

"Well."

The Witch tried to dial her face toward 'cold'.

Uriel studied her.

She looks like the girl next door after a mildly exhausting shift at work.

"Colder."

The Witch adjusted, her brow furrowing slightly.

Still the girl next door, but this time she just bought a knock-off bag and is deciding whether to return it.

"...Still zero threat level," Uriel evaluated honestly.

"Like this?" She tried to look fierce. Her brows knitted together, her eyes squinted, and her lips pressed into a tight line. She was trying incredibly hard, clearly taking his directions to heart.

But the result.

How to put it? It looked like someone had stolen her last pudding cup, and she was trying to be secretly mad but didn't want to actually hurt their feelings.

"No, not that. Not angry—well, angry, but not that kind of angry. You're doing 'pouty mad'. I need 'stay the hell away from me'."

"This looks pouty?"

"Yes."

The Witch relaxed her face and pouted, genuinely puzzled.

"Then how do I do angry?"

Uriel thought for a second. A lightbulb went off. He threw out a scenario.

"Okay, say... I promised to come home for dinner, but I show up at bedtime without texting you first. How would you feel?"

He figured this was a bullseye. A direct hit to the parental berserk button.

The Witch thought about it.

Her brow didn't furrow. Her eyes didn't narrow. But her entire face shifted. It flooded with genuine, raw worry, followed instantly by the profound relief of seeing him safe.

"I wouldn't be angry. I'd be worried you ran into trouble, or if the roads were bad, or if you were starving."

Her face melted into pure softness, her golden eyes shining with warm, gentle light.

"As long as you're home, I'm not mad."

Her voice slipped right back into its usual tender cadence, low and sweet.

"As long as you're safe. Dinner is still warm on the stove."

Uriel opened his mouth. The lecture he had prepared died in his throat. Not a single syllable made it out. He just awkwardly snapped his jaw shut.

Mom, you are literally the best.

Then he forced himself to look at the tactical problem in front of him again.

He dug into his brain for another scenario. A truly toxic, infuriating script. He wasn't sure if it would work, but he had to try.

"What if I blew all my money on useless, bulky junk that just clutters up the house?" Uriel said carefully, expecting the classic parental counter-attack of why didn't you buy food instead.

The Witch just frowned. It wasn't anger; it was pure confusion. "Why would it be junk? If little Uri bought it, it must be something he likes. So it's not junk."

She said it with such absolute sincerity that Uriel choked on his own guilt. He didn't even dare bring up leaving the room looking like a disaster zone or pulling all-nighters and getting caught. He already knew exactly how that would go.

Then, seeing his silence, the Witch added, "If you're out of money, I have plenty. I'll buy it for you."

Uriel felt a phantom arrow pierce his heart. He nearly dropped to his knees and sobbed Mommy, but this was neither the time nor the place.

Bottom line: the expression check was a hard fail for today.

It wasn't that Galatina wasn't cooperating. She was giving it her all. The problem was that her softness was buried too deep, and there was just too much of it. Every time she tried to build a shell of authority, the warmth inside just melted right through it.

Fixing this would take dedicated training.

And they had zero time.

Uriel sighed.

"Just wear a mask."

The Witch blinked. "A mask?"

"Cover the lower half of your face," Uriel explained. "A mask instantly boosts your overall aura. It adds maximum edge, perfectly fitting the lore."

"What color should it be?"

"Black, with a silver trim around the edge. Something like that."

The Witch nodded. Her fingers twitched, and mana coalesced along her jawline, solidifying into a physical shape.

A black mask extended down from her cheekbones.

She tilted her head to let Uriel inspect it.

Uriel inspected it.

"...Perfect. Keep it."

The Witch tilted her head slightly, as if asking if it was enough, her eyes holding a hint of question.

"It's enough," he said. "Stop tilting your head. Keep it straight."

She straightened her head.

"Good. We're locking this in. Remember the voice and the tone. Keep your sentences short. If someone asks you a question, look at me. I'll field it, or I'll whisper you the line."

The Witch nodded obediently, then opened her mouth again.

"Little Uri."

"Scribe."

"If the Scribe comes home really late for dinner today—"

"Mom. Stop talking."

"I won't be mad."

"Okay, okay, I get it. Just stop talking."