The Hero returned before dawn.
His armor was cracked, smeared with dirt and old blood—not his own. His steps were heavy, not with guilt, but with the exhaustion of creating lies.
He stopped at the destroyed prison gate.
The villagers saw him first.
A gasp.
A cry.
Then cheering—loud, bright, shameless.
"The Hero!"
"He's back!"
"He sealed the monster again!"
"Long live the savior!"
They ran toward him with torches, not to burn, but to celebrate.
The Hero lowered his sword, letting it drag across the stones—as if it had fought a noble battle.
"The villain is gone," he announced.
His voice calm. Smooth. Practiced.
"He tried to escape… but I stopped him. He won't hurt anyone again."
Lies.
Every word a lie.
But people loved lies when they came wrapped in hope.
An elderly woman cried, clutching his hand.
"My daughter died because of that demon. Thank you… thank you for saving us again."
A young boy saluted him with a wooden sword.
"One day I will be a hero like you!"
The Hero forced a gentle smile.
"Train hard. The world needs strong hearts."
As if he had one.
The village chief stepped forward, robes dragging through the dust.
"Your bravery saved us. We are forever grateful."
Bravery?
He stabbed a grieving man from behind.
They didn't know.
They didn't want to know.
Because the truth was never beautiful.
Heroes were.
The chief raised his voice to the crowd.
"Let it be known—our Hero has once again sealed the cursed villain! The threat is gone!"
More cheers.
More blind worship.
The Hero's eyes flickered—just for a moment.
A shadow of fear.
He knew the truth:
The villain wasn't sealed.
He had vanished.
Wounded, yes.
But alive.
And someone who survives death…
never stays quiet.
But the Hero stood tall, letting flowers be thrown at his feet.
Letting mothers touch his hands as if he were a blessing.
Letting children admire him.
Letting the village's prayers wash away his guilt.
Yet one person wasn't cheering.
A small girl, clutching a broken jar—its glass still glowing faintly with firefly light.
She looked at the Hero with wide, accusing eyes.
"You're lying," she whispered.
The Hero froze.
Her voice trembled.
"He… he never hurt anyone. Why did… why did you…?"
The Hero stepped back.
For a second, his mask cracked.
Villagers turned toward the girl.
But the girl didn't stop.
Tears streamed down her face.
The crowd fell silent.
The Hero stiffened.
The villagers whispered nervously:
"Child, stop—" "You will anger the Hero—" "She's confused—"
"Hush, child."
"Don't anger the Hero."
"That demon tricked you."
"Don't defend a monster!"
But the girl didn't stop.
"She was my friend…"
Her tiny fingers clutched the broken jar tighter.
"You let her die."
The Hero's jaw tightened.
He glanced at the crowd. They watched him, waiting to see how a hero handled this.
He stepped forward slowly, kneeling to the girl's height.
A gentle, fake smile spread on his lips.
"What you saw," he whispered, "must have frightened you."
"I'm not wrong," she said, voice shaking.
"You killed her."
The Hero's eyes darkened.
"No," he said softly.
"You are wrong."
And then—
He placed his hand on her head.
At first it looked like a comforting gesture.
Then—
CRACK.
A sharp twist of his wrist.
Her neck snapped.
The girl collapsed instantly, the broken jar shattering beside her.
The villagers gasped—
but no one screamed.
No one accused.
Instead:
"She was influenced by the demon."
"She attacked the Hero."
"She lost control."
"She would have become dangerous."
The Hero stood.
Expression blank.
Breathing steady.
"She needed mercy," he said calmly.
"And I gave it."
The villagers bowed their heads, accepting his words as truth—
as always.
They buried the girl within the hour, without a ceremony, without a name.
The Hero washed his hands at the well, the cold water dripping like blood he wanted to forget.
But the truth clung to him.
He had killed her because she knew.
Because she saw through him.
Because she spoke words no one else dared to.
As he walked away, a faint tremble ran through his hand.
Not regret. Not guilt.
But fear.
If one girl saw the truth…
what about the villain?
Silence.
The villagers are fool,
They accepted it instantly.
Because it was easier.
They didn't want the truth.
They wanted a story where heroes were perfect.
A story where villains deserved every wound.
A story where the world was simple.
The Hero walked away as the sun rose, bathing the ruins in soft gold.
Behind him, the villagers resumed celebrating, singing his name.
Ahead of him, in the mountains…
a cave waited.
A darkness woke.
And the villain's blood had not yet dried.
The Hero, standing alone, whispering to himself:
"If he's alive…
I'll finish it."
His hands shake—
because heroes fear being caught more than dying.