Sara opened her mouth to reveal the name, the final truth she had been carrying for years. The crowd leaned in, every breath suspended. But before even a fraction of that truth could leave her lips, something struck her shoulder with a dull thud. She staggered a step, confused, and lowered her gaze to see what had hit her. An apple rolled across the stage, its red skin bruised from impact. It seemed out of place there, on the polished stone floor, carrying the quiet power to shatter the moment.
A scream followed.
It was sharp, cracked, and filled with a pain that had no boundary. A woman was pushing her way through the rows of soldiers, her movements unsteady as if each step weighed a lifetime. She clutched a small silver locket so tightly against her chest that the chain had nearly cut into her skin. Her eyes were swollen, her face trembling.
"Why?!" she cried, the sound echoing through the courtyard like a wounded animal.
She lifted the apple again, her hand shaking violently, and threw it at Sara with all the force her grief could muster.
"Why did your world come to ours and take the only person I loved?!"
Her voice broke as she fell to her knees. She pressed the locket to her heart and sobbed into her palms, her body curling inward as if trying to hold her pain together. The apple—her husband's favorite fruit—lay beside her, dented and dirty, a reminder of a life that would never return.
"He loved apples…" she whispered, tears spilling freely. "Every evening he brought one home, smiling like a fool. And now he's gone because of a war that wasn't even ours. A war from your world… your people… your problems."
Her grief rolled through the courtyard, shaking the men and women who had already lost so much. The silence cracked. One soldier muttered something under his breath. Another clenched her fists. The officers exchanged anxious glances.
Then the murmurs grew louder.
"…because of her world…"
"…Nova caused this…"
"…all those deaths…"
Voices rose, one on top of another, anger building like a storm that had always been waiting to break.
"My brother died because of demons!" someone shouted.
"My daughter never came home!" another cried out. "And now you're telling us it wasn't even our war?!"
Objects began flying toward the stage. Not one by one—dozens at once. Apples, pears, spoons, medals torn from uniforms, crumpled water bottles, stones small enough to throw but heavy enough to express hate. Every item hit the ground or bounced off the platform with the same message: accusation.
"It's your fault!"
"Get out of our world!"
"We suffered because of you Nova people!"
"Earth deserves peace—leave us alone!"
The woman with the locket gazed up at Sara again, her expression a blend of rage and heartbreak.
"Give me back my husband…" she whispered. "Give me back the future we lost because of your world's madness…"
She bent forward, sobbing into her hands so violently she could barely breathe.
Sara stood still through all of it. She didn't raise a hand to defend herself. She didn't shield her face. She didn't even step back. Her crimson eyes dimmed, not with anger, but with an anguish so quiet it almost disappeared beneath the noise of the crowd.
Deep in her heart, she had always known this moment would come. She had prepared for anger, for rejection, for fear. But witnessing their grief—the raw, human suffering—was far heavier than any blade or spell she had ever endured.
And the people kept shouting, kept accusing, kept demanding answers.
Sara remained silent.
The weight of their hatred sank into her like stones in water.
Humans were furious—but fury was merely the surface.
In truth, they were afraid.
Weakness always breeds fear, and fear always demands a target.
Humanity had a habit that never changed through any era:
when danger came, they searched for someone stronger to hide behind.
And when that stronger one failed to bend the world for them, they turned the same admiration into resentment.
It was the nature of the weak.
A weak person never examines their own shortcomings.
They believe the world owes them safety simply because they desire it.
So when tragedy strikes, they desperately look for someone to blame—
someone to carry the weight they cannot lift.
The strong are convenient for this.
The strong can be worshipped today and condemned tomorrow.
Humans love their protectors… only until the illusion of protection breaks.
After all, it is far easier to spit on a hero than to admit one's own helplessness.
Strength, in their eyes, is not a blessing—it is a contract.
A contract they believe the strong must uphold without question.
And so every good deed vanishes the moment the strong fail once.
It is like staring at a vast, pure ocean and ignoring its depth, its beauty, its storms—
just to complain about a single wave that splashed too hard.
Sara Didn't knew Humans remember the one stain, never the countless spotless moments.
This is their nature.
Not evil, not malicious—just painfully, tragically human.
"In every world," the old Seven Sage once said,
"the weak cling to the strong like vines around a tree.
They depend on it… then curse it the moment the tree cannot shield them from the storm."
Humans were no different.
The truth was simple:
The weak expect protection.
The strong suffer expectation.
Sara stood silent.
Her own agency—her own people—were turning their backs on her. She could feel it, like cold hands peeling her heart open.
She hadn't expected any of this.
Not the hatred.
Not the accusations.
Not the way their eyes avoided her as if she were already condemned.
She still couldn't move on from the death of the three soldiers. They were the only people who admired her despite being weak themselves. They believed in her, trusted her, and told her over and over:
"You will bring peace to this world, Sara."
But now they were dead.
And with their deaths, Sara finally felt the crushing weight of humanity pressing onto her shoulders, suffocating her.
Across the room, Fiona, Erika, Elga, and Rika watched history unfold before their eyes. They too had once believed that demons came from ancient prophecies—the Antichrist foretold in the Bible, the Day of Judgement from Islam, the rise of Asuras until Vishnu descended, all the myths and scriptures humanity clung to.
But now they knew the truth.
Those prophecies had nothing to do with this.
Allen was a demon, yes—but not the kind mentioned in any earthly religion.
This demon existed because of a prophecy from another world entirely.
Earth… was merely a stage.
A battlefield chosen only so another world's destiny could be fulfilled.
The realization twisted their hearts.
Erika and Rika felt anger boil inside their chests—anger at the idea that Earth had suffered for a prophecy that wasn't even its own.
Fiona stood frozen. Her father had sacrificed himself, not for humanity, not for Earth, but for a prophecy belonging to a world that had nothing to do with them. It felt absurd—like being told she had to die so Mars could fulfill its destiny. Ridiculous. Infuriating. Cruel.
And all the while, Sara stood there, trembling, watching as the very agency she had sworn to protect slowly turned away from her—one pair of eyes at a time.
The world leaders sat in their high seats, watching in heavy silence. None of them spoke, not because they were indifferent, but because they all knew—deep in their bones—that this moment was inevitable. They had feared it for years, quietly, secretly. And now that it had finally arrived, even the strongest among them felt powerless.
They wanted to protect Sara.
They truly did.
But now it was far too late.
They did not understand her actions, or why she had chosen to bear the burden alone. But they understood the history behind it—the story they had been warned about long ago.
After all, Sara had shaped this world more than any of them realized.
She was the one who created countless agencies, weaving them from the shadows using her gifts—her ability to hide vampires within darkness, and her unmatched skill in manipulating memories and information. She built organizations, networks, entire systems of protection, and she did it so flawlessly that even the chiefs of those agencies never realized that Sara was their founder. To them, she was simply a talented soldier. In truth, she was the quiet architect of modern peace.
But none of that mattered anymore.
Allen had been brought into this world by the Empire—by humans from Earth. They were the ones who opened the door, who allowed the demon to dwell here, who welcomed him without understanding the consequences. And yet now, in their fear and desperation, they pointed the finger at Sara, as if the sins of the world could rest on her shoulders alone.
The World Government was desperate.
They wanted more information about Nova, about the worlds beyond Earth, about threats that even the strongest armies could not face. All they cared about was preparing for the next danger, the next prophecy, the next storm that would sweep across the planet.
And now that everything had been exposed—Allen's origins, the prophecy, Nova's existence—they realized something terrifying.
Sara could no longer stay on this planet.
If she remained, the world would tear itself apart.
Some would hunt her.
Some would worship her.
Some would use her.
And some would destroy her simply because they feared what they could not control.
Humans called themselves protectors of humanity.
Humans claimed they would do anything "for the sake of mankind."
But in moments like this, Sara could see the truth clearly.
Humans would do anything to protect themselves… even if it meant sacrificing the very person who had saved them for years.
Even if it meant abandoning the girl who had built their safety with her own hands.
The first weapon was raised by a frightened soldier in the front row—hands trembling, jaw clenched, eyes filled with a fear he didn't know how to control. And like a spark dropped in dry grass, the rest of the crowd followed. Rifles lifted. Blades unsheathed. Even improvised weapons—stones, pipes, broken chairs—shook in the hands of terrified civilians.
The same soldiers who had once saluted Sara with pride were now pointing their guns at her.
The same civilians who had once called her "guardian," "protector," "the angel in shadows," now stared at her as if she were a nightmare made flesh.
All because they learned she was not one of them.
Not human.
A murmur rippled through the mob, swelling into a roar.
"She's one of them!" someone shouted.
"She fooled us!" another yelled.
"No better than Allen—kill her before the next disaster!"
The hatred spread like wildfire.
Humans were simple in moments like this. When they feared something, they attacked. When confused, they blamed the nearest target. And when desperate, they sacrificed the one who saved them if it meant running from their own helplessness.
The crowd took a step closer, weapons ready.
To them, Sara was no longer the heroic figure who fought on the front lines, the woman who stopped calamities, the agent who held the world together without ever asking for praise.
No.
Now she was something else entirely.
A monster.
An invader.
The same nightmare they thought they had escaped when Allen died.
A trembling whisper rose from somewhere within the mass of angry faces:
"She's not human… she doesn't belong here…"
Another voice answered, louder, sharper, dripping with fear:
"Kill her before she kills us!"
The line of soldiers tightened their formation, raising their rifles as if preparing for execution.
Sara stood in the center of the chaos, alone, unarmed, and silent.
Her expression didn't show anger. It didn't show fear either. She simply looked… tired. As if the weight of humanity—their memories, their grief, their betrayal—pressed down on her until she could barely breathe.
The leader of the military squad spoke, his voice cracking under the pressure of duty and guilt.
"Sara… don't move."
The order echoed across the hall.
Civilians stepped back.
Soldiers gripped their weapons.
Everyone held their breath.
The same hero they once worshipped was now the nightmare they wanted erased.
And every gun was pointed at her heart.
To be continued.