On a simple, warm bed within a dimly lit room, two people shared the fading moments of a long, too long even, and harsh life.
The old man lay there, his breath shallow and heaving, each inhale and exhale sounding in the ears of his son.
The son sat silently on a chair beside the bed, watching the slow rise and fall of his father's chest.
The entire room was heavy with stillness, moved only by the faint, steady hum of a ceiling fan spinning lazily above them. The soft glow of a single lamp cast long shadows on the semi-cracked walls, making the room feel smaller, more confined than it could be, as if the world outside had ceased to exist entirely.
The old man's skin was pale and wrinkled, stretched tight over bones that had carried a lifetime of burdens. His eyes, once fierce and commanding, now flickered weakly like dying embers.
The air smelled faintly of medicine and old wood, a smell that wrapped the entirety of the room within its embrace. The son's fingers twitched nervously on his lap, the weight of words pressing down on him.
Suddenly, the old man's body convulsed with a harsh cough that rattled his frail body.
The son sprang from his chair, the glass of water trembling in his hand as he stepped closer. He lifted the old man's head, guiding the glass to his lips. The old man's cracked mouth parted, and he swallowed the water slowly, the coughing easing with each sip.
After a moment of quiet, the old man's hoarse voice rasped through the silence.
"The rest didn't come, huh?" he muttered, eyes barely opening. "Who would have expected that the end of the Xyphos Party Chief would be against death all alone with only one of his sons by his side?"
The son's gaze softened faintly, a bittersweet smile tugging at his lips.
"Look at you, Dad," he said softly. "How did the Nine-Headed Demon turn into a mere old man who cares about others?"
A faint, dry laugh escaped the father's throat, like a whisper of wind through withered leaves on a dry day.
"There's a saying," he croaked, "that good people leave first while bad people stay and live on. Look at me, son. I have reached the age of one hundred fifteen. I can no longer get up, stand, or even lift anything heavy. There is a force that no matter who you are, will easily bring you down. That force is time. It is a force that leaves nothing before it."
He paused, his eyes locking onto his son's.
"I can feel it, son. My end is approaching. There is no one left beside me except you, so we must bring a piece of paper, a pen, and ink."
The son fought the urge to grin.
'I was right to stay here,' he thought. 'Of course, this old fox still has hidden assets, even after he falls from the top of the world.'
He quickly retrieved the requested items from a nearby drawer and handed them to his father. The old man's trembling fingers took hold of the pen, and with great effort, he began to write slowly.
The room seemed to hold its breath as the scratch of the pen marked the fragile paper.
[The house in the Rios district, No. 467807, according to this will, belongs to my son, Zenum Hyde. If anyone has an objection, I do not care, because I am already gone from the world.]
After writing those two simple sentences, he dipped his forefinger into the ink and pressed it gently onto the paper, leaving a dark, smudged stamp.
Carefully, he placed the paper face down on the bedside table. His eyes found his son's once more, and with a faint, tired smile, he commanded, "Leave now, son. This is my last night. I can smell death near me. Tomorrow, after my burial, read the will to whoever attends the funeral. After that, go to Attorney Morris, and he knows what to do. Now let me be alone for a while."
The son nodded slowly, swallowing the lump forming in his throat. He rose, opened the door, and stepped out.
The door closed quietly behind him with the soft creak of hinges. The old man was left all alone, the silence settling over him like a shroud.
He let out a long, shuddering sigh and whispered to himself.
"So this is how the Nine-Headed Demon falls."
His voice was barely audible, a fragile thread weaving through the air around him.
"How poetic. After all the deeds I've done throughout my life, whether good or evil, I'm finally leaving."
The old man's gaze drifted to the ceiling, where the fan continued its slow, relentless spin.
He felt the weight of years pressing down on his chest, the countless battles, betrayals, and alliances flashing like ghosts behind his closed eyes.
A coldness began to crawl from his limbs, creeping inward like the shadows in the corners of the room. It wrapped around him, numbing his fingers, his toes, then his torso, until it settled deep within his bones.
"I am not afraid of loneliness," he whispered, voice cracking. "But I am afraid of death and beyond."
He closed his eyes and lay back against the pillow, the once fierce warrior reduced to a fragile old man. "There is no normal person who does not fear death. It is within all of us, human beings. For those like me who do not believe in anything, death is nothing but liberation. Yet still, I fear it might not be what I expect."
His chest heaved with another violent cough. The sound tore through the room, raw and desperate. With each hack, a streak of blood darkened the sheets beneath him.
Finally, the coughing ceased. The breath left his body in a slow, lingering sigh. The life of the Nine-Headed Demon, Grievous Hyde, had come to an end.
His mind drifted through memories, the faces of friends and foes alike blurring together. The last thought that touched his fading consciousness was simple, chilling.
'It's cold.'
After some time, the room remained still. No movement stirred the lifeless body. No sound escaped the silent mouth.
The door was opened again, and the son returned. His face held a strange mixture of relief and bitterness, a smile flickering across his lips.
"This monster has finally died," he said, voice low and sharp. "Truly, bad people live long."
He reached out slowly to the paper resting on the bedside table. He lifted it with care, scanning the words written by his father's fading hand.
A satisfied nod followed, and a chuckle escaped him.
"The others who were older than me took most of the property, and I only got some random stores."
He shook his head and smiled, a trace of admiration coloring his words.
"To think he is truly dead, huh? I believed that this demon was immortal."
He paused, eyes distant.
"Who the hell could live to that age in an environment like this? Wouldn't loneliness and distance from other humans like him terrify him? He had been in the limelight long enough to become addicted, but the withdrawal effects showed no signs."
He looked back at the body on the bed, a mixture of respect and resentment in his tone.
"He truly deserves to be the Nine-Headed Demon."
The son folded the paper carefully and tucked it into his jacket pocket. The room felt colder now, emptier.
Outside, the city of Rios carried on unaware of the fall of a legend.
And somewhere deep within the shadows of that sprawling world, the echoes of Grievous Hyde's death waited.