Dex saved the world for one simple reason: fighting was the only thing he'd ever been good at. In the slums if you weren't good at something you were either dead or a slave, it was as simple as that. So Dex chose to be strong. How could anyone have known that decision would lead to the strongest hero in history… or at least, that's what he thought.
"There's no fucking way," Avian said internally. "There is absolutely no goddamn way."
He stared down at the page, the ink starting to blur as his vision tightened. It was there — plain as day, stamped in neat, official print on cream-colored paper.
Vaerin Veritas — Hero of the Final War, Slayer of the Demon King Dex.
Dex.
His name.
The same name they'd stripped from history and fed to the flames. The name they'd twisted into a villain's.
His hands trembled as he turned the page, half-expecting the letters to shift, to reveal it was some elaborate prank. But no — every account, every illustration, every official record painted the same picture: Vaerin the shining savior, Dex the fallen tyrant.
Avian wanted to laugh. Instead, he gritted his teeth.
"So that's how they did it. That's how they buried me."
Twelve years of pretending to be someone else, of smiling and bowing and playing the good little noble — and the truth had been rotting in the margins of a children's history book.
He felt the weight of his sword calling to him from its stand across the room — not as a weapon, but as a piece of himself, the part they had branded heretical.
They hadn't just rewritten the story.
They had made him the fucking villain.
His jaw tightened. Fury churned in his chest, cold and steady.
"This is ridiculous," he thought bitterly. "I saved this shit-stained world, and this is what I get? A villain's name and a buried grave?"
The words burned in his mind like wildfire, rage flaring behind his storm-blue eyes.
"Did you say something, young master?" came a soft voice.
Avian's head snapped up. His maid, Elira, stood just inside the doorway, arms full of fresh linens, her expression mild but curious.
He blinked once. Then twice. The noble mask slid back into place with practiced ease.
"Ah—no, nothing," Avian said, offering a polite smile. His voice was smooth, measured. "Just... contemplating the moral inconsistencies of historical recordkeeping."
Elira gave a polite bow. "Of course, young master. Shall I bring your evening tea?"
"Yes, please," he replied, folding the book shut with a quiet snap.
Only when the door clicked shut behind her did the smile vanish.
His jaw clenched.
"Moral inconsistencies? Seriously?" he hissed under his breath. "They called me a demon, gave Vaerin my kill, and tossed my corpse into the footnotes. I should be a damn legend, not the final boss of some bedtime story."
He stood, pacing to the window. Outside, the courtyard basked in golden twilight — a peaceful world built on his blood.
And they had the audacity to call him the monster.
His reflection in the glass stared back: perfect posture, noble robes, cleaned nails, refined features. A lie wearing his soul like a costume.
Avian pressed his palm against the cool glass. The courtyard below stretched out in manicured perfection — stone paths winding through trimmed hedges, a fountain carved with Vaerin's likeness at its center. Even here, in this remote branch residence, they couldn't escape his shadow.
"Twelve years," he muttered. "Twelve goddamn years of this."
The worst part wasn't the lie itself. It was how thoroughly they'd sold it. Every statue, every prayer, every bedtime story — all of it reinforced the same narrative. Vaerin the golden, Dex the darkness.
A knock interrupted his brooding.
"Come in," he called, not turning from the window.
The door creaked open, followed by measured footsteps. Not Elira's light tread — these were heavier, more deliberate.
"Young master Avian."
The voice made his spine straighten reflexively. Master Corwin, the branch's sword instructor. Former military, judging by the scars and the way he held himself like a weapon at rest.
"Master Corwin," Avian said, turning with practiced grace. "I wasn't expecting you until tomorrow's session."
The older man's weathered face remained neutral, but his eyes — sharp as broken glass — swept over Avian with the precision of someone who'd spent decades reading people.
"Your evening forms were... interesting."
Avian's expression didn't flicker. "Oh?"
"You adjusted your grip three times during the seventh sequence. Compensating for something?"
"The handle wrapping is wearing thin," Avian lied smoothly. "I'll have it replaced."
Corwin's eyes narrowed a fraction. "Is that so?"
The truth was more complicated. The seventh sequence in the Veritas style felt like wearing shoes on the wrong feet — functional, but fundamentally wrong. His body remembered a different way, a better way. The way that got labeled demonic.
"Perhaps we should review the fundamentals," Corwin suggested. "Your foundation seems... unstable."
Avian wanted to laugh. His foundation was built on battlefield pragmatism, not pretty swordplay. Every movement the Veritas style demanded felt like poetry when what he needed was prose — brutal, efficient prose that kept you alive when three demons rushed your flank.
"Of course, Master Corwin. I appreciate your diligence."
The instructor lingered, clearly wanting to say more. Finally, he spoke. "The heir trials begin in six months."
Avian kept his face neutral. "I'm aware."
"Young master Thane has been... practicing extensively."
"I'm sure he has."
"The main family will be watching. Your father—"
"Has more important matters than a tertiary branch's sword work," Avian finished, his tone still polite but edged with finality.
Corwin's jaw tightened, but he nodded. "As you say. Good evening, young master."
The door closed with a soft click.
Avian exhaled slowly, returning to his desk. The history book lay there, innocent and damning. He flipped it open again, drawn like a moth to flame.
There — an illustration of the final battle. Vaerin stood triumphant, golden light streaming from his blessed blade, while a shadowy figure writhed beneath his boot. The Demon King Dex, rendered as little more than a beast of smoke and malice.
"That's not how it happened," he whispered.
The real fight had been nothing like that. No golden light, no divine intervention. Just him, alone in that cursed throne room, trading blows with something that barely counted as alive anymore. The Demon King had been more concept than creature by the end — a writhing mass of hatred and twisted mana that screamed with a thousand voices.
He'd won by doing what he always did: fighting dirty. A feint high, drop low, channel everything through his blade until the metal screamed, then ram it through what passed for the thing's core. No glory. No witnesses. Just blood and exhaustion and the sick satisfaction of ending it.
Then he'd stumbled out, expecting... what? A hero's welcome? Recognition? At minimum, a "thanks for saving the world, asshole"?
Instead, he'd gotten an arrow through the heart from someone he'd trusted.
His fist clenched reflexively.
A servant's bell chimed in the hallway — evening prayer hour. Soon the entire residence would gather in the small chapel to offer thanks to Saint Vaerin for his sacrifice.
"Saint Vaerin," Avian spat under his breath. "The bastard couldn't even beat me in a straight duel on his best day."
But that was the problem with being dead — you couldn't correct the record.
He closed the book and stood, straightening his robes. Time to play the dutiful noble son again. Time to bow his head and praise the friend who'd stolen his legacy.
The chapel was a modest affair compared to the main family's cathedral, but it served its purpose. Two dozen members of the branch household knelt in neat rows, heads bowed in reverence. At the altar, a stained glass window depicted Vaerin in all his false glory — sword raised high, light streaming from every surface.
Avian took his place in the second row, movements precise and respectful. To his left, several cousins whispered prayers. To his right, empty space — a reminder of his position as the forgotten son.
"Blessed Vaerin, Shield of Humanity," the chaplain intoned. "We gather to remember your sacrifice..."
The words washed over him like acid. Every phrase, every gesture, every carefully crafted lie adding another stone to the monument built on his bones.
His fingers found the prayer beads at his belt — a noble affectation he'd never gotten used to. Each bead was supposed to represent one of Vaerin's virtues. Courage. Honor. Sacrifice.
"What about backstabbing?" he thought viciously. "Where's the bead for that?"
"...and delivered us from the corruption of the Demon King Dex, whose name shall forever be—"
"Young master Avian?"
He blinked. The chaplain was looking at him expectantly, along with half the congregation. Apparently he'd been asked something.
"My apologies," he said smoothly. "I was deep in contemplation of Saint Vaerin's sacrifice. Could you repeat the question?"
The chaplain's expression softened. "I asked if you would lead us in the Affirmation of Light."
Of course. The one prayer that explicitly condemned his past self. The universe had a sick sense of humor.
Avian rose, facing the congregation. Two dozen faces looked up at him — servants, guards, distant relatives. All of them buying into the lie without question.
He cleared his throat.
"We affirm the light that saved us," he began, the words tasting like ash. "We deny the darkness that sought to claim us."
The congregation echoed: "We affirm the light."
"We remember Saint Vaerin, who stood alone against corruption."
"We remember."
"We condemn the Demon King Dex, whose name—"
He paused. Just for a heartbeat. Just long enough for discomfort to creep into the chapel air.
"—whose name shall be struck from honor, whose deeds shall be remembered only as warnings."
"So it is affirmed."
Avian returned to his knees, hands folded in perfect noble posture. Inside, Dex screamed.
The prayer service dragged on for another twenty minutes. By the time they were dismissed, Avian's knees ached and his patience had worn threadbare. He was first to leave, ignoring the disapproving looks from some of the elders.
The corridors were mercifully empty as he made his way back to his chambers. Or so he thought.
"Fascinating prayer technique."
Avian stopped. A figure emerged from an alcove — a young woman, perhaps sixteen, with ink-stained fingers and the kind of intense gaze that belonged in a library, not a hallway ambush.
"Can I help you?" he asked, voice carefully neutral.
She tilted her head, studying him like a particularly interesting manuscript. "That pause during the Affirmation. Very subtle. Most people wouldn't notice."
"I don't know what you mean."
"No?" She pulled out a small notebook, flipping through pages covered in cramped writing. "Avian Veritas, age twelve, tertiary branch, minimal contact with main family. Noted for unusual sword forms and a tendency to avoid public prayer. Also—" she looked up, "—the only person I've ever seen hesitate before condemning the Demon King."
His eyes narrowed. "And you are?"
"Seren Lyselle. Historian-in-training." She closed the notebook with a snap. "Here to document the branch family histories for the Church archives."
"How thorough of them."
"Isn't it?" She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "You know what I find interesting? Everyone else spits the name like poison. But you... you said it like it hurt."
Every instinct screamed danger. This girl was too observant, too clever by half. The smart move was to dismiss her, maintain the noble mask, give her nothing.
Instead, he heard himself asking, "And what do you think of the official history?"
Her eyes lit up — the look of someone who'd found a fellow questioner. "I think history is written by survivors, not heroes."
The words hung between them, loaded with implication.
Before he could respond, footsteps echoed from the main corridor. Seren stepped back, suddenly all proper distances and formal bearing.
"Young master," she said, offering a courtesy. "I look forward to documenting your contributions to the family legacy."
She was gone before he could parse the layers in that statement.
Avian stood alone in the hallway, mind racing. A historian asking questions. His grip slipping during forms. The heir trials approaching. Too many threads pulling loose at once.
He needed to train. Real training, not the neutered shadowboxing Corwin supervised.
His chambers were as he'd left them — book on the desk, sword on its stand, lies hanging in the air like incense. But now he moved with purpose, locking the door and pulling heavy curtains across the windows.
In the center of the room, he drew his blade. Not the ceremonial piece he wore to formal functions, but a simple training sword, balanced and unadorned. The weight felt right in his hand — not because it was well-made, but because his body remembered the heft of steel when steel was all that stood between him and death.
He began slowly, moving through the Veritas forms with textbook precision. First position, advance, horizontal cut, recover. Pretty movements for pretty nobles who'd never felt demon claws rake across their ribs.
Then, gradually, he let the mask slip.
His stance widened. His grip shifted. The blade moved not in prescribed arcs but in efficient lines — economy of motion refined by countless life-or-death seconds. This was Dex's way. The heretical style. The demon king's swordsmanship.
It felt like breathing after drowning.
The forms flowed together, each movement a memory. Parry a claw strike, redirect the momentum, create an opening where none existed. Step inside their reach because demons expected humans to retreat. Target joints and tendons because honor meant nothing to corpses.
His body sang with the rightness of it, muscles remembering what his mind never forgot. This was who he really was — not a noble playing with swords, but a killer who'd carved his name into history with blood and pragmatism.
A knock shattered his concentration.
"Young master? Your tea."
Elira. He'd forgotten about the tea.
Breathing hard, he quickly sheathed the blade and smoothed his robes. By the time he opened the door, he was Avian again — composed, polite, harmless.
"Thank you, Elira. You may leave it on the desk."
She entered with practiced grace, setting down the tray without a single clink of porcelain. But as she turned to leave, she paused.
"Young master... forgive my presumption, but you seem troubled tonight."
He almost laughed. Troubled. That was one word for it.
"Just contemplating the weight of legacy," he said.
Her expression softened. "The heir trials?"
"Among other things."
She hesitated, then spoke quietly. "My grandmother used to say that blood determines where we start, but not where we end. Even tertiary branches can bloom, given the right conditions."
With another bow, she left him alone with his tea and his thoughts.
Avian stared at the steam rising from the cup. Right conditions. If only she knew that his conditions included memories of gutting demons and being murdered by his best friend.
He moved to the window again, looking out at the Vaerin statue in the courtyard. Moonlight turned the marble hero into something ethereal, otherworldly. A saint carved from lies.
"Six months," he murmured.
Six months until the heir trials. Six months to decide if he'd keep playing the forgotten noble or if he'd show them what the real hero of the Demon War could do.
The smart play was to stay hidden. Keep his head down, live a quiet life, let the lie stand. He'd already died once for this world — why risk everything again?
But as he watched that false hero's statue, rage bubbled up from somewhere deep. They'd stolen his victory. Twisted his sacrifice. Made him the monster in children's nightmares.
Maybe it was time to remind them that sometimes the monsters were right.
He drained the tea in one bitter gulp and returned to his desk. The history book still lay open to that lying illustration. For a moment, he considered burning it. Instead, he pulled out a piece of parchment and began to write.
Not a confession. Not yet. But notes. Details only someone who'd been there could know. The exact sound the Demon King made when it died — like glass breaking underwater. The way the throne room floor was cracked in a starburst pattern from their final clash. Small truths that didn't match the official record.
If that historian girl wanted to ask questions, maybe he'd give her something worth questioning.
As he wrote, his other hand moved unconsciously through sword positions. Not the Veritas forms — his forms. The movements they'd branded evil because they came from someone born in the wrong place with the wrong name.
Outside, bells tolled midnight. Another day gone in this false life.
But tomorrow... tomorrow he'd push a little harder in training. Test the boundaries a little more. See how much of Dex he could let bleed through before someone noticed.
Because six months was a long time to pretend. And he was getting very, very tired of pretending.
The candle burned low as he wrote, filling page after page with fragments of truth. Somewhere in the main family compound, his father slept soundly, unaware that his forgotten son carried memories that could shatter their carefully constructed world.
Somewhere, historians like Seren pieced together acceptable lies.
Somewhere, Thane practiced perfect Veritas forms, preparing to inherit a legacy built on a dead man's reputation.
And here, in a tertiary branch's modest chambers, the real hero of the Demon War planned his return.
Not as a conquering warrior or a revealed savior. Those stories always ended badly — he had the arrow scar to prove it. No, if he was going to reclaim anything, it would be on his terms.
Let them have their saint. Let them worship their lie.
He'd be something better. Something harder to kill or rewrite.
He'd be himself.
The candle finally guttered out, leaving him in darkness. But Avian — Dex — didn't need light to see the path ahead.
After all, he'd walked through darker places than this and come out the other side.
Even if they'd renamed him a demon for the trouble.