Morning sunlight slowly spread over the land. It passed over cities, across roads, and finally reached the house.
The warm light entered through a window into a quiet room, decorated with soft colors and a gentle, feminine touch.
There, on the bed, lay a woman with pink hair. Her face was calm at first, but her eyebrows slowly drew together in a frown.
She was dreaming—again, the same dream that had haunted her every night for the past three days.
Her chest rose and fell heavily under the thin bedsheet, the soft fabric gently outlining the curve of her breasts as she breathed faster.
Even though the air was cold, a small bead of sweat rolled down from her forehead, glistening in the morning light.
The nightmare held her tightly… just like it always did.
A nightmare in which she was being killed alongside many other men and women at the hands of a purple-haired man, telling them how they shouldn't have even thought of betraying him while cutting each of them into pieces.
But for her, it was a nightmare not because of being killed, but because that purple-haired man was someone she knew too well.
'N-no....' A voice came from her unconscious mind as if her screams were echoing throughout her dreams, not of agony but despair for seeing someone familiar being so ruthless; her cries arriving inside her subconscious and even projecting as thought.
Krieeek
Her room's door opened as someone entered. She was asleep, unaware of the presence that had soon arrived near her before a hand stretched over her head.
And then came a sensation that only her soul felt... not her body.
It was as if something had just erased her soul memory and injected a fake drama.
A fabricated dream resurfaced in her mind, which felt far more real and replaced the truth that her dormant heavenly power had imbued in her soul, making her cautious of a man.
Her frown deepened as she saw a new dream—
"Uhmmm—"
---
The dirt was wet—not with rain, but with blood. His blood—dragging like a smear behind the broken man as his body slumped and scraped along the stone, his tangled hair clenched tightly in the thick, calloused fist of one of the hulking figures hauling him.
His clothes, once a pristine healing priest's uniform, now hung like soaked rags—shredded and stained deep red, clinging to him like shame.
"Haah… Haah…"
One of his eyes was swollen shut, the other open but dead, leaking blood like a tear that had rotted halfway through. His mild breathing let out the remaining life escaping into the air.
He didn't fight. Not anymore. He'd exhausted himself beyond his limits—yet he was still alive.
Not because he was strong enough to live after pushing himself three times past his breaking point… but because of pure rage.
::. KILL... THEM... ::
:: THEY... BETRAYED Y..OU ::
The voice in his head echoed like a backdrop, reminding him of his choice to walk the path of righteousness—a path that now brought him to death's door.
He had fought that voice his entire life, denying it, cursing it as a demon, fearing it as evil… and yet, all along, it had been right.
This world didn't deserve what he gave it.
Especially those six women, still visible through his bloodied, blurred vision, trailing behind him.
They didn't speak.
They were just there to witness the end of the man who helped them—each of them—in one way or another.
They were dressed too clean for this. Robes uncreased. Silver and violet threads catching dying light. Leather stitched. Hoods shadowing faces that should have turned away… but didn't.
They weren't meant to be here for this. But they wanted to confirm that he died.
If not… they might see nightmares. They might live the rest of their lives haunted by the healer once known as Satan.
Their eyes brushed over him, then to each other—awkward glances, flickers of something close to guilt… but not close enough.
One of them clutched a charm in her palm so tightly her fingers shook. Another had her arms behind her back, hiding the fact she was digging her nails into her wrists.
The dragging continued.
Thump. Drag. Crunch.
One of the men—broad, built like a ruined statue—grunted, smirking through a jagged beard. "Still alive."
The other, eyes like dull glass, spat on the ground. "How strong is his healing? Killed the Demon Lord's seven generals… and he's still breathing?"
"Breathing? I died three times because he kept throwing me as a meat shield!" said the first, scowling. "He's a damn healer—the weakest profession. Yet he was the cruelest of us all."
The third woman in line—the quiet one in muted grey—kept her arms folded, lips pressed together. Not in defiance, but like she was holding something back that might split her open.
Her eyes kept drifting—first to the cliff, then to him, then to the others. Her breathing was slow, but uneven.
The man's head lolled sideways. His lips moved, but no sound came. He wasn't begging. He wasn't looking at them anymore.
Just... through them.
"…He used to carry me on his back when I was too scared to walk through the corpse fields," the maid whispered—fourth in line, voice trembling. Her eyes glossed, as if the memory stung. "He told me I wasn't trash. That I mattered…"
Then her lip curled, her voice hardening—like trying to justify herself. "But maybe that's what he wanted. Right? To make me worship him? He freed me… only to own me better. Always helping, always saving—like he enjoyed being our god. Cruel psycho."
Beside her, the noblewoman's chin quivered. She had once been sold to him as part of a truce treaty.
"He... gave me back my title. Fed me. Never touched me without permission," she said, almost defensively.
Then her hands clenched, nails digging into her silk gloves. "But that just made it worse. Who does that? Who gives everything… and expects nothing? It felt like debt. Like I was being buried under gratitude. No man is that selfless—he had to be hiding something monstrous."
The second woman, the bodyguard—once a war prisoner turned protector—spoke next. Her voice was quiet. Her eyes, haunted.
"I promised to protect him. I promised I'd cut down a thousand men if they touched a hair on his head."
Then her gaze flicked to the dragging trail behind them, and she exhaled like coughing ash. "But he kept throwing himself into battle. Like he wanted me to die protecting him."
Arvia blinked, watching everything while standing in the third woman's place.
She felt something off.
Her heavenly gift—buried deep inside her soul—resisted the lie.
But the vision kept playing, as if painted onto her mind by someone else's brush.
So, she felt hesitant, her voice like glass cracking—she looked toward her childhood friend, now nearly dead.
"…H-he risked his life to save this world… and even resurrected us many times."
She swallowed, her voice breaking. "He wasn't this evil in our early years... he even saved me—"
The sharp-faced one—the fifth—scoffed.
"Wh-what does it matter? Wasn't he the one always throwing us in front of monsters? Using us like battle dolls? And maybe he was after your body all along. Weren't you the one who said that he used to have you as his fake girlfriend shield against any women? Who knows it might be his way to win your heart."
Arvia's voice faltered. She just nodded. Her heart thumped.
So many things had changed over the past seven years in this world—enough to make her feel guilty, but not enough to regret killing the man who had once been her only fellow survivor from Earth.
"…Hmm."
"Of course." Dravin—the one clutching the man's hair—yanked him harder.
Yet none of them seemed braver than the healer, even now—bloodied and without any ability.
All of them, except Dravin, carried some weight of fear etched in their bones. None of them laughed. None of them mocked.
Just silence. Just... ensuring he died.
The grey-robed woman looked down again. Her hand twitched near the hilt of her dagger—not to draw, not to act. Just... twitch.
"I was his slave," said the last—once a street rat with no name, until he gave her one. "He taught me to read. To cook. Gave me clothes… warmth."
Her breath hitched. Her face twisted. Her voice turned sharp.
"And that's what made it sick. He could've bought a thousand others, but no—he wanted me. To 'fix.' Like I was some broken doll he could play savior with. I hated it. Hated how he made me need him."
As they neared the cliff, the wind began to rise. They had arrived at the Acid Valley of Guargon—the only place that could dissolve even the last cell of this man.
Slicing his body. Burning it. Even throwing it into a volcano wouldn't kill him.
But now… now he was drained of everything after the battle with the Demon Lord.
This was the end of the man they once called Satan.
The larger man hoisted him like a sack of disgrace—his body limp, his head dangling.
Just before they threw him, a voice—soft, sharp, full of everything unsaid—cut through.
"…What will we say to Queen Rhenia?"
It came from the youngest woman.
She didn't look at anyone. Just asked it into the air, like hoping the wind might answer.
Silence followed.
But not the quiet kind. The loud kind. The kind that swells behind ribs and claws at throats.
The man's eye—the one still open—caught the light just once. In that reflection: six women. Two men.
Then—
He fell.
Slow at first, like gravity had to think about it. Then fast. Hard. Gone.
Arvia—third in line—finally let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. She stepped forward, just enough to glimpse the limbs vanishing into the depths.
And only then—too late for him to hear her, too late for her voice to matter—she whispered:
"…Sorry. You were too dangerous… to be considered a hero—"
SWISH
"Haah… Haah… Haah—!"
Her body jerked upright like something had just let go of her spine—sweat-soaked, breath choked, chest rising too fast to keep pace. The sheet tangled around her legs felt like chains. Her skin burned cold, wet, trembling—as if she'd just crawled out from under a grave.
Her hands clutched the mattress. Desperate. Disoriented. Like it might dissolve into stone and blood if she moved wrong.
Eyes wide. Heart screaming. Breath short. Muscles locked.
The room was wrong.
No cliff. No acid wind. No broken body dragged toward the edge.
Just an apartment.
A fan spinning slowly above.
Light bleeding through pale curtains.
The hum of a fridge. The sharp tick of a microwave clock.
But her body was still there. Still in it. Still tasting the silence. The betrayal. The moment he fell—
Her hands flew to her face, fingertips trembling as they pressed into her skin.
No blood. No dirt. No burns.
But her breath hitched.
She remembered every detail with vivid clarity, even though all of the memories were fading from his mind; but a name just lingered.
Her throat opened. A whisper slipped through like a blade:
"…Satan?"
Silence answered her.
That dream… began to fade. Memory slipping away, the subconscious slowly sealing it as her body recovered.
"Oh…?" A soft chuckle—intensely warm, dangerously close—brushed her ear, followed by a devilishly sharp voice.
"…Did you call me… Arvia?"