The demons, towering five times larger than a man, rampaged through the kingdom, crushing everything beneath their monstrous steps. One of them spotted a woman kneeling beside a fallen man, her tears soaking his lifeless body. In her arms, a child wailed.
The beast let out a guttural roar that shook the ground. The woman's eyes widened in terror. Clutching her child tightly, she stumbled to her feet and fled. But her grief weighed her down; her steps were heavy, unsteady.
The demon charged. Its massive shadow fell over her as she collapsed, trembling. The child's cries grew sharper. The demon's enormous hand reached for them—
And then… it stopped.
Not just that demon, but every single one across the kingdom froze mid-strike. Their crimson eyes shifted upward.
The night sky blazed. Thousands of radiant blades hovered in the heavens, forged from pure holy light, each one gleaming with divine wrath.
The giant demon faltered, its growl caught in its throat.
And then the blades fell.
They rained down like meteors, each one locked onto a demon. No human was touched, only the monsters. Their screams echoed through the night as they were shredded, impaled, annihilated. The holy blades carved through their ranks without mercy, again and again, until the entire kingdom was bathed in golden light.
The hero stood at the center, chest heaving, breath ragged. Dust and embers swirled through the air, glowing like golden snowflakes. Slowly, the storm of blades faded into nothingness, leaving silence in their wake.
'Now this… this is overpowered.'
[New Title Unlocked: Demon Slayer]
[Achievement Acquired: Eyes of the Golden Monarch]
He blinked, surprised. 'Eyes of the Golden Monarch? The name's cool. The power better live up to it.'
A faint glimmer flickered in his vision, like threads of light crawling across his sight. His lips curled into a sharp grin.
'I'll test it later. For now… let's get down from here.'
The scene below was heartbreaking. Rows of corpses lay neatly arranged, a grim attempt at order amidst chaos. Families gathered around, their faces painted with despair. Some collapsed, sobbing uncontrollably, while others stood frozen in silence, their grief too deep for tears.
'This… is something I never wanted to see,' the hero thought, his chest tightening. 'So much loss. Where are the medical teams? People need help, not just mourning.'
He moved carefully through the ruins of a shattered building, stepping over broken stone and splintered wood. His own clothes were torn and stained with blood.
'Tch. My clothes are filthy. Maybe I can find something better here… something that doesn't reek of death.'
He climbed higher through the wreckage, until he reached what was left of the building's edge. From there, he could see the entire kingdom gathered in one place, a sea of survivors, clinging together in sorrow. His eyes narrowed as he caught sight of something important among the crowd.
A figure in white, tending to the wounded, moving swiftly between the broken and the dying.
'A doctor,' the hero realized, relief flickering across his face. He flexed his bloodied hands, the pain gnawing at him. 'Perfect. Now I can finally treat these wounds… before they slow me down any further.'
Then a voice rang out over the silence.
"Sir Hero!"
The hero turned his head. It was the knight who once pointed his spear at him in the king's hall. One by one, the others followed.
"Sir Hero!"
"Sir Hero!"
Even those who had been sobbing moments ago joined in, their voices trembling with reverence.
The sun finally broke over the horizon. Golden rays cut through the smoke, washing the ruined kingdom in warmth. From behind the hero, the light shone brilliantly, framing him as if the heavens themselves had crowned him. To the survivors, he wasn't just a hero anymore. He was salvation. A god who had torn them out of a nightmare.
The hero stared down at them, expression unreadable.
'First they chain me, bleed me, treat me like garbage… now they worship me? Alright then. Take this.'
He slowly raised his fist toward the camp. The people held their breath, expecting a blessing, a divine gesture. Then—
He turned his fist upside down. His middle finger rose proudly into the air.
'Here's what you get for treating me like shit.'
The entire crowd froze, their eyes widening in shock. Murmurs rippled through them.
"Is this… some kind of holy sign?" whispered one.
"Maybe it means we are safe now…" said another.
Then, a small child stepped forward. Tears streaked her cheeks as she lifted her tiny hand and imitated the gesture.
"Hero!" she cried out, her finger trembling in the sunlight.
And like a wave, the crowd followed. Every man, woman, and child raised their middle finger high toward him.
The hero stared, dumbfounded, as an entire kingdom saluted him with the very insult he had thrown at them.
'Great. They don't even know what that means. Now they think it's some sacred sign of peace… or being saved.'
The hero sighed. 'Why is all this happening to me?'
He climbed down from the ruins. Immediately, the crowd rushed toward him, desperate, trembling, reaching out to touch him as though he were untouchable. Their hands brushed his arms, his shoulders, even his blood-soaked cloths. He pushed through slowly, letting them have their moment.
'I've seen this scene before… Batman v Superman. When Superman walked through the crowd. Damn. I actually feel like Superman right now.'
The weight of hundreds of eyes followed him as he walked to the medical ward. The place was half-collapsed, but doctors were still working amid the chaos.
He stepped inside. "I need someone over here."
A doctor hurried over. The hero lifted his hands, wrapped in blood-soaked cloth. The stench of iron filled the air.
The doctor carefully took a knife and cut the cloth. Slowly, he unwrapped it, peeling it away from the sticky wounds. The hero clenched his jaw, holding his face steady.
'Aah, it hurts like hell. Why don't you just do it slower, damn it.'
When the cloth fell away, the wounds were fully exposed, raw, torn, still bleeding. The doctor's face grew grim.
"Sir Hero, these wounds… they need stitching immediately."
The hero raised a brow. "Isn't there any healing magic in this world?"
"Well, sir… sorry to say, but we're reserving healing magic only for those on the brink of death," the doctor said carefully.
The hero's eyes narrowed. 'I was the one who saved them. Shouldn't I be the first priority? He let out a breath. No point in blaming them now.'
"Fine. Then stitch me up."
The doctor nodded and threaded the needle. The moment the sharp tip pierced skin, pain shot through him.
"AAAAHHH!" His scream tore out before he could stop it.
Outside the tent, people froze and turned toward the sound. They couldn't see who was inside, only the shadow of someone writhing on the canvas walls. Whispers spread.
Inside, the doctor tried to steady him, pressing him down. "Please, sir, stay still, it will only make it worse."
The hero clenched his fists, his body jerking as the needle pulled through flesh. His teeth grit so hard it felt like they'd shatter.
'Damn it… I'm glad no one I know is in here. If they saw me like this… it'd be humiliating.'
Minutes crawled by until finally, the doctor cut the thread. "There. All done."
The hero wiped at his wet cheeks, forcing composure back into his voice. "Good. Now… I need a shirt. A decent one."
The doctor handed him a shirt, plain white, clean enough. The hero slipped it on, flexing his hands, the stitches tugging at his skin. Then he stepped outside the tent.
Dozens of eyes were already on him. Men, women, even children, all staring, whispering, waiting for his next move.
'Crap. I must've screamed too loud.'
He didn't flinch. Instead, he turned casually back toward the tent. His voice carried, sharp and confident:
"Doctor, I was the one being stitched. Why were you the one screaming? Look, now you've scared all these people."
A ripple went through the crowd. Murmurs spread. Some nodded as if he had revealed a hidden truth, others looked at the doctor in silent judgment.
The hero smirked to himself. 'I believe the doctor won't dare say a word. Not if he values his head.'
He glanced back at the sea of fearful, reverent faces. 'Still… I need to find a way out of here. The longer I stay, the more tangled I get in their delusions.'
Far away from the ruined kingdom, the black dragon cut through the skies like a shadow tearing the heavens apart. Upon its back, the apostle sat unmoving, his armor glinting faintly under the fading sun.
Then, without warning, the beast descended, revealing the obsidian spires of the Demon King Diablo's castle. The land around it was dead, no grass, no wind, only silence. The dragon landed before the colossal gates, its wings folding like a storm being chained.
The apostle climbed down. He entered the fortress, where sunlight dared not dwell. Though cracks in the walls allowed faint beams to seep inside, the stones themselves devoured the light, leaving only suffocating shadows.
At last, he reached a vast, hollow hall. At its center stood a throne carved from black stone. Upon it, cloaked in darkness, sat a figure, Diablo, the Demon King. His mere presence weighed like gravity, dragging the air itself down.
The apostle halted, then slowly knelt, lowering his horned head.
"I… have… arrived…" His voice rumbled like iron scraping stone.
A low, calm voice echoed from the throne. "You are here sooner than I expected. Tell me… have you seen the hero?"
"Yes… Why… forbid… me… to kill… him… King… Diablo…"
Silence hung, deep and heavy. Then Diablo's eyes gleamed faintly red from the shadows. His voice, measured and ominous, cut through the hall.
"Because his death now would break the pattern written long before this age began. He is unlike the others… his existence is tethered to a fate that even I dare not touch."
The apostle hesitated, his voice low.
"Fate…?"
Diablo leaned back into his throne, as though the weight of his own knowledge pressed him down.
"There are truths carved into this world that I, too, must fear. The boy carries within him a light—or perhaps a darkness—that will decide the end. To strike him down is to blind us all… and invite a ruin deeper than my reign."
Diablo's gaze dimmed, his tone softer, but no less heavy.
"Let him walk the path that was written. Watch, but do not interfere. For when the final dawn rises, even I… may not survive what he becomes."