"Over the years... what have I done?"
"Ah, yes... I have killed. Not just one person—but hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands."
Blood had flowed like rivers through his hands. Man or woman, child or elder—it didn't matter, as long as they could scream, beg, weep. He razed cities, scorched forests, leveled kingdoms over a single displeased glance or an offending word.
"I have committed genocide—erased the bloodline of an entire race for a mere game of power."
He once bound tribal elders to an altar, flayed their skins under the sun, and forced their descendants to watch every stroke. Each scream, to him, was a note in the nocturne he called "My Existence."
"I have cursed… newborns doomed to never grow, mothers driven to devour their own children out of hunger."
"I have tortured… not just the body, but the soul itself."
Some still weep in their delusions ten years after their flesh has rotted.
"I have betrayed, deceived, stolen… even from those who trusted me most."
He once saved a dying queen, only to violate her before she could utter thanks. Hours later, he hung her corpse before the city gates—for all to gawk in awe and horror. He called it "the art of despair."
"I have raped… noble daughters who believed themselves above the masses, just to tear away their arrogance and prove that even their gaze was nothing but a delusion of power."
"I have saved, played the hero, reached out my hand in the dark… only to clench it tight and crush the fragile hopes the weak clung to."
There was a time he helped a whole village survive the winter—rebuilt homes, brought clean water, taught the children to read. Then, on the spring festival day… he burned it all down, locked every door, and laughed as he listened to the screams from within.
"I have impaled the powerful on stakes—not for ideals, but for amusement."
Watching a broken prince sob in public, crying for his mother—brought him a pleasure greater than lust.
"I led a grand alliance, united them under one dream… only to drive them into a frenzy, killing each other like rabid dogs."
"All these pleasures… they came with a price: loss – gain. Blood – power. Despair – laughter. But..."
He raised his head, hollow eyes drilling into the void before him.
"...what if I wanted it all?"
That was the one question he never answered. He always wondered...
Is being good truly good?
When every kind act is weighed by benefit, every hug hides a blade. When what they call "trust" is merely a gold-plated shackle.
"Isn't it all… just mutual exploitation?"
"In the end… isn't it always about serving oneself?"
---
Ten days later.
A royal decree was issued, sealed in blood-red wax:
> "All citizens of the Kingdom are strictly forbidden from entering the Holy Land or any surrounding areas. Any violators—execution without trial."
In a bustling city in the south—
Inside the Arcane Library, Lioren sat silently in a corner, his calm gaze following the newcomers.
(The Arcane Library... Hunters are valued lately. I can take advantage of that.)
He walked over to a shelf and pulled out a book. But as he tried to open it, a magic seal lit up—blocking him.
A cold female voice rang out from behind:
"Guests are not allowed to open books at will. If you persist, we'll have to ask you to leave."
Lioren turned around. A young woman—hair tied neatly, eyes stern—the library's keeper.
"How much for this one?"
"Level 2 Fireball – 100 gold coins."
"100 for a level 2 spell?"
"You don't understand."
She pointed at a group of hunters gathered near the entrance.
> "I really want this spell..."
"Still not enough."
"We're only 10 coins short, just one more try!"
They left shortly after—eyes burning with desire.
"Their level 1 Healing Spell costs 300 gold. Why? Because between life and death, the power to mend wounds decides who survives. That's why magic is never cheap."
"So... do you wish to buy it?"
"No."
Lioren answered curtly, his eyes scanning the stream of people entering and leaving.
(These people—most of them are insignificant. No talent, no resolve. And those with talent are lazy, dreaming of power without effort. Easy to tempt, easy to control...)
(This is my chance.)
---
After leaving the library—
Lioren walked the streets deep in thought:
(I'll build my own arcane library—to attract and control them all. But first... I need a library. Where to find one?)
As he pondered, a strange noise echoed from a nearby alley. Instinctively, Lioren stepped closer.
In the shadowed corner, a vile scene unfolded.
A fat man was forcing himself on a little girl. She didn't resist, holding a stale loaf of bread, her eyes void—as if she had died long ago. When he was done, the man tossed a few loaves to the ground and walked away. The girl bent down, picked them up, dusted them off… and silently left.
(That look...)
(I've seen it many times before.)
For some reason, Lioren followed her—from the bustling city center to the filthy slums.
She entered a rundown shack. Inside, she lit a fire, boiled water, crushed the bread into crumbs and stirred them into the pot. When the water boiled, she poured the thin gruel into a cracked bowl, blew on it, and fed it spoon by spoon to her bedridden mother.
Not a word. Just quiet patience.
Lioren watched for a while, then turned and walked away.
"Boring."
"They'll die anyway."