The scaffold rose against the pale morning sky, rough wood standing like a scar over the city. Beneath it, the crowd gathered in a restless tide, pressing shoulder to shoulder, their voices clashing in anger and excitement. They weren't silent mourners—they were eager spectators, waiting for the moment a hated man would finally fall.
He stood at the center of it all—the villain, the monster, the tyrant. Chains clinked against his wrists, his bruises purpled beneath the daylight, and the dried blood at his lips cracked as he smiled. Not a proud smile. Not even a defiant one. Just a weary grin, the kind worn by someone who had grown tired of the game but couldn't help laughing at the players.
All this noise, he thought. All this anger, all this joy. For me. They pretend it's justice, but what they really want is the show.
A stone flew from the mob and struck his chest. He didn't flinch. Instead, he let out a dry chuckle.
"Careful," he rasped loud enough for the front rows to hear, "you'll break me before the rope gets the chance. Poor rope deserves its moment too."
The crowd roared back, half in laughter, half in fury. He tilted his head, taking it all in like an old man sipping the last bitter taste of wine.
They think it ends here. Fools. They'll burn their throats screaming my name, and tomorrow they'll wake to a world they cannot save.
His gaze drifted across the platform, and there—at the edge—stood the hero. The so-called savior. The one who had beaten him bloody, dragged him to this stage. Silent now, eyes hard but unreadable. The crowd screamed for justice, but the hero's lips stayed pressed shut, as though he too was waiting for something more.
The villain almost laughed again.
You don't even realize it, do you, boy? You think killing me saves them. But without me… without my hands dragging the monsters down into the mud, who will keep them at bay? Who will strike them do you the "hero" dares?
The hangman approached, rope in hand, face pale with nerves. The villain smirked as the rope was slipped over his head.
"Steady hands, friend," he muttered. "I'd hate to die because you tripped."
A few in the crowd laughed—uneasy, guilty laughter. Most only shouted louder. He could feel their hatred buzzing against his skin, their joy at watching him fall.
They hate me for being a monster. Fine. But without this monster, who fights the real one?
The rope tightened. The wood creaked beneath his boots. The crowd fell into an expectant hush, like an audience before the curtain rises. He looked at them all—thousands of faces, eyes burning with a fire they mistook for righteousness.
Then he smiled wider, almost sincerely.
"You cheer now," he said softly, "but remember this—when the Demon King rises again, when his armies burn your fields and eat your children, you'll wish I was still here. And I will laugh, wherever I am."
The hangman pulled the lever. The trapdoor fell.
The rope snapped taut, and his body jerked violently. But his face—frozen in death—still carried that same amused grin, as if mocking the crowd, the hero, the whole wretched world that believed it had won.
And somewhere in the silence after the cheers, the words lingered.
Without me… you're already doomed.