The rope still swung when the cheering began.
It rolled over the square like thunder, a storm of triumph and relief. Men shouted, women wept with joy, and some fell to their knees in prayer. The villain's body hung limp, face frozen in that final mocking grin that even death could not erase.
The hero stood apart from it all. His knuckles were still raw, his ribs aching from the battle that had brought the monster down, yet none of the pain matched the weight pressing in his chest. The crowd roared as though the world had been saved, but all he could hear were the villain's last words, whispered like poison in his memory:
'Without me… you're already doomed.'
The hero did not celebrate. He only watched.
The crowd treated the moment as if it were a festival. Men lifted their mugs in toasts, women clapped their hands and cheered, children laughed and pointed at the dangling corpse as if it were some carnival puppet. The merchants who had wheeled carts into the square were already selling food and drink. Smoke from their fires curled upward, mingling with the stench of sweat and old blood.
The hero's stomach turned. Victory was supposed to feel cleaner than this.
He remembered the fight: the villain's fists hammering his ribs, the taste of iron flooding his mouth, the ground shattering beneath their clash. He remembered how the villain laughed even as he bled, how his teeth flashed scarlet, how he whispered, "You think killing me saves them?" And now here the body swung, lifeless, but still smiling, as if mocking him from beyond the grave.
The people did not see it. They did not hear it. They only saw a corpse and thought it proof of salvation.
The hero's hands trembled. Was he shaking from pain, from exhaustion, or from something else—fear, perhaps? He could not tell.
A drunk staggered near the front, waving a flask above his head.
"Justice!" he slurred. "That's justice right there!"
The crowd roared in answer.
The hero's jaw clenched. Justice? The word sounded empty. This wasn't justice. It was hunger. The crowd wasn't cheering because evil had been ended; they were cheering because they had been entertained.
They don't understand, he thought. They don't see the world the way he did. The way I had to.
He wanted to leave, to step down from the platform and vanish from their sight. But his feet remained rooted. His eyes stayed fixed on the villain's body, swaying gently in the morning light.
And the villain's last grin stared back.
---
The square boiled with noise.
A woman clutched her child to her side and pointed at the body, her lips tight with bitterness.
"Remember his face, daughter. Remember what monsters look like."
Two old men argued about whether the hero should be crowned king for his victory. One hawker shouted over them, holding skewers of roasted meat high above his head.
"Celebrate the death of the beast! Eat, drink! Tonight, the city is free!"
But not all voices joined the revelry. Some stood silent, arms folded, eyes lingering on the corpse with unease. A few murmured to one another in hushed tones, their faces pale.
The hero caught fragments of their whispers.
"Why is he smiling like that?"
"He looks as if he knows something we don't."
"Perhaps death was his plan all along."
The hero turned away from the voices. The more he listened, the more his skin crawled.
---
Near the gallows, a boy tugged at his mother's sleeve. His voice was small, fragile, nearly drowned by the mob.
"Mother… what if he was right?"
The mother stiffened, her face whitening as though she had been struck. She glanced quickly at the strangers around her, worried someone had overheard. Her hand clamped down on the boy's shoulder.
"Don't say that," she hissed. "Don't speak such things."
"But—" the boy's eyes stayed fixed on the dangling corpse. His voice shook. "What if the Demon King really does come back? He sounded so sure."
The mother forced a smile, though her lips trembled. "The hero killed him. That's the end of it. The danger is gone. Don't give his lies life by repeating them."
But her words rang hollow.
The boy's question lingered, hanging in the air heavier than the corpse above them. A few who stood nearby shifted uncomfortably. One man spat to the ground, muttering a curse under his breath, but he would not meet the boy's eyes.
The hero had heard the words too. They struck harder than any blade.
He looked once more at the villain's body. The grin hadn't faded. If anything, in the dimming light, it seemed sharper.
A sudden wind cut through the square, cold enough to make the crowd shiver. Torches guttered, their flames bending low. The cheering faltered for a breath, just long enough for the silence to feel unnatural.
The rope creaked as the corpse swayed. The grin, caught in the last light of the dying sun, seemed to stretch wider still.
The mother pulled her child close, whispering a prayer. The boy did not take his eyes off the body.
And for the first time, the hero wondered if the villain had truly lost at all.