The world celebrated the death of the most despised man in history.
They named him Veyron Blackvale—the Doom Sovereign, a being cursed by nations and condemned by history itself. To his enemies, he was a demon. To his allies, a necessary evil. To the world, a stain that had to be erased.
They said he murdered without mercy.
That he burned cities for defiance.
That he exterminated bloodlines to prevent revenge.
Yet no one questioned the so-called heroes who advanced on roads paved with corpses. Their slaughter was justice. His was evil.
Such was the hypocrisy of the world.
In the depths of a ruined forest, where the earth was cracked and blackened, Veyron lay impaled.
A radiant spear pierced his chest, nailing him to the shattered ground. Blood soaked the soil beneath him. His body was broken beyond salvation.
Death was inevitable.
And yet, his face was calm.
No fear.
No rage.
No despair.
Only regret lingered in his eyes—not for the lives he had taken, but for a vow he could not fulfill.
A short distance away stood Alric Dawnfall, silver-white hair untouched by blood, his expression righteous and cold. Beside him stood three women—wounded, exhausted, but victorious.
"Tell me," Alric said loudly, "does it hurt to die? Do you finally feel the suffering you inflicted upon others?"
"I regret ever sharing blood with you," spat Selene Dawnfall, her black hair clotted with blood. "If you had never been born, our family would never have fallen so low."
At her words—
Veyron's eyes opened.
A suffocating pressure descended upon the battlefield.
An ancient killing intent erupted—dense, absolute, terrifying.
Selene stumbled back, heart pounding in instinctive fear. Logic told her he was dying. Her body refused to believe it.
Because Veyron Blackvale was fear itself.
"…Hypocrites," Veyron rasped, blood spilling from his lips as he laughed softly. "You wear righteousness like armor… while your hands drip with the same blood as mine."
"That's enough," Alric said coldly, pulling Selene close. "Leave him. Let the monster die alone."
"Yes," said Lyra Valecrest, her blue hair fluttering in the ash-filled wind. "We still need to announce that Veyron Blackvale was slain by Alric Dawnfall. The world will praise you. The succession will be flawless."
They turned away.
That was their final mistake.
The spear embedded in Veyron's chest shattered into crimson fragments.
His broken body rose—held together by nothing but sheer will.
"What—?!" Alric spun around, eyes widening.
Veyron smiled.
A true smile.
"If this world insists I am evil," he whispered, "then I will die as one."
Darkness exploded outward like a collapsing star.
Alric never finished his incantation.
His head fell before his body understood it was dead.
Lyra tried to flee—her legs disintegrated into ash.
Selene screamed—
And was consumed by black flames.
The power did not spare Veyron.
His veins turned black. Bones cracked. Blood poured freely as his heart ruptured from the strain.
He fell to his knees among their corpses.
Breathing shallow.
Vision fading.
So this is how it ends.
"…At least," he murmured, "we die together."
His body collapsed.
Silence reclaimed the forest.
The villain was dead.
The heroes were dead.
The truth died with them.
Then—
Darkness did not take him.
A cold blue light pierced the void.
Ancient runes emerged, hovering before his fading consciousness.
⟡ 'Do you wish to devour fate and return, child of ruin?' ⟡
A broken laugh echoed in the abyss.
"…So even death isn't enough."
A translucent screen unfolded before him.
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