The Demon King's words hung like smoke in a corpse-filled room.
Elder Margarita.
Not just a diplomat. Not just a dark elf. She was the one who pulled him back from death's door. The only woman he ever let close enough to matter.
She went to them with open hands. Peace talks. A future without war.
They gutted her for it.
And that was when he stopped believing in coexistence.
"..."
Silence thickened between the two sides. The knight's jaw clenched so hard her teeth threatened to crack. Around her, the party shifted uneasily.
They'd heard stories. Rumors. Whispers of a demon envoy executed by their own people. But they were just ghosts in the wind, until now.
Then someone coughed.
A dry, awkward sound.
All eyes turned to the man in the center. Hero. That smug bastard scratching his chin like this was just another tavern tale.
"Right," he muttered. "Margarita. Dark skin. nice curves. Shame what happened."
"...What?"
His grin widened. Smug. Nervous. Then,
"Tsk. I asked her once, y'know? Just wanted a taste. She said no. So I took it. And then she bit her tongue and died. Real shame."
The silence that followed could've choked a god.
Someone exhaled. Someone else stepped back. The girl mage looked like she might vomit.
"...Wait," the knight whispered. "You're saying..."
Hero shrugged. "Didn't mean for her to die. Just got carried away. You know how it is."
No. None of them did.
Or maybe they did.
Maybe they all knew, deep down. Maybe they just didn't want to say it out loud.
The knight's sword trembled in her grip.
This man. This smug, lecherous bastard. He was supposed to be the hero. The one who would save the world. The one who stood against the darkness.
She had followed him across mountains, through fire and blood. She had endured his hands on her body. His jokes. His cruelty. All because he was the hero.
But if everything he represented was built on a lie, if the foundation of this war was nothing more than royal scandal dressed up as salvation, then what the hell had she been fighting for?
"...No," she whispered. "No. It can't be true."
Hero glanced at her. Shrugged again.
"Don't worry about it. Past's past, right? Besides, " he smirked, voice dropping low, ", you don't need to get jealous over some dead demon slut. Tonight's all yours. Maybe even tomorrow morning too. Heh."
Her stomach turned.
The Demon King made a sound. Low. Animalistic.
"...Was it you?"
Everyone flinched.
He stared at Hero now, eyes burning red. His body tensed like a predator ready to strike.
"Uooooooh!"
The roar came before the movement. Before anyone could react, the Demon King lunged.
Blood sprayed. Limbs snapped. Screams tore through the chamber like shrapnel.
"Hero!" the knight shouted. "Where the hell are you?!"
Too late.
Magic flickered. A shimmer in the air.
", Hah!"
Hero burst from concealment, blade raised high.
The Demon King barely turned in time.
Steel sank into flesh.
"Keuh!"
The anti-magic weapon pulsed. The spell holding the Demon King's monstrous form unraveled. Muscles shrank. Horns crumbled. Fangs retracted.
He staggered.
Hero grinned.
"Phew. Scared me there for a second."
"...Krugh... you bastard..."
"Still twitching, huh?" Hero sneered. "Just die already. You're annoying."
He yanked the blade free.
Blood spilled.
The Demon King stumbled back.
And laughed.
"Haha... ha ha ha! Ahahaha!!"
Hero froze. "...Is this fucker insane?"
The girl shouted first. "Everyone, get out!"
They moved.
The knight ran. Survivors scattered. Hero cursed and bolted after them.
Behind them, the Demon King bellowed.
"You humans call this victory?"
He spread his arms wide.
"I am Alaric! Demon King! I will return, no matter what it takes!"
Hero spat blood. "Shut up and die already!"
Then light.
Then noise.
Then nothing but ruin.
*
Five hundred years passed.
History was rewritten by the winners. Or maybe just the ones who survived long enough to tell the story.
The official records say the Demon King Lagnarite, bloodthirsty tyrant, scourge of the surface world, was slain by a shining hero wielding a blade blessed by the gods. His death marked the end of an era, the final nail in the coffin of demonic rule.
They called it salvation.
They carved statues. Wrote songs. Painted murals of the golden-haired knight driving her sword through the Demon King's blackened heart. The truth? It rotted beneath all that polish like a corpse under a fresh coat of paint.
No one spoke of Margarita.
No one remembered the peace envoy torn apart for daring to ask for coexistence.
No one acknowledged the war that wasn't a war, or the invasion that never came.
Just another demon trying to claw his way into paradise, they said.
Just another monster put down by a hero.
But those who were there?
They knew better.
And they kept their mouths shut.