Damian had been born in a small village far from the royal capital, living a quiet life with his parents and his little brother and sister.

Even though the threat of the Demon King loomed over the world, he had been happy with that simple life—working in the fields, laughing with his siblings, eating his mother's cooking at night. Life was good. Peaceful.

Until the demons came.

One day, while Damian and his siblings were away visiting their aunt who lived some distance from the village, the demons attacked. They descended like a storm, massacring everyone they could find.

When Damian returned, all he saw was devastation.

Burned houses. Blood‑stained earth. Bodies strewn in the streets.

His parents lay among them, cold and lifeless.

From that moment, Damian made a promise—to himself, and to his younger brother and sister.

He would vanquish every demon on this earth.

He left his siblings in his aunt's care. She had no children of her own and welcomed them with open arms, trying to fill the hole left by their parents.

Damian joined the military.

He trained harder than anyone else, pushing his body to its limits day after day.

Then, one day, news spread across the kingdom: the king would hold a ceremony to find a Hero who could wield a sacred sword blessed by the gods themselves.

Damian chose to participate.

He needed power—any power he could get—to fulfill his vow and kill the Demon King.

As fate would have it, the sword chose him.

He became the Hero.

The king assigned him companions for the journey: nobles' children, mages, knights—people who, in Damian's eyes, were more trouble than help. They created problems more often than they solved them.

Except for one woman.

Amara.

A beast tamer who scouted ahead, sensed danger, and warned them before it struck. She patched up their wounds, calmed their quarrels, and, little by little, found her way into Damian's heart.

Through Amara's encouragement, Damian's relentless effort, and a little luck, he finally defeated the Demon King—the lord of all demons.

He had planned to marry Amara once the war was over.

Instead, his dreams were shattered.

What he received in return for saving the world was not praise, fame, or reward, but betrayal.

The same companions who had journeyed with him framed him, claiming that now Damian had become the new vessel of the Demon King—that the Demon King's soul would return through him. They said he had delved into dark arts, using forbidden books and artifacts taken from the Demon King's castle to increase his power.

They killed Amara in front of him.

Then blamed him for her death, saying he had sacrificed her with dark magic to become stronger.

Damian was not an idiot.

He immediately knew who was pulling the strings.

The king.

A man who did not tolerate any threat to his authority. Damian had become the kind of threat who, if he wished, might one day overthrow him.

Even after Damian swore he had no intention of ever touching the throne, the king remained afraid.

So he acted.

He captured the last of Damian's family—his siblings, and even the aunt who had taken them in.

Damian was given a choice.

Submit… or watch them die.

He accepted his fate.

The same people who had chanted his name as a hero only days ago now cursed him endlessly, screaming for his death. They packed the square, eager to see him hanged as if it were a festival.

Rocks flew from the crowd, striking his bound body.

The dam of hatred inside Damian began to swell, slowly but surely.

He wanted to tear them apart—every ungrateful bastard who had spat on his sacrifice.

But he couldn't.

His mana was sealed. His family was hostage.

'Just one chance,' he thought. 'Just one more chance to destroy these people… and I'll let them do whatever they want to me afterward.'

But the chance never came.

Because who would go against the whole world to save him?

Then a voice slid into his mind.

'I'll give you what you desire.'

'Destruction itself.'

Before Damian could fully grasp the words—

CLINK.

The cuffs sealing his mana fell to the ground.

He blinked, stunned, as strength rushed back into his body.

A hand tugged away his blindfold.

Light flooded his eyes.

Standing right beside him on the execution platform was a silver‑haired boy with mesmerizing blue eyes.

"Who are you?" Damian asked hoarsely.

"Does it matter?" Alex replied.

His figure began to glow.

"Astral domain."

Lightning crackled across the sky.

The clouds darkened in an instant, swirling above the square like a brewing storm.

Then, without warning, massive bolts of lightning crashed down into the crowd.

Half the people in the square were obliterated in a heartbeat. Screams rang out as those who survived the first strike tried to run, panic exploding through the masses.

A voice boomed over them all.

"Stop, mortals."

Everyone froze.

Their bodies locked in place as an invisible force seized them.

Behind Alex, vast, luminous wings of light unfurled—majestic, feathered, and radiating holy brilliance. The sight stole the breath from the onlookers.

"It's an angel…" someone whispered. "An angel from the heavens!"

One after another, people began to fall to their knees, trembling, hands pressed together in frantic prayer.

Elaria and Jacob, watching from the edge of the square, stood with their mouths open.

They could barely process what they were seeing.

Then Alex's voice echoed inside Elaria's mind.

'Go to the palace and rescue the hero's family. I'll handle everything here.'

Elaria sighed inwardly. 'I should really get used to this…'

She turned to Jacob. "Let's go," she said. "We have our own task."

They slipped away, heading toward the palace.

Back on the platform, Alex's voice rang out, amplified by his domain.

"I am the messenger of the goddess herself," he declared, "who has witnessed the injustice done to the hero before you."

He gestured toward Damian.

"On her command, she cannot bear to see the one who saved you all be framed and killed by the very people he sacrificed everything for."

Murmurs rippled through the frozen crowd.

"She has decided," Alex continued, "that you no longer deserve her grace—and has ordered the destruction of this place."

Gasps.

"I," Alex said, wings spreading wider, "the most powerful and handsome angel under her command, have been chosen to deliver judgment upon all of you."

The crowd went crazy.

Terror shattered whatever dignity they had left.

People collapsed to their knees, pressing their foreheads to the ground. Some crawled forward, clinging to Damian's legs, begging for forgiveness.

"Please, Hero, forgive us!"

"We were deceived!"

"We didn't know!"

Damian's cold eyes swept over them, expression unreadable.

Then another voice cut through the chaos.

"Oh, one who bears the goddess's will," it called, mock‑pious. "The one you are trying to save has been corrupted."

Alex turned toward the source of the voice.

A man in his forties walked forward, dressed in ornate robes, flanked by armored guards and robed mages. Behind him stood several familiar faces—the former companions who had betrayed Damian.

They stared up at Alex with a practiced mix of fear and righteous indignation.

Marco de Rihanis, king of that country, stood tall in his ornate robes, attempting to project righteous authority.

"My name is Marco de Rihanis," he announced, "king of this nation, oh divine one. And the one you are calling a hero has used dark rituals to gain power. He even killed one of his former companions, a woman named Amara."

Alex appeared beside Damian in an instant.

He placed a hand on Damian's head. "This will hurt a little," he said.

Damian flinched, a spike of pain lancing through his mind. "What are you doing…? Don't believe them," he gritted out.

The system's voice echoed in Alex's head.

[ Memory extraction is complete. ]

Alex withdrew his hand.

Above the square, a gigantic translucent screen formed—shimmering into existence like a mirror to the past.

Images began to play.

Damian watched, eyes widening, as scenes from his own memories unfolded for everyone to see.

His former comrades lured Amara away, smiling and speaking gently.

Then, without warning, they attacked her.

Steel flashed.

Blood spilled.

Amara collapsed, eyes full of betrayal and pain.

Meanwhile, Damian—bound in mana‑sealing cuffs—was slammed to the ground, beaten mercilessly. The one pummeling him was not a demon.

It was Marco.

The king himself.

The screen showed Marco's face twisted with fear and hatred as he struck Damian again and again. It showed him speaking to the trembling nobles and soldiers, describing Damian as a monster, a threat, claiming that soon—through dark arts—Damian would gain enough power to crush anyone who stood against him.

Every word of the king's lies now stood exposed, framed by the truth of Damian's memories.

The crowd went dead silent.

Then the murmur started.

Shock.

Disbelief.

Horror.

---

A/N:

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