After enduring the ingratitude of those whose lives he had saved from the clutches of demons, a dark shadow began to take root in the hero's heart. "I wish I could end this once and for all," he muttered under his breath, the weight of his words sinking into the silence.
"You can—if you're willing to make a deal," a voice whispered from behind, smooth and unnervingly calm.
The hero spun around, his sword drawn in an instant, ready to strike. But just as the blade hovered at the stranger's neck, he froze. The figure before him wasn't the monstrous demon he expected but a man, ordinary in appearance, yet unsettlingly composed. The man's smile was unsettling—a smirk the hero recognized from the many demons he had slain, a grin that always came just before he severed their heads. Cloaked in a black robe that enveloped him completely, the man's hands remained hidden behind his back, his eyes locked on the hero's. Not a flicker of fear crossed his face as the hero's blade hovered inches from his throat.
"My apologies," the man said, his voice dripping with mockery. "I didn't mean to startle the great hero. Your instincts are sharp—you aimed to kill without hesitation, not giving your opponent a chance to react. You should be grateful for the years of battle that have honed your skills to such a lethal edge."
The hero narrowed his eyes, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword. "Who is this man?" he thought. "He speaks as if he's powerful, but there's nothing about him that seems threatening. Maybe I should just walk away."
"Listen," the hero said, his tone edged with impatience, "I have more important matters to attend to, so I'll be on my way."
"But the darkness in your heart—it's growing, isn't it?" the man said, his voice soft yet penetrating. "I can help you end this, once and for all."
The hero felt a chill run down his spine. How did this stranger know what was happening inside him? He didn't even notice when the man began to float, his body drifting lazily in the air as if he were a cloud, swaying gently with the breeze. There was a lightness to his movement, an effortless grace that contrasted sharply with the heavy burden the hero carried. A pang of envy stabbed at him.
"You're right," the man continued, his voice seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere. "What you're doing is futile. No matter how many demons you slay, they will never truly be gone." The hero's breath caught in his throat. "That's impossible. It can't be true," he stammered, his voice faltering.
"First of all, 'demon' isn't the right word for them. True demons are far more ferocious and malevolent than the creatures you've been fighting. What you've been battling are mere low-level monsters, insignificant in the grand scheme of things." The hero's heart sank. Five years of bloodshed, of endless battles—had it all been for nothing? Were his victories nothing more than illusions?
"No, this can't be true," the hero said, his voice a mere whisper. "What about the lives I've saved?"
The man's smile widened, a cruel edge creeping into his expression. "The very same lives that didn't appreciate what you did for them? They ended their own lives after you left."
The hero's vision blurred as the weight of the man's words settled over him. He blinked, and suddenly, he was surrounded by images—faces of the people he had saved, twisted in anguish. The mother cradling the body of her child, the father staring blankly at the ruins of his home, the children's hollow eyes staring at nothing.
"Many of them lost the will to live after their loved ones perished," the man continued his voice now a haunting echo in the hero's mind. "Overwhelmed by grief, they chose to end their suffering—even the young children. Some parents, driven mad by sorrow, turned on their offspring, unable to bear the sight of them. The others—those who were freed—had only ever known life as slaves. Without guidance, they wandered, until they, too, found their end."
The hero staggered, his legs suddenly unable to support his weight. The sword slipped from his grasp, clattering to the ground. His vision swam as he struggled to comprehend the horror before him. All the people he had fought to save—they were gone. What had he been fighting for? What was the point of it all?
"The final reason your efforts are in vain," the man said, his voice low and almost tender, "is because of the ancient gods. This world is meant to remain in balance. Where there is light, there must also be darkness. Where there is good, there is also evil. One cannot exist without the other. Every person who dies is reborn, which is why the population remains unchanged. The same goes for monsters. For every one you kill, another is born. You are trapped in an endless cycle of violence. This is your fate, forever."
Desperation clawed at the hero's throat as he croaked, "Then why was I given this sword? What's the point of all this?"
The mysterious man's smile softened, almost pitying. "A minor god pitied you and wanted to give you hope. They don't understand the true nature of the world. Don't blame them; their intentions were sincere."
The hero collapsed to his knees, his mind spinning in a maelstrom of despair and confusion. His vision darkened as the weight of his existence bore down on him. "Who are you?" he whispered, his voice barely audible.
The man floated closer, his eyes gleaming with a strange, dark light. "I am Laftiel, the god of deals," he said, his voice wrapping around the hero like a vice. "And I have an offer that might just give your life the meaning you've been searching for."
With those words, the world seemed to tilt, the shadows around them deepening as Laftiel extended a hand, his smile promising both salvation and damnation.
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