The wind whispered through the forest, rustling leaves like a lullaby. Peaceful. Gentle. Almost serene.
Until blood stained the grass.
A poisoned blade pierced Zen's chest—right where his heart should've been. The Hero staggered slightly, breath catching.
And then, he sighed.
"I'm so tired of this bullshit."
Fifteen assassins surrounded him—frozen mid-step, watching in disbelief as Zen calmly gripped the blade and yanked it free. Blood splattered the dirt. He placed a glowing hand on the wound. Green light flared. The bleeding stopped.
"You drag me out of my world," he said coldly, eyes burning with quiet fury. "You force this 'Chosen Hero' crap on me. No army, no allies—just a sword and a prayer."
He took a step forward. None of the assassins moved.
"And even then—I still fought. I told myself, 'At least I'm doing some good. At least I'm helping humanity…'"
Zen's voice sharpened, bitter with truth.
"Humanity, being punished by a so-called 'mad Demon King.'"
He stopped. A breath. Then:
"But instead of praise, what do I get? Assassins. Every damn day. I can't even sleep without someone trying to shove a dagger in my ribs. That's your thank-you?"
His eyes scanned them. No one dared speak.
"I left your kingdom. I went to the woods. I just wanted to disappear. That wasn't enough either, was it?"
Zen's gaze swept the group. The one who stabbed him stood closest—frozen, trembling.
"You saw what I did to the Demon Lord. What makes you think you stand a chance?"
A wave of pressure erupted from him like a storm unleashed. The assassins flinched.
Zen moved.
One blink—and he was in front of the attacker. His hand touched the man's face.
"Drain."
In an instant, the body shriveled, skin cracking like dry leaves. It hit the ground with a hollow thud—lifeless and gray.
Another assassin lunged. Zen's foot met his head with brutal, bone-crushing force. The man collapsed—skull shattered.
The others hesitated.
"Stop."
They froze—mid-motion, mid-breath. Locked in place by an invisible grip. Fear etched into their faces.
Zen exhaled slowly.
"Go back to the kingdom," he said, voice low, dark, and commanding. "Tell them congratulations."
A black throne materialized behind him, forged from smoke and shadow. A crown floated above it—ornate, demonic, regal.
Zen sat down.
"Tell them," he said, placing the crown upon his head, "they've created a new Demon King."
Silence.
Then—
"Go."
The frozen assassins were released—and they ran. Fast. Desperate. Terrified. One tripped and kept crawling until his legs remembered how to move. Another sobbed as he vanished into the trees.
Alone now, Zen stared at the sky.
"What now?" he muttered.
"Be a king? Be a monster?"
He closed his eyes, a bitter smile forming.
"Maybe I'll just wait… or try playing this Demon King thing."
The crown pulsed gently on his brow, as if acknowledging him. But the weight of it pressed heavier than any sword he'd ever lifted.
He looked at his bloodstained hand—the same one that once pulled a young girl from a burning village… that held back a collapsing bridge while townspeople fled… that healed the sick without asking for thanks.
He remembered the child in the village who gave him a flower and called him her hero.
Was she one of the first to throw a stone when they branded him a traitor?
A bitter laugh escaped him.
"All for nothing."
The wind rustled again, softer now—like it mourned him.
And in that silence, a memory stirred.
A throne room of marble and gold, once majestic. He had returned, weary but victorious—Demon Lord's head in one hand, his sword bloodied in the other.
They did not cheer. They did not kneel.
They drew their blades.
"Too strong," the king had whispered. "Too dangerous. He could become the next Demon King."
And the nobles nodded. The priests blessed his execution. The very people he saved turned their faces away.
No trial. No farewell. No honor.
Only steel and betrayal.
Then to a summoning circle. A blinding light. A voice trembling with hope.
"Please... save our world."
His eyes closed.
"Yeah. I remember now."