A seven-year-old boy, trembling with his body soaked in cold ice water, and the chilling snow outside the dirty window making the scene more chilly.

"It's already 5 AM, and you are sleeping like you own this place," a fat woman in a maid dress spat at him. "Don't you have any shame?"

The boy stood there with his eyes boring into the old wooden floor like he wanted to hide inside it.

"I... I am sorry, Nina."

Nina's face twisted. She raised her hand, and with a loud thud, the boy crashed on the floor.

A loud cracking sound echoed in the room, and blood started to slip out of his head.

Nina took a step back, holding her breath. She opened the small door and slowly looked out. Her eyes wandered around the empty corridor before a sigh of relief left her lips.

She walked towards the boy, who was still lying there. A small pool of blood had formed on the floor, as if his skinny body didn't have enough blood to spare.

Nina slowly turned his body with her foot, watching his chest rise and fall. Her face resorted to relief.

She spat on the floor near his face. Holding his bony arm, which slipped through her hands, she lifted him.

"You piece of shit! If you want to die so badly, why don't you just jump out of the window instead of coming to me?" Nina dragged his body to the small bed with one dirty blanket—probably a lot of pieces sewn together.

"Why hadn't you just died with your whore mother?" she said while throwing him on the bed.

Nina was particularly calm. The only thing that made a few lines of worry on her forehead was the blood coming from his head.

She gave him a few seconds of stare before she turned to leave.

As she turned, a wave of swirling air made her stop. Strong wind? In a locked room? Her eyes went to the window, which was surely locked.

Her face twisted in shock, terror filling her wide eyes.

"Wha—"

Her body twisted unnaturally. One side bent backward at an impossible angle—her mouth wrenched downward, her knee bent inward with a sickening crunch.

It happened so fast she couldn't even scream. Her twisted body hit the floor, lifeless.

Everything happened so fast that she didn't even have time to scream before her body collapsed on the floor.

That was the day Leonardo D'Salazar was gifted—or, more like, cursed—with the Demon's Eyes.

---

Twenty years later

A man in black clothes, his long fur overcoat hanging over his broad shoulders, stood with a bloody sword.

His hands clenched the handle tightly, and fresh blood dripped from the tip of the blade. He stood tall, his chiseled jaw taut, but what stood out most was the black strip of cloth tied over his eyes.

His expression was cold, his jaw clenched.

"I... I am sorry, but I don't want you anymore, Leonardo... I... I am afraid of you," a woman with beautiful blonde hair, shining over her small frame, said softly. She leaned into the chest of another man, who held her like something precious, fragile, and irreplaceable.

Her eyes flickered on Leonardo's face, searching for any emotion—pain, anger, regret—but he stood there still as stone. She hesitated but then wrapped her arm around the man next to her.

"I am sorry... but you are a monster."

"Monster..."

Leonardo mumbled, the word falling from his lips like an echo of a truth he had carried his whole life.

Twenty-seven years... How many times had he heard that word?

Yet, why did it still make his heart pause when he repeated it now?

Because this time...

It was coming from no other than Duchess Anastasia D'Salazar—his wife.

---

A Stadium Filled with People

A man, tall and mighty, as if he could move mountains if he wished, was being dragged into the middle of the arena.

His hands and feet were bound in thick iron chains, as if the world feared that even a sliver of freedom would unleash destruction. Yet, despite the chains, the man walked without resistance, his steps heavy—not from the iron, but from something far worse.

The chains rattled on the stone, each step echoing. Soldiers held them tightly from both sides, their eyes wary, their grips trembling.

At the center, a wooden platform awaited. A scaffold of death.

A soldier, hands shaking uncontrollably, removed the iron collar from around Leonardo's neck.

"On your knees," came the order.

The whole crowd fell into silence.

Leonardo slowly lifted his face, the black cloth over his eyes unmoving. Yet, his head tilted slightly upward, toward a high, distant balcony.

A sharp gasp broke the silence.

"Ah!" Anastasia's voice.

Her eyes, wide and startled, darted away from his face. She swiftly hid behind the man next to her, her hands clenching his arm tightly.

Her eyes—were they filled with fear? Or something else? She didn't know. But one thing was clear—

She did not have the courage to meet his gaze.

Leonardo lowered his head once more, his face turning to the ground as the soldiers behind him began to read aloud.

"Today, we have gathered here to bid farewell to our most honored Duke of the North, Leonardo D'Salazar. We, the people of Olanika, can never forget the contributions he made for us. Our great Duke fought countless battles and protected our people. The recent rebellion in the west was also wiped out by his hand. We shall never forget his loyalty and service."

The soldier's voice paused.

"But it's a shame that our great duke is cursed—"

"Shame? It's you who should be ashamed!"

A sudden roar.

A man with fiery red hair, clad in armor, burst from the crowd, his voice shaking with rage.

"Shame? After everything he has done for you rats, you dare speak of shame?" His voice thundered. "Have you sold your humanity to the devil? How can you be so—so shameless!"

The crowd, which had been silent, began to murmur, whispers rising and falling like a wave.

"You fools don't even know what my Master went through! While you ate and drank safely in your warm house screwing each other, he shed blood and sweat to protect you!" His voice cracked, his eyes burning.

"He starved for days to save supplies for his men. He... he did things.....that even if you worshiped him as a god, it would be less than he deserves!"

His feet stumbled, his voice growing hoarse as tears slid down his cheeks.

"But this—this is how you repay him?" Silent tears wet his eyes

A signal from the man standing beside Anastasia, and soldiers rushed forward to seize the red-haired knight.

"Traitor! Stand down!" they barked, but his towering frame barely moved.

He fought against their hold, his massive form resisting even as more soldiers joined in.

"MASTER" he roared "You are alone...did you see that you are alone" he body got swayed "you are all alone, everyone betrayed you! Did you heard me everyone"

The soldiers struggled, but his body, fueled by grief, would not yield.

"No one is coming with you!" His voice broke. "No one! You bastard, you are dying for nothing! For nothing"

"Even I am not coming with you---"

His voice stopped.

With a sickening thud.

The knight's head rolled on the wooden floor.

A gasp—collective and sharp—swept through the stadium.

His body, still upright for a moment, trembled—then collapsed, face-down, lifeless.

The soldiers stood frozen, blood splattered across their armor, their faces pale.

Leonardo's head turned slightly.

A flash of something—regret? Sorrow?

A sharp slash—and then his own head met the same fate.

The arena was engulfed in silence.

No cheers. No cries. Only the haunting creak of the wooden boards beneath their lifeless bodies.

---

And just like that—

Leonardo D'Salazar, the Villain—was dead.

The female lead and the male lead lived happily ever after, marrying each other.

With these final lines, the last page of My Lost Love closed.

A loud thwack!—the book hit the wall.

"I WILL KILL YOU, AUTHOR!"

A girl's angry voice echoed in the room.

Becky sat up on her bed, her face flushed with frustration.

"How... how can you kill him like that?" she fumed. "Is that all? Just because he had the label 'VILLAIN' slapped on him, was enough to kill him?!"

Her chest heaved from yelling as she collapsed back into her pillows, eyes burning.

"If you wanted to kill him, you shouldn't have made him so lovable," she mumbled, her voice softening.

Her eyes glinted as she whispered to herself—

"...If I had a chance to meet him... I'd make sure to give him all the happiness he deserves."

The sudden ring of her alarm clock—its hands perfectly aligned at six—cut through the silence.

Her eyes, still burning from emotion, fluttered closed.

And then—

"Name: Becky. Age: 22 years. College student. Identity confirmed."

"Enjoy your journey."