rebirth of the hero in the feminist world.
I was betrayed by the person I loved the most. Her cold gaze remains etched into my chest, a stinging memory that haunts me. Everything we once shared seems to have meant nothing to her.
I often wonder: did it really have to come to this? The answer lies in the sword pierced through my chest, a cruel reminder as I face the empty gaze of the one who is supposed to be the love of my life.
With every step I take towards her, kneeling and struggling to get up, pain courses through my body like poison. Every movement feels like endless agony; my senses fade and darkness begins to cloud my vision. I take what remains of my sword, a useless piece of metal, and get close enough to stab her chest.
With my last strength, I whisper, “I hope that if there is an afterlife, I never fall in love again…”
Two bodies lie slumped, a man and a woman, trapped in a tragic fate. In my previous life, I was labeled a savior, the hope of a world in ruins – a hero. A title that caused me nothing but suffering and ultimately led to my death at the hands of my wife.
In this new life, I will not make the same mistake. If I have to be a villain, then I will be the worst of them all.