The sky was too quiet.

  Even the wind seemed reluctant to cross the plain, as if afraid to disturb the final moments of a war that had lasted longer than the kingdom’s own memories.

  The Demon King was on his knees.

  His colossal body, split by blades and torn apart by spells, remained standing only through sheer pride.

  Around him, the earth was black, vitrified by the impact of mana. Cracks spread across the ground like incandescent veins, as if the world itself had bled.

  I struggled to breathe.

  Each breath burned my chest. I felt no physical pain. Not yet. It was as if my very soul had been drained.

  The Tenth Circle.

  I had never liked that number. It sounded like a title. A crown. A promise of invincibility.

  Reality, however, was nothing like a myth.

  The Tenth Circle was a noose around the neck. Yes, you could move mountains—but only if you accepted that a single mistake would be enough to break your body.

  I raised my hand.

  The circle appeared.

  Ten rings.

  Perfect.

  Aligned.

  Stable.

  Mana gathered around me in silence. There was nothing spectacular about it. It obeyed because it had no other choice.

  The Demon King lifted his eyes.

  He did not roar.

  He understood.

  He saw the end before it arrived.

  I spoke the incantation.

  A single sentence.

  And the world collapsed around him.

  Light devoured his body.

  For a moment, the plain turned white.

  Then silence returned.

  The Demon King… no longer existed.

  Behind me, my companions stopped breathing. I could hear them, like a choir suspended between relief and fear. Because defeating a monster does not erase the most important question:

  What remains after?

  I slowly lowered my hand.

  My fingers trembled.

  The Tenth Circle dissipated.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The air began to move again.

  The war was over.

  I turned toward them.

  Eryndor Halevar, the Empire’s hero, stood at the front. His white armor was cracked and stained with blood. His sacred sword had lost part of its radiance, as if its light had been erased.

  To his right, Seraphina Lysendrel, the Saint, clutched her cross tightly. Her fingers were red from praying too long. Her face was pale, but her golden and silver eyes remained clear.

  Behind her, Lythera Caelwyn wiped sweat from her brow without taking her eyes off the shadows. Vaelis Dren said nothing, as always. Garrick Thorne breathed heavily, leaning on his shield.

  They were alive.

  That was all that mattered.

  I exhaled.

  “It’s over.”

  No one answered.

  The silence that followed was not exhaustion.

  It was something else.

  Something wrong.

  Like a false note in a perfect melody.

  I saw Eryndor’s gaze.

  His face was frozen.

  His jaw clenched too tightly.

  His hand trembled slightly around the hilt of his sword—just enough for me to notice.

  I knew that kind of tremor.

  It was not fear.

  It was the tremor of someone about to make a decision they hated.

  I asked no questions.

  I did not need to.

  Seraphina looked away.

  That simple gesture told me everything.

  An order.

  Not personal betrayal.

  Political betrayal.

  I smiled faintly.

  “I see.”

  Eryndor did not move.

  His lips parted.

  “Eun-Ho…”

  My name.

  Spoken like a farewell.

  I stepped forward.

  Not to attack.

  Not to flee.

  But because he was my companion.

  Because he had fought beside me.

  Because I wanted him to hear my voice one last time, without lies.

  “It wasn’t your decision, was it?”

  His gaze wavered.

  For a moment.

  Then he nodded.

  “It’s an Imperial order.”

  Of course.

  Aethernitas IV.

  I had never wanted to be close to the palace. Political intrigue disgusted me. I preferred the battlefield—the brutal honesty of war.

  I had believed that was enough.

  I was wrong.

  The real war did not end on the battlefield.

  It ended in the throne room.

  I lowered my head slightly.

  Not in submission.

  But in understanding.

  “You will do it.”

  It was not a question.

  Eryndor clenched his teeth.

  His hand rose.

  The sacred sword trembled.

  Seraphina gripped her cross so tightly it seemed it might break.

  Lythera looked away.

  Vaelis remained still.

  Garrick inhaled, ready to intervene—

  Then stopped.

  An Imperial order outweighed even righteousness.

  I felt the blade approaching.

  I did not move.

  I could accept betrayal.

  What I refused—

  Was to disappear without correcting the equation.

  The blade pierced my heart.

  Clean.

  Precise.

  Merciless.

  Eryndor did not want me to suffer.

  How ironic.

  Pain came later.

  A dull shock.

  Then heat spreading through my veins.

  I fell to my knees.

  Blood spilled onto the blackened earth.

  I looked up at Eryndor.

  He was crying.

  A single tear ran down his cheek.

  As if it could absolve everything.

  I had no strength to laugh.

  I whispered:

  “So this is how the Archmage ends.”

  The world blurred.

  My consciousness faded.

  But I did not let go.

  I gathered what remained.

  A fragment of mana.

  A spark.

  Enough.

  I spoke the forbidden incantation.

  The last one.

  The one that should never have existed.

  Absolute Regression.

  Mana shattered.

  Reality cracked.

  Time did not reverse.

  It rewrote itself.

  Darkness consumed me.

  —

  When I opened my eyes, I was sitting on a throne.

  Horns.

  Abyssal mana.

  And I understood.

  I was no longer the Archmage.

  I was the Demon King.