The sun sagged toward the horizon. Fire-red bled through leaf-lattice and painted our faces a warm blush.

Relief came first, because the light blurred edges. In this haze, it felt easy to hide a face and a heart. I told myself that.

Then doubt pricked. They’re Hero-tier fighters; dim like this doesn’t dull their eyes.

Still, dusk softens blades. In a sunset this tender, people forgive what can’t be said aloud.

Everyone but Princess Golia pretended nothing had happened. When Nivifar stepped out of the trees, I pretended too, threw warm chatter, and we set off.

Of course Stini’s the blunt sort. Not “mature” like me and Nivifar. She trailed behind us, sulking.

Meet her eyes and she’d huff and whip her head aside, cheeks puffed like a little cat.

“…So cute.”

“Ah—no, I, um—if you say it like that…”

Nivifar, walking beside me, also turned away for no reason, a faint flush rising.

Did she hear my mutter?

Great. I meant Stini. I don’t want strings tangled around someone as troublesome as Nivifar. Panic tapped my ribs.

No, think. I haven’t set any death flags. Right?

“I—I didn’t mean that.”

I could explain. But popping a girl’s balloon to her face? That tanks a man’s score.

Forget it. Let it pass like rain off stone.

“So, Miss Nivifar, are you local?”

“Mm. Sort of. It’s a ways from home, but close enough.”

“I heard you’re a mercenary captain. Impressive. At your age—twen—”

“Twenty-one. Shocked?”

She smiled kindly. The iron-blooded tint on her face washed a shade lighter.

“Baby face,” she said, touching her cheek to pin down the topic. “People in the trade look down on me. I’m used to it.”

Liar.

Nivifar is Stini’s younger sister. She shouldn’t even be of age.

It’s her killing aura that ages her. Unlike big-loli Stini, Nivifar’s tall, a long silhouette that makes you think she’s grown.

“And you lot? Students?”

“We look like plain adventurers. You can tell?”

“Only rookies get lost on a map. And I figure only the Hero Academy would dare send students on commissions.”

Can’t argue. I’ll go learn map-reading from my all-purpose maid, Vega.

“By the way. The Guild ran the numbers. After field tests, nine of ten prodigies come back alive. Know what that means?”

As she spoke, her face slid back to the one from earlier—a villain’s mask.

“Uh, that means…”

“Each year, one in ten never leaves these hills. I know you trust your blades and spells. A monster tide doesn’t care how ‘strong’ you are… That’s why kids like you die—proud and alone.”

She ground her teeth and shot me a glare.

Why glare at me? I’m alive, standing right here.

“Be careful. Eastern forests aren’t your peaceful western plains.”

“Heh, we’ll be fine. We’re strong. Worst case, there’s a Hero with us. She just looks kinda useless…”

I stepped on a mine. Am I brain-dead?

The moment I said Hero, Nivifar’s face went storm-dark.

If she usually looks like a thug, now she looked like a killer.

She spoke like she wanted to crack a bone between her teeth. “Don’t put your faith in that so-called ‘Hero’…”

“Sorry. I lost it.” Her face smoothed over at once, and she turned away into silence.

Everything I know about Nivifar came from Daviya, over idle talk. Like the gods’ Genesis, it’s useful, but you don’t swallow it whole.

The story starts before Stini was born. Augustus used to spread love like seeds in spring. After a monster hunt in the eastern mountains, he drank at a victory feast and bedded a local woman—strictly speaking, a hostess.

Hard to judge that. The Silver Era’s winds were open. Compared to later ages, I don’t know if that was better or worse.

If later marriage is a harness for possessiveness, a tool to manage jealousy and disgust, then in the Silver Era, you married by will. One spouse or many, it was choice.

In the end, everything rested on consent.

Law in the Silver Era wasn’t harsh. It warned more than it punished. People kept to their own morals. The rule was simple, and the leash was strong. That’s how the holder of the Dispute domain put it—Daviya, Son of the Demon King.

As for Truth… absolute justice is dead. That kind of thing hardly matters.

I like to play dumb. I’m no sage. Debating grand morals feels embarrassing.

Back to the point. After a night’s spring breeze, they went their separate ways. No talk of responsibility. If pregnancy happened, you could go to the Sanctuary of Life.

Unlike later times, abortion was cheap in the Silver Era. The Goddess of Life taught respect for every life, but a child without willing parents has no bright childhood. Pay the temple a small fee, endure a priest and a nun chanting a few lines, and the not-yet-formed life returns to the goddess’s domain. No side effects.

But Nivifar’s mother—Daviya never gave her name; she wasn’t important to the legend—she truly fell for Augustus. She knew her status didn’t match a Hero. So her one small act of rebellion was to bring Nivifar to term.

The mother held no grudge. Nivifar did.

Later, her mother married a local adventurer and had a son. He was maimed in a monster raid.

I told you—the Hero family’s web is messy. Pluck any strand and you could shoot an ethics drama.

Stini has no idea, but as a Hero she’s already famous. Nivifar clocked us as the Hero Squad at a glance, and it wasn’t because Princess Golia’s a princess, or I’m that handsome.

Nivifar recognized her sister—Stini the Hero.

She inherited her father’s talent, the Hero’s blood, but she isn’t a Hero. She didn’t inherit the Hero’s special “Immunity Privilege.” By pact between gods and demons, only two Heroes exist in the world at a time. Right now, it’s Augustus and Stini.

She isn’t petty about not becoming a Hero. The Silver Era turns mortals toward light. Most human-born villains are tragic heroes, shadowed heroes, or antiheroes.

By reason, Nivifar believes Augustus should take responsibility for sleeping with her mother. At the same time, she knows Augustus didn’t know she existed. So whether he’s responsible is moot. She circles inside that contradiction and gnaws at herself.

It curdled into a half-baked goal—to make a name, to prove herself before the Hero. She joined her stepfather’s mercenary band and walked forward in confusion.

At first I found her story senseless. Later, I felt an odd kinship.

You doubt your own existence. You resent others. Yet your own strength proves them right. Then only one answer remains—you’re the one who’s wrong. Not everyone has the courage to admit their smallness.

Her confusion has its logic.

Thinking that, something clicked.

I glanced back. Stini still walked absentmindedly, chatting on and off with Gloria, not watching us. I let the Shadow hum under my coat and drew out a bottle of HolyWater.

“Miss Nivifar, drink this.”

“What is it?” She took the bottle, cracked the cap, sniffed, and flinched. She handed it back, eyes wide. “High-purity HolyWater. That’s… expensive.”

“Drink. From what I know, there’s no bonus for front-line patrols. You took heavy hits from that spined scarab. On a basic share, you’ll lose money paying for treatment.”

“N-no. I’m fine. I don’t need healing.”

Nivifar panicked. The cool-headed woman who faced death with that bug turned scarlet and lost her calm.

“Who are you toughing it out for? That idiot Hero behind us?” I jerked a thumb back at the girl now napping on Gloria’s shoulder. “Relax. I’ll keep it from her.”

“I’m… not that hurt.”

“Don’t front. On the surface you look fine, but taking a scarab’s strike isn’t a joke. Under that shirt, you’re a mess. If you push it, you’ll collapse. That’s what’s really embarrassing.”

“But this HolyWater… it’s too pricey.” She finally took it, careful as if it were glass, and whispered, “I can’t afford it.”

“Then let me gift it. I don’t like ugly scars on a girl. It offends my aesthetics.”

“But really, it’s too expensive.”

“Then do me a favor, Miss Nivifar. For my aesthetics. Please drink this HolyWater.”

I laid it on thick with a bow. The ridiculous flourish made her laugh.

“Thank you, then. I, Nivifar, owe you one.”

She drank. The smile flashed and vanished. She strode ahead, shoulders easy.

That smile was beautiful.

But I think her usual iron face suits her more. The sharp, soldierly look. That’s her.

I’m a villain, after all. It’s normal my taste doesn’t match the protagonist’s.

So I think this through too. Nivifar isn’t my heroine, and she won’t be.

She’s relatively strong, has some talent, a black mark in her past, a private obsession. She could be a protagonist who “grows through adventures.” But she isn’t singular. She doesn’t stand apart.

She’s too ordinary.

Give, be kind, respect, rescue—can you win a girl like that? Maybe with Nivifar, yes. But that’s not my kind of heroine. I want Stini, Raven—women who are one of a kind.

As Stini’s sister and a thread in later legends, Nivifar sits on the main line. Yet the role isn’t hers alone.

Her temperament doesn’t tower. Someone else could play that part.

Is that collector’s greed or conqueror’s hunger? Doesn’t matter. It isn’t a proper hero’s thought. Villains crave roaring legends. Heroes always yearn for peace.

I am a villain. I watched the girl ahead swing her arms in big, happy arcs, her soldier’s stride clean and crisp, and I said it to myself.