On the fifth day of the tenth month in the year 995 of the Redemption Era, the Castillia Kingdom held its grandest funeral since its founding.

Officials and commoners alike set aside their duties that day. Many traveled thousands of miles to reach the royal capital, joining the somber and solemn procession.

White flowers pinned to their chests, they stood silently along the streets, watching the funeral cortege advance slowly down the avenues. Even tavern ruffians dared not raise their voices, holding their breath as the procession passed.

Thousands of soldiers marched in formation, escorting a single coffin toward the city gates. Within it lay Castillia’s guardian of three centuries—Master Daenerys.

“What a lovely head, don’t you think?”

Perched atop a rooftop ledge, I twirled a human girl’s severed head in my hand. After studying it for a moment, I grinned back at the girl behind me. Her eyes remained wide with terror, frozen as if witnessing unspeakable horror. Delicate features marked her as beautiful once—but now, merely a trophy.

“Your sick tastes never change.”

Hawthorn’s voice was ice. Her doll-like face, that of a Sword Saint’s spirit, showed no flicker of emotion. I shrugged, violet-black flames erupting from my palm to reduce the head to Ashen Remnants. “I’m the Overlord. Playing with enemies’ heads is standard procedure. Besides—this was part of our deal. Revenge…” I tossed the ashes aside. “There. The last perpetrator.”

Even a Champion’s weapon spirit isn’t a saint. They feel rage. We’d struck a bargain; vengeance was merely one clause.

“All who murdered my master must die.”

“No problem. One night’s work.”

In three hours, I’d scoured Castillia’s capital, crushing every assailant. Hawthorn’s power was formidable—but tracking humans wasn’t her strength. As a veteran Demon Race operative, I’d handled the messy details. Those brutes who’d defiled her master now knelt before the Goddess of Creation.

“But the mastermind remains.”

No gutter rat would dare strike at a military power’s guardian. Even weakened, Daenerys was a Sword Saint.

“Funerals?” I watched the cortege exit the city gates, a cold smirk curling my lips. “I adore them.” I signaled Hawthorn to follow, and we vanished into the shadows.

Daenerys would be buried at the capital’s main entrance—a tribute for future generations.

“Master Daenerys is this nation’s hero!” the Castillian king bellowed to the crowd. “For three hundred years, she foiled the Demon Race’s schemes! She repelled the Overlord! She barred countless demons from our borders! Our peaceful lives exist because of her! Castillia must eternally honor her sacrifice! Daenerys remains with us always!”

Standing silently nearby, I nearly laughed aloud.

*If you truly honored her*, I thought, *what does your betrayal count as?*

Ah—perhaps only peasants owed gratitude. Rulers need only weigh profit. How quickly wounds fade from memory.

“Then let me send you to meet your ‘hero’.”

I materialized beside the king, smiling like a neighbor greeting him over a fence. Thick demonic energy radiated from me, choking the air. Runes flared across my skin—undeniable proof of my origin.

“G-guards! Protect me!” The king paled, recognizing me instantly. His shriek summoned dozens of hidden bodyguards lunging from the shadows.

“Pests.” I didn’t even glance their way. A psychic blast dropped them mid-leap.

“Oh, Your Majesty,” I purred, “I owe you thanks. You eliminated a thorn in our side!” His terror was naked on his face, but I’d no appetite for savoring it. “How shall we reward such service to the Demon Race?”

“I—I beg you! Spare me! I’m Castillia’s king! I’ll grant any demand!” He collapsed to his knees, groveling as his guards lay broken.

“No, no,” I chided gently. “I’m here to *reward* you. Why would I make demands?”

Screams shattered the funeral’s silence. The crowd stampeded in panic. I ignored the chaos, still smiling at the trembling king.

“No, no please—”

“Shh…” I tilted my head. “How to reward you… Ah. I’ll send you to join your beloved hero. How’s that?”

“NO—!”

I ignored his pleas. My hand flicked. His handsome head burst like a watermelon.

The headless corpse crumpled. Blood gushed from the neck, painting the white funeral banners crimson.

“…Rare to break my no-kill rule. Might as well indulge further.”

My barrier kept the blood off my clothes. But the scent of iron stirred an old hunger.

“Let’s make this funeral a bloodier spectacle.”