“Have you heard? Hero Cherthesis and his troops annihilated the Dreadwyrm! The battle was brutal—only the Hero escaped alive—but the organization and the nation’s leaders are overjoyed.”

“Why happy? Isn’t it heartbreaking? So many died.”

“You don’t get it. This feat will be etched in humanity’s annals. Participating nations’ reputations will soar. That Dreadwyrm was a thorn in our side for generations—every kingdom tried and failed to slay it. Now? Hero Cherthesis’s fame will sweep the continent! Heard there’s a victory banquet. C’mon, let’s go.”

Just then, not far from the inn I’d left, two voices reached my ears—I, the Dreadwyrm.

So in their eyes, I was already dead… slain by that so-called Hero.

I gleaned it all from their words.

But I wasn’t angry. Quite the opposite—I felt delighted.

Imagine the panic if they knew the Dreadwyrm escaped. All of humanity, every race… trembling in fear? How boring.

I’ll go see too.

Intrigued, I followed them.

“Your Highness, Hero Cherthesis, please forgive our earlier rudeness. We had no idea what you endured. Drink up—let’s turn the page.”

“I never realized your silence was for praying to fallen comrades. Don’t grieve too much. Slaying the Dreadwyrm avenged them. Come, drink with us.”

…

On a square elevated platform, nobles clinked glasses with Chelseas nearby. Maidservants placed dishes and wine while the Sradon Kingdom flag flew proudly at the center.

This was Sradon’s custom: royals feasted openly, toasting heroes, comforting bereaved families—all to share joy. Even the dragon-slaying alliance members joined in.

*How cozy.* I sneered, watching Chelseas flustered by endless toasts.

His Champion’s heart was utterly corrupted. To survive, he’d deceived all of humanity.

Unfit to be Champion… then who would vanquish the Demon Sovereign?

A question stirred within me.

Long ago, a cult devoted to me offered tributes: food, currency, books. From them, I learned the cycle—each Demon Sovereign’s rise summons a chosen Champion.

But this generation’s Champion? Broken by me.

Startling him would be fun.

I stepped into his line of sight… and dispelled the illusion over my left eye. Silver replaced black.

(I’d dyed my hair and both eyes black earlier to avoid suspicion.)

I locked eyes with Chelseas and sent a targeted wave of magical pressure his way.

“Thank you! I will protect this nation with all my might!” Chelseas declared, forcing confidence.

He basked in sudden glory, inwardly uneasy yet insisting: *I only wanted to live. They’d have done the same. I’m right. Everything is right.*

Ahhh—

Cold sweat erupted. Hairs stood on end. Heart hammered. Face paled. Utterly paralyzed.

That pressure… devilish, familiar—crushing soul and body alike.

*Could it be… the Dreadwyrm?!*

Memories flooded back: the colossal dragon head, those oppressive eyes—a lifelong nightmare.

He lifted his head.

A face with a silver eye stared back.

Thud!!!

He collapsed. Panicked nobles rushed over.

“Your Highness! Are you alright?”

“Help Lord Chelseas up!”

*He’s not dead! He’s not dead! What do I do?! I don’t want to die… sob… I want to live!*

Chelseas trembled violently on the ground.

“Quite amusing,” I mused, satisfaction warming my chest. “I’ve decided—I’ll visit you often.”

And so, I resolved to find endless amusement in Chelseas, this hollow Hero.