Around him, the naked bodies of women were scattered. Humans, Elves, Demi-humans, even Demons. Their skin showed varying marks—bite marks, faint bruises, or simply an exhaustion too deep to measure. Some were still asleep, others awake in a daze, not knowing where they were. Not one seemed to dare move more than a breath.
If there was disgust, if there was anger, if there was disappointment—none of it surfaced on Mujun's face. His bright smile remained intact, whole, like someone who had just received a gift he had long anticipated.
The Hero opened his eyes fully upon seeing Mujun. His brow furrowed instantly, his jaw tightening. His gaze was not that of a leader looking at a subordinate—it was the look of someone irritated by the presence of something he could not get rid of.
In a raspy voice still thick with the stench of alcohol, he spat out foul words.
"Slave. Do you think that with the protection of the Saintess and the princess, you can just waltz into my tent whenever you please?" He sat halfway up; the blanket shifted, revealing more of the disarray.
"Or do you think I wouldn't dare take your head right this second?" The corner of his mouth curled into a sneer. "Have you forgotten your place?"
Mujun immediately bowed his head. His right hand crossed over to his left chest—the movement was perfect, practiced, like someone who had begged for forgiveness a thousand times—or was merely pretending to.
"Forgive me, Your Excellency," he spoke softly, his voice not trembling in the slightest. "However, your time is required."
He lifted his face slightly, just enough to speak without appearing defiant. "The speech before the final battle against the Demon King has been scheduled. The soldiers are waiting. Seeing you stand before them will keep their morale intact." His smile was small, almost warm. "You are the symbol of their hope. Your existence makes them feel that this world can still be sav—"
An empty bottle flew through the air.
It wasn't a warning. It wasn't a threat. The throw was fueled by pure intent. The glass struck Mujun's head with a loud crack, shards scattering and grazing his cheek and shoulder. A thin trail of blood trickled down, stark red against his pale skin.
"I DON'T NEED A SLAVE LIKE YOU TO ORDER ME AROUND!"
The shout shook the tent. The women woke up completely, small screams escaping their throats before they crawled away, huddling in the corners of the tent, bodies shaking, eyes filled with a terror they knew all too well.
Mujun did not flinch. He simply pulled a white handkerchief from his robe pocket, wiping the blood from his cheek with a slow, deliberate motion. The cloth turned crimson instantly. Yet, when his hand moved away, his skin was clean again—no wound, no scratch, as if the violence from a moment ago had been a mere illusion.
Unbidden and uncommanded, Mujun leaned down to pick up a white blanket lying on the floor. He stepped toward the women. Their bodies tensed in fear, their breathing hitched. But when they saw Mujun's smile—not sharp, not condescending—their terror wavered.
With careful, almost respectful movements, Mujun covered them one by one. There was no untoward touch. No stray glances.
"Forgive our Hero's coarseness," he said quietly, almost like a bedtime whisper.
When the sounds of his incantation began, the fear returned. Some of the women cried out, trying to scramble away. But the spell was finished before they could move.
"Tier 5 Spell: Memory Erasure."
A violet light enveloped their bodies, creeping toward their heads, and instantly their eyes went blank. The tension in their shoulders collapsed.
"I hope you can live in peace after this."
The next spell was chanted without pause.
"Tier 8 Spell: Grand Teleportation."
A violet magic circle appeared beneath their feet. In an instant, a blinding light filled the tent—and when it faded, the women were gone.
The Hero watched all of this with indifference, like watching someone clear away trash. There was no curiosity. No questions.
Yet it was from that very attitude that the truth leaked out.
If Mujun hadn't been there—if their memories hadn't been erased, if they hadn't been relocated—the fate of those women was clear. They would have been killed. Quietly. Neatly. To preserve an image.
Because a Hero must have no stains. There must be no witnesses. No story other than the one history wishes to write.
Furthermore, after this war ended, the Hero was to marry Princess Reina—a Tier 10 mage, the pride of the Human King, a symbol of purity and hope. And someone had to ensure that the symbol remained untarnished.
Mujun stood back in his place. His smile remained. It was as if all of this—the stench, the violence, the hatred—was nothing foreign to him. As if the role he played was far greater than the cheap rumors circulating outside the tent.
Mujun glanced briefly at the Hero, who had returned to swigging alcohol with a calm face, as if the recent emotional explosion had never happened. From Mujun's throat came a long sigh—slow, heavy, and laden with something unspoken.
Mujun still remembered him.
An innocent boy who had come from a small village. His body was thin, his clothes simple, but his eyes shone bright, filled with a resolve that had not yet been tainted by praise or fear. At that time, there was nothing extraordinary about his appearance. No crown, no title, no grand history following him. Just a child who wanted to be useful.
The ability to control Mana through Will never chose its vessel. It could be born from a handsome prince, a gallant knight, a cunning thief—or a farmer's son whose feet were accustomed to treading in mud. There was no bloodline linking one Hero to another. Only one thing was certain: when a Hero fell or passed away, the world would give birth to a new one within ten to twenty years.
In the past, before the technology of magic diagrams evolved, the search for a Hero was like hunting shadows. The human faction relied on rumors of a Mage capable of controlling Mana through Will. Many turned out to be fakes—ordinary Mages who just happened to be strong. Those mistakes were often paid for dearly with defeat and death.
But times changed.
With the development of diagram technology, the kingdom no longer relied on whispers and legends. When a Hero was born, the master diagram in the kingdom's Watchtower would glow—a light that could not be faked—and point toward the Hero's location.
Sixteen years ago, that light ignited.
The boy's name was Nestal.
He was found in an ordinary farming family. His parents were humans whose backs faced the sky and whose faces gazed at the earth all day long—living off hard work that never promised luxury. But in a single day, that family's life changed drastically. Their son was no longer just a farmer's child.
He was the Hero.
Nestal, who from childhood had been taught the humility of a farmer, was forced to accustom himself to the grandeur of the nobility. From a boy who dreamed of saving humanity, he was elevated to the very symbol of humanity itself. From muddy soil, he was moved to marble floors. From simple dreams, he was force-fed the world's expectations.
The change did not take decades. Only a few years.
The nobles scrambled to get close to him, to flatter him, wrapping him in praise and adulation. In such an environment, anyone's head would be held high. Nestal continued to train—yes—but only as a formality. The trainers knew: a Hero's strength was not born of discipline or technique.
Will could not be taught.