The debate grew heated. Nestal and his guards pushed to retreat. Reina and Pritty refused. Their voices began to reach the other soldiers. Out of the corner of his eye, Mujun saw the familiar signs—shoulders beginning to slump, gazes no longer fixed on the defensive walls.
Even though Reina was the favorite princess of the human king and Pritty was the head Saint of the church, their status still ranked below the Hero. In this world, the scream of a Hero—no matter how hollow—still carried more weight than anyone's logic.
To prevent the fracture from widening any further, Mujun spoke up.
He proposed a middle ground: Nestal and his guards would move to contact the front-line forces to accelerate reinforcements, while the rest held the fortress.
The proposal was logical. And because of that, it was ignored.
Yet Mujun knew—an idea does not have to be listened to in order to be utilized.
One of Nestal's guards immediately put forward another notion: leaving all the slaves behind at Mersyah Fortress as a buffer against the attack, while the Hero and the soldiers moved toward the front line. The justification was the possibility of an enemy ambush.
To Mujun, the excuse was flimsy. The mountain behind the fortress was a natural defense almost impossible to breach in a short time. It was precisely because of this security that Mersyah Fortress was chosen as the Hero's placement—a safe, easily accessible location suited for "training."
He knew it.
Reina knew it.
Pritty knew it.
Nestal did not.
Fear does not require a valid reason. It only requires a path away.
With a raspy voice full of ultimatum, Nestal ordered all soldiers to accompany him to the front line. Mujun—and all the slaves—were abandoned at Mersyah Fortress to face the most elite troops of the Demi-human Kingdom.
His status as the Hero meant the order was obeyed immediately. Soldiers moved. Ranks formed. Doubt was swallowed by duty.
Reina and Pritty were unable to oppose him. Their faces grew taut, but they followed.
Mujun remained standing in his place.
There was no anger on his face. No fear. No sense of betrayal. Only calm observation.
Under a night sky still brimming with stars, his violet eyes grasped one conclusion clearly: the main army of the Demi-human Kingdom had not come to seize Mersyah Fortress.
They had come to see the Hero.
And what the Demi-human King saw that night—a symbol collapsing with a single step forward—was enough to convince him that the future of his race was not worth surrendering to humanity. He chose the Demon faction not out of savage desire, but out of cold calculation.
Meanwhile Mujun, as usual, merely kept that fact in silence—as if he were noting an unavoidable change in the weather.
An empty bottle flew through the air once more.
The sound of the air splitting broke Mujun's reverie before the bottle could strike. He saw its trajectory—clear enough to dodge with a single light step. Yet Mujun did not move. He let the bottle strike his head, hitting his temple before shattering. Tiny shards of glass splattered, grazing his skin. Warm blood trickled faintly down his cheek.
"What are you looking at, Slave?!"
Nestal's voice cracked, harsh and trembling—not out of mere anger, but out of something deeper and more fragile.
"Get those filthy eyes out of my sight! Or I'll pluck those disgusting eyeballs right out of their sockets!"
His tone was too high-pitched for someone in power. Too hurried. Too much like the scream of a person who felt watched, even though no one was truly staring at him.
Mujun only smiled.
He pulled a handkerchief from his robe pocket—a white cloth that had long lost its original color—then wiped the blood from his face with a calm motion. As always, the wound on his skin vanished slowly, as if it had never been there. Only the red stain on the handkerchief remained as proof.
"Forgive me, Hero," Mujun spoke softly, bowing his head and crossing his arms over his chest. His posture was perfect. Not excessive. Not defiant.
"However, you need to prepare quickly. Reina and the soldiers are waiting for you."
Nestal's face turned even sourer. His jaw tightened. His gaze shifted momentarily—not to Mujun, but to the shadows in the corner of the tent, to the fabric swaying gently, to anything that didn't stare back.
"I don't need you to remind me!" he snapped. "Get out of my tent! Just looking at your face is enough to make me sick!"
"Thank you for your concern, Your Excellency," Mujun replied airily, as if genuinely sincere.
He bowed once more, then turned and walked out of the tent without haste.
Since the battle at Mersyah Fortress, Nestal had completely changed.
He no longer went down to the battlefield. He no longer stood in the front lines. His days were spent inside the camp, drowning in alcohol, women, and a rage that never truly found its mark. His arrogance had indeed dimmed—he no longer dared to show off before the enemy—but in its place, his sadism grew wild.
Prisoners of war became his outlet. Especially those from the Demi-human race. Screams, blood, and broken bones became cheap entertainment he could control—something that wouldn't fight back.
The guards began to keep their distance. Not out of morality, but out of survival instinct. Thus, the dirty tasks were slowly shifted onto Mujun.
Or more precisely—the blame.
Every cruelty committed by Nestal would have one name to fault. Every cowardly decision required another face to bear the consequences. And Mujun, with a slave collar around his neck and a smile that never faded, was the most efficient choice.
The rumors about him rotted even faster.
Tales of a lewd slave, a bloodthirsty mage, a human-faced monster spread without restraint. Mostly fiction. A small part exaggerated. There was no need to refute anything—because truth was never the objective.
This reality was known only to a handful of faction leaders. And it was for this very reason that their anxieties deepened. They covered up the fact that their Hero was afraid to fight, patching the cracks with propaganda and thin lies.
But no chalice remains uncracked.
The Demon faction smelled something wrong. Their attacks grew more frequent. More aggressive. As if forcing the great battle to arrive sooner than it should.
Until finally, they arrived at this moment.
The Battle of the Rohid Desert—the place where the world's two ultimate weapons would be deployed.
As always, this world war would end with a duel between the Demon King and the Hero.
Mujun walked toward the meeting point with light steps, neither hurried nor hesitant. There was no resentment on his face. No burden. His smile remained soft, as if all the insults from a moment ago were merely passing wind.
Even from his closed lips, a soft hum could be heard—a melody without lyrics, without clear meaning.
He looked... happy.
After all, his time in this world was almost up; why shouldn't he be happy?