The moon shines through the rifts in the dark, suffocating sky. Its pale light pierces through the billowing smoke and ash, casting ghostly reflections on the mutilated ground. In the air lingers a horrifying stench—burning flesh, blood, and rot.
This is not just a battlefield.
This is a place of final slaughter.
Rivers of blood flow through the soil, seeping into the black, lifeless mud. Corpses—thousands, tens of thousands, countless heaps of bodies, torn apart by swords and riddled with arrows. Amidst this scene of horror, at the very center, rests a lone stone, against which he leans.
A dark-haired young man.
Beautiful, even now, in the moment of his end.
But what is beauty in the eyes of the dead?
His body is a living tapestry of pain: his blood-soaked clothes are tattered, his skin covered in wounds, and from his chest, shoulders, and back protrude dozens of swords, spears, and arrows. Too many to pull out. Too many for him to survive.
Yet he is still alive.
Driven into his chest, tearing through his heart, piercing straight through—rests a long spear.
A spear shimmering with the blessing of light.
It trembles in the tense grip of a blonde-haired young man clad in elegant, bloodstained armor.
The Hero.
The one destined to stop this massacre.
Behind him stand five women. Their faces, beautiful and noble, are contorted with rage, pain, and despair.
Behind them—thousands of soldiers.
They stand among the dead, breathing heavily, gripping their bloodied weapons. Their armor cracks, their bodies are covered in grime, but they are alive.
And he—is not.
The Hero grips the spear tighter. His voice trembles with anger and pain.
— Reinhardt... — his voice shatters the silence. — Are you satisfied with what you've done? Because of you, half of humanity is dead! Hundreds of thousands have fallen fighting against you!
He steps forward, towering over the dark-haired young man, who sits impaled by countless blades.
— Tell me, why did you do this?! I hope you at least regret it!
Blood drips from Reinhardt's chin. He coughs, spewing out a thick, crimson clot.
But his face remains cold.
Not a single flicker of emotion in his gaze.
Ice—not a man.
He lifts his head.
And speaks in the same indifferent tone he had perhaps used all his life:
— I... regret it.
Silence.
The wind stirs his blood-soaked cloak.
A woman's voice—sharp, filled with hatred—cuts through the air like a dagger:
— You... REGRET?!
The furious scream belongs to a girl with long golden hair and despair in her eyes.
— After everything you've done?! After all the sacrifices?! After the millions of lives you've destroyed?!
She steps forward, fists clenched.
— It disgusts me that we share the same blood! You should suffer in hell for at least a hundred thousand years to atone for even a fraction of what you've done!
Silence.
Oppressive, suffocating.
The blood-soaked ground seems endless.
And then...
His lips twitch.
At first, barely noticeable.
Then he smiles.
— My dear sister...
Reinhardt's voice is low, quiet, mocking, but so cold the air itself feels frozen.
He lifts his head, his eyes gleaming in the darkness, shining like two drops of frozen blood.
— I don't regret killing them all...
His smile widens, becoming refined, almost satisfied.
— I regret that there's still someone left walking this earth.
The Hero freezes.
The women behind him tighten their grips on their sword hilts, their faces twisted with fear and disgust.
This man...
He feels no remorse.
He feels no guilt.
He does not regret.
No, don't get the wrong idea.
This is not the story of a hero from another world.
He was not slandered, he was not falsely accused.
This is the story of a true, absolute Villain.
Someone steps forward.
Snow-white hair, bright violet eyes, rage tearing her heart apart.
She slowly draws her sword, pointing the tip directly at his throat.
— Death is what you deserve.
Her voice trembles, but there is no hesitation in it.
— I hope in your next life, you suffer.
A single moment—and the whistle of a sword cuts through the air.
The sharp, cold blade reflects the flames of the burning battlefield.
Reinhardt's head falls from his shoulders.
It tumbles slowly, leaving behind a crimson trail in the air.
And in that moment—the very moment his consciousness fades into nothingness—even he sees his entire life and all his hidden regrets flash before his eyes.
Void... Deep, grim, dark...
It envelops him, consumes him, squeezes him, invades his mind.
Endless, impenetrable darkness.
So, this is it?
So, this is what death looks like?
Amusing.
He expected pain. He expected fire, eternal torment, the voices of millions of dead, tearing his mind apart, cursing him for what he had done.
But... there is nothing here.
Void. Pure darkness.
He cannot see, cannot hear.
He feels neither body nor time nor even himself.
But his mind is alive.
And within it—thoughts.
— I lost.
Not a question. A cold, unpleasant fact.
Undeniable, and just as merciless.
The Hero won and pierced his heart.
His fiancée severed his head.
The world... did not cease to exist.
Yet his thoughts remain calm, cold-blooded, but even so, deep within—an overwhelming fury grows.
He recalls the last moment.
The Hero's voice, filled with rage and disappointment.
— Do you at least regret this?
Then, he had said he regretted that there were still people left walking this earth.
But now, in this void, he understands.
He truly regrets.
But not the dead.
Not the war.
Not the millions of lives lost.
He regrets that he lost.
Regrets not killing the Hero when he had the chance.
For too long, he played with him.
For too long, he let him live, hoping to savor his despair before death.
For too long, he let him grow, become stronger.
And yet he had his moments.
Hundreds... Thousands...
Countless times, he could have killed him, crushed him into dust, shattered his body and mind.
But he gave him time.
And now...
The Hero killed him.
— Sister.
Another mistake.
He sees her face before him.
Anger, hatred, disgust.
And yet...
A hidden pain.
She screamed at him with hatred, but deep inside, it tore her apart.
He saw it.
That's why he didn't kill her.
He spared her.
Didn't touch her, didn't break her, didn't destroy her.
Foolishness.
Now he understands.
The day he couldn't bring himself to rip out her heart, he lost.
And then she pierced him with her sword.
Ironic.
He hates everything.
The world that betrayed him.
The people who raised their weapons against him, not realizing how insignificant they were.
The demons, selfish creatures who fought among themselves instead of rallying under his banner.
The Hero, who didn't deserve victory.
The sister he spared.
And himself.
For not finishing what he started.
For not wiping out all life.
— If I had a chance... Just one... Everything would be completely different...