Chapter 05: The Death of a Villain by a Hero’s Hands

A middle-aged man with a lean build lounged in a vibrant green suit, paired with a peach-toned shirt that perfectly complemented his impeccably tied long pink hair. 

His sharply defined nose rested above black-framed reading glasses—delicately suspended from a golden chain that swayed with every movement—while his gentle green eyes sparkled with quiet amusement. 

His mellifluous voice wove playful words for the circle of delighted children gathered at his feet, their laughter rising like a chorus of joy. With each gesture, his well-manicured nails on his left hand danced through the air as if sketching invisible calligraphy in shifting ebony ink.

Yet, his tender kindness was reserved for one child in particular—a deaf boy whose wide eyes followed the swirling, tangible letters that seemed to materialize just for him.

In the midst of this serene tableau, a single, shattering proclamation tore through the calm: 

"He is Masym Rete."

The accusatory finger belonged to Luke, who stood several meters away, with Arryn looming ominously by his side. 

Arryn's hands trembled with barely contained rage, his desire to fell Masym practically palpable—but he hesitated.

The man before him, however, offered nothing but a warm, unwavering smile as he read to the children, entirely oblivious to the storm brewing at his threshold. 

"Hey, Weak-Leg, are you sure you're telling the truth?" 

Arryn barked with bitter incredulity. 

"That bastard is nothing like the rumors! Shadow Dweller Masym Rete? He looks more like a Rainbow Dweller." 

Arryn's harsh words cut the air as Luke's mind raced. In his head, questions tumbled over one another: 

'Why is he acting like this? In the book, he always had a grumpy poker face and hated children. So why is he reading to them now?'

Luke's tongue faltered under the weight of uncertainty. 

"Hey, Weak-Leg, answer me!" 

Arryn snapped, his patience shattering like brittle glass. 

In a burst of frustration, he lunged, nearly seizing Luke's neck as if to crush him outright. 

Caught off guard, Luke's eyes glistened with distress yet his tone remained firm. 

"I'm sure that is Masym Rete. He's playing kind to fool you. Ha…" 

Luke managed, forcing a lopsided smile while nervously raking his hair back. Deep inside, his thoughts roiled: 

'Don't worry, Luke. The location is the same, the pink hair and black glasses match. He's Masym Rete—just playing tricks, that's all...'

But then a chill crept in: 

*What if I'm wrong? Am I about to let an innocent man die?*

Before doubt could root further, the sound of Arryn unsheathing his divine sword cut through the tension, flooding the shop with an otherworldly light that overwhelmed every corner. 

In that sudden brightness, every eye turned toward Arryn. 

Slowly, Masym—or the man Luke believed to be Masym—lifted his gaze. 

'Why is he making that face?' Luke's breath hitched.

Masym once gentle smile faltered, replaced by an expression of raw terror that mirrored the fear Luke had felt when he first encountered Arryn. 

Arryn stepped forward, his tone dripping with scorn. 

"So, you are Masym Rete. Not very good at keeping your expression hidden, are you?" 

Luke watched as shock and confusion played across the stranger's face—as though the man's inner thoughts were screaming: 

*Why is Errol here with Prince Arryn? He should be dead!* 

Luke's heart pounded with disbelief. He had expected Masym to maintain a rigid, emotionless façade, just as described in the novel, denying any connection to Errol Wynter until the very end. But now, the unmistakable shock made him question everything. 

'Did my transmigration here change something in this world?'

He wondered silently.

"Everyone, clear the shop!" 

Arryn thundered, his command resonating with authority. 

In an instant, the room erupted in a chaotic exodus. Shrieks, hurried footsteps, and the rustle of abandoned books filled the air as patrons—mothers clutching their children, avid readers abandoning their discoveries—fled in terror.

Seizing the moment, the man before Arryn quickly shifted his demeanor. 

With measured calm, he bowed slightly and addressed Arryn in a steady, courteous tone, 

"Welcome to my humble store, Prince Arryn Rocheford. My name is Geoffry Floray. I am at your service."

Luke recalled that Geoffry Floray was nothing more than a façade—the false identity Masym Rete adopted when operating outside. 

In truth, Masym was a spy from the neighboring continent, dispatched solely to steal Arryn's divine sword. For years he had waited for an opportunity, one that arrived with Arryn's fateful visit to Lestead City.

Masym had even manipulated Errol Wynter's deep-seated hatred toward Arryn, using it to convince Arryn that pilfering the sword on Errol's behalf would earn him fear and respect. 

Originally, Masym had planned to dispatch Errol immediately after seizing the blade. 

Luke remembered how, in the novel, Errol's men had failed miserably at their mission—betraying him out of sheer terror—pointed their fingers at him.

Errol died at Arryn's hands, marking the first person in a higher position that Arryn killed, which Luke considered the first villain Arryn kills.

Clearing his throat, Masym—now Geoffry—asked in a calm, measured tone, 

"Sir Arryn, what is the purpose of your visit?"

Arryn's gaze shifted briefly to Luke before returning to Masym, his voice icy as he replied, 

"This rat here decided to devour his own kind by ratting you out for his survival."

A twisted smile played on Masym's lips as he maintained his feigned innocence. 

"I'm not sure what you mean, Sir Arryn. I don't believe I have a book with that story, "he replied lightly.

A shiver ran down both Luke's and Masym's spines as Arryn's once-fiery eyes turned cold and grave. His face, now void of any pretense, issued a curt order, 

"Show me your Scroll window. I want to verify your name."

Without hesitation, Masym extended his left hand. With his right, he traced a slow, clockwise circle across its back. 

A dark, pulsating glow began to form, growing more intense by the second.

In a swift, calculated motion, Arryn seized Masym's glowing hand, tightening his grip until both Luke and Masym flinched. Masym forced a strained smile. 

"Sir Arryn, what are you doing?"

He inquired, his voice a mixture of feigned innocence and growing dread.

Arryn's lips curled into a smirk as he replied coolly, 

"Just stripping away your shadow-forgery magic." 

In that instant, a terrible realization dawned on Masym—he had been caught, and any hope of escape was vanishing. 

In a desperate bid, his right hand morphed into a razor-sharp shadow and, with agonizing resolve, slashed through his own left wrist. 

Crimson blood splattered across the shop as he bolted for the exit, clutching the stump as if it were a lifeline. With one powerful leap, he crashed through the door, desperate for freedom.

But in a blink—just a single, heart-stopping moment—

Masym found himself sprawled on the floor. Sunlight streamed in through the shattered door, and blood pooled around him. He extended his hands one last time, yearning to escape, but his body betrayed him, leaving him paralyzed in place.

Though Masym's eyes never followed the ensuing chaos, he knew without looking that Arryn now loomed over him. 

Luke, who hadn't noticed what had transpired moments ago, finally turned around at the sudden, slamming sound behind him.

The sight that greeted him—Masym's severed hand lying lifelessly on the floor, his face stained with blood, and his once-pristine clothes in tatters—transformed his worst fears into stark reality.

There, amid the silence, lay Masym with Arryn standing ominously beside him. Even in death, Masym's expression was eerily serene; his broken glasses had sliced his face, and the remnants of his dignity were as shattered as his body. 

In his final, ragged breaths, Masym's lips barely moved as he murmured repeatedly, 

"I finally found a new life I could enjoy. Why, God? Why? Why must you play such a cruel game?"

Guilt and horror mingled in Luke's eyes as he stepped closer. He longed to speak, to offer some form of solace or explanation, but before he could, Masym's gaze snapped toward him—a look of raw, seething anger that seemed to accuse him of betrayal. 

Summoning every last shred of strength, Masym spat out in a hoarse whisper, 

"You! You were supposed to die first, not me! I was supposed to die fou—"

Before he could finish his sentence, Arryn's divine sword descended in a final, merciless arc, cleaving through Masym's neck. There was no gush of blood—only a profound, chilling silence.

Arryn scoffed dismissively, 

"No screaming before me," as if silencing a trivial nuisance.

Luke stood frozen, his mind reeling from the stark finality of Masym's last words. 

*You! You were supposed to die first, not me! I was supposed to die fourth…* 

The revelation thundered through his thoughts, a cruel twist in a story he could hardly believe.

Before Luke could process the full weight of the truth, a sudden, brutal blow struck the back of his neck. His vision blurred, and as he crumpled to the floor, the last sound he heard was Arryn's icy whisper: 

"Next time."

[The Hero's Journey continues…]