Chapter 1: The Rough Hero

A cold wind slithered through the ruined city streets, carrying the stench of blood and burnt steel. The neon signs flickered weakly, their glow barely illuminating the corpses strewn across the alley. Some still twitched, their bodies refusing to accept death. Others lay in unnatural positions, their severed limbs scattered like discarded trash.

At the center of it all, standing amidst the carnage, was him.

He wiped the blood off his katana with slow, practiced movements, the blade humming softly as if satisfied with the feast it had just taken. His second sword rested against his shoulder, dripping crimson onto the cracked pavement.

A voice broke the silence.

"You... you're a monster..."

The last survivor, a Level 3 hero, struggled to crawl away, his legs severed at the knees. His fingers clawed against the concrete, leaving trails of blood as he dragged himself backward. His eyes, once filled with arrogance, were now wide with terror.

The figure in black took a step forward, his boots splashing in the growing pool of red.

"Monster?" His voice was calm, almost amused. "Strange. That's what I used to call people like you."

The hero choked on his own breath. "P-Please... I was just... following orders...!"

A sharp glint, then a blur of motion.

A single cut—and the hero's voice vanished. His throat was untouched, his body still intact, yet his mouth opened and closed soundlessly. His voice had been severed from existence.

The Rough Hero crouched beside him, tilting his head. "Feels strange, doesn't it?" He traced his katana along the hero's cheek. "To be powerless. To be at the mercy of someone stronger. I wonder how many people you made feel this way."

Tears ran down the hero's face as he mouthed silent pleas.

A long pause. Then, the blade moved again.

For a moment, it was as if reality itself split apart—a dark gash forming in the air before closing just as quickly. The hero's eyes lost their light, his body collapsing like a marionette with its strings cut.

Gone. No scream, no sound. Just erased.

The Rough Hero exhaled, rolling his shoulders. The weight of the kill pressed against him, but he had long since stopped caring. He slid both katanas back into their scabbards and turned away.

From the shadows, a pair of terrified eyes watched him.

A young boy, no older than ten, peeked from behind a rusted dumpster. His tiny frame trembled, his fists clenched as if trying to hold back fear.

The Rough Hero met his gaze.

The boy didn't run.

Interesting.

For the first time in a long while, the Rough Hero spoke without the edge of violence in his tone.

"Go home, kid."

The boy didn't move. His eyes, filled not with fear but with hatred, burned into him.

And then, in a whisper, the boy spoke.

"They deserved it."

The Rough Hero paused, then let out a quiet chuckle.

Maybe this world still had some hope after all.

With that, he disappeared into the darkness.