Third-Rate Villain Of Fantasy Novel-Chapter 32: Distant Memories [2]

When the head of the last remaining monster fell, a white light descended from the sky, washing over the battlefield like a silent benediction.

The woman who stepped into that starlight froze for only a heartbeat. Then her eyes found him.

She ran.

"Damian!!!" Her voice broke as she crossed the ruined ground. "You suddenly disappeared—why are you here...?"

The rest of her words died in her throat.

Blood soaked the earth beneath her feet, thick and dark, clinging to every step she took. Corpses lay piled upon corpses, twisted and broken, their monstrous forms stacked so high they truly resembled hills.

Shisan Hyeolhae.

A mountain of corpses.

A sea of blood.

It was not a metaphor. It was a fact.

The stench of iron filled the air, heavy enough to choke on. Even the wind seemed afraid to move, as if the battlefield itself was holding its breath.

At the center of it all stood the man she had been calling for.

Only when he heard her voice did he finally move. Slowly, he reached up and removed the mask that had hidden his face throughout the slaughter—an expressionless shell that had allowed him to keep going when his heart should have shattered.

Now, exposed to her gaze, that composure crumbled.

"I’m sorry, Elena."

His voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper.

As if something inside her snapped, Elena rushed forward and seized his hand. The moment her fingers closed around his, she felt it—warmth.

Blood.

Not the cold, congealed blood of the monsters beneath their feet, but fresh, still flowing, still alive.

Her grip tightened.

Damian was not someone who spilled blood carelessly. He was never meant to stand in a place like this. And yet here he was, surrounded by the proof of how far he had been pushed.

She knew that look in his eyes.

The way his gaze lingered on the bodies, not with triumph, but with a hollow ache. The way his shoulders remained tense, as if the battle were not truly over.

Just like her.

She still remembered the faces of the dead whenever her composure failed her. The screams that returned in the silence. The names she never had the chance to say goodbye to.

And Damian—

He had lost far more than she ever had.

His family.

The weight of that loss pressed down on her chest, suffocating. Worse still was the guilt, sharp and merciless, carved deep into her heart.

I couldn’t save them.

No matter how many times she told herself it wasn’t her fault, the truth remained unchanged.

She wanted to say something.

Anything.

Words of comfort. An apology. A promise.

But none of them would be enough.

So instead, she squeezed his hand, grounding him in the only way she could.

"Let’s go back," she said quietly.

There was no strength in her voice, no certainty—only sincerity.

Damian did not answer right away.

After a long moment, he nodded.

Elena turned first, still holding onto him, and led him away from the mountains of corpses and the sea of blood. Behind them, the white light slowly faded, leaving the battlefield to its silence.

But even as they walked forward, both of them knew—

Some scars would follow them home.

Elena didn’t release his hand.

Even as they walked, even as the crunch of shattered stone and bone faded beneath their steps, her fingers stayed laced with his—tight enough to remind him that he was still here, still breathing, still human.

The silence stretched.

It was heavy, but not empty.

"...You didn’t answer me," she said at last, her voice low, almost careful. "Back there. When I asked why you were here."

Damian’s steps slowed.

For a moment, she thought he might stop entirely—but instead, he exhaled, a long breath that trembled more than he probably intended.

"I didn’t plan to," he said. "To come here."

Elena glanced at him from the corner of her eye. His gaze was fixed forward, unfocused, as if the ruins still stood before him no matter how far they walked.

"I followed the Light of Hope," he continued. "It flickered. Just for an instant. Like a candle about to go out."

Her grip tightened almost imperceptibly.

"So you came alone?" she asked.

"Yes."

There was no pride in the word. No bravado. Just a simple statement of fact.

Elena swallowed. "That was reckless."

"I know."

That answer stopped her short.

She turned to face him fully now. "You know—and you still—"

"I still came," he finished for her, finally meeting her eyes. "Because if it went out... if this place fell completely..."

His voice faltered.

"For a moment," he admitted, "I thought maybe it was supposed to."

The words hit harder than any scream on the battlefield.

Elena’s breath caught. "Damian..."

"I was tired," he said quietly. "Tired of watching cities disappear. Tired of arriving too late. Tired of carrying names no one else remembers."

His jaw clenched. "And I thought—if Sarham was going to become nothing... then I would disappear with it."

The wind stirred, lifting dust around their feet.

Elena stepped closer before she realized she was moving. Her free hand rose, gripping the front of his bloodstained armor.

"Don’t," she said, her voice shaking now. "Don’t you dare say that like it’s an option."

His eyes widened slightly—not in anger, not in surprise, but something softer. Something raw.

"I didn’t want to die," he said. "I just... didn’t care if I lived."

The confession cracked something open between them.

Elena’s throat burned. "You think you’re the only one who feels that way?"

She let out a short, broken laugh. "Every time I close my eyes, I see them. Everyone we failed. Everyone we couldn’t save. And there are days I wake up and wonder why I was allowed to keep breathing when they weren’t."

Her voice dropped to a whisper. "But I don’t get to stop. Neither do you."

Damian stared at her, stunned.

"You’re not allowed to disappear," she said, pressing her forehead against his chest, uncaring of the blood, the grime, the weight of everything he carried. "Not after surviving this. Not after surviving me."

His hand trembled where it hovered in the air—then slowly, uncertainly, it came down, resting against her back.

For the first time since the battle, his shoulders sagged.

"I was afraid," he murmured. "That if I stopped moving... everything would catch up to me."

Elena nodded against him. "It will. Eventually."

She pulled back just enough to look up at him, eyes fierce despite the tears clinging to her lashes.

"But when it does," she said, "you won’t face it alone."

Something in Damian finally broke.

He leaned forward, forehead touching hers, his breath uneven. "I don’t deserve that," he whispered.

"Good," Elena replied softly. "Neither do I."

They stood like that for a while—two survivors clinging to each other at the edge of a ruined world.

Then Elena straightened, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "When we get back," she said, voice steadier now, "you’re going to rest."

He huffed a quiet, humorless sound. "You say that like I’ll listen."

She squeezed his hand again. "I’ll make you."

For the first time since the golden blade had carved through the darkness—

Damian smiled.

Just barely.