Not the Hero, Not the Villain — Just the One Who Wins

Eren knelt on the scorched earth of the Warzone Arena, his once-proud head bowed, his fingers digging into the dirt as if trying to cling to the last remnants of his shattered pride. The holy light of his family's legendary sword, which lay discarded beside him, had dimmed to a pathetic flicker—a mirror of the fire that had just been extinguished in his eyes. Tears, hot and humiliating, fell freely from his eyes, carving clean streaks through the dust and blood that stained his face. He was no longer a prince, no longer a warrior. He was just a broken boy.

I released Sasha's hand and walked toward him, my footsteps the only sound in the vast, silent arena. The air, still thick with the scent of ozone and spent magic, seemed to hold its breath. Layla and Noora watched from the sidelines, their expressions a mixture of shock, curiosity, and grudging respect. I crouched in front of Eren, close enough to see the violent tremors wracking his frame, close enough to see the utter devastation in his eyes.

"Listen," I said, my voice stripped of its usual mockery, its arrogant edge. For the first time, it was just my voice, quiet and steady. "I lied. Sasha isn't my girlfriend."

A collective gasp rippled through our small audience. Layla's sharp inhale was audible even from across the arena. Noora's carefully constructed composure shattered, her eyes widening in disbelief. And Sasha, who had been watching with a strange, unwilling hope, let out a shaky exhale, her body slumping with a mixture of relief and a fresh wave of confusion.

But Eren's reaction was the most visceral. His head snapped up, his eyes, wide and wet with betrayal, locking onto mine. "You… what?" he whispered, the words a ragged, broken sound.

I didn't flinch. I held his gaze, my own a calm, unreadable pool of shadow. "You're wondering why I'd do this. What I could possibly gain from such a cruel, elaborate deception." I leaned in, ensuring that only Eren, in his state of raw, exposed vulnerability, could hear my next words. "I did it to save both of you."

Eren's breath hitched, a choked, desperate sound.

"You thought you loved her," I continued, my voice a gentle, insistent whisper that cut through his haze of pain and confusion. "But what you felt wasn't love, Eren. It was attraction, yes. But it was twisted with lust, with obsession, with a desperate need for ownership. You never tried to understand her. You never asked what she wanted. You even bet her in a duel, as if she were a prize to be won, a beautiful object to be claimed." My voice dropped to a near-inaudible whisper, a final, piercing question. "Is that how love works, Whitehound?"

Eren's fists clenched in the dirt, his knuckles white, but no rebuttal came. He had no answer.

I stood then, my shadow stretching long across the cracked earth as I addressed the silent arena, my voice ringing with a conviction that was not entirely my own. "This stupid nobility game, this endless obsession with bloodlines and status, it ruins everything. It turns wives into rivals, fighting for their husband's favor. It raises children in cold, empty palaces, teaching them that power is more important than affection. It creates generations of misery, all for the sake of a name, a title, a piece of land." I glanced at Sasha, her face pale and tear-streaked, then back to the broken prince at my feet. "Real love? It's sacred. It's one person, chosen not by bloodline or political advantage, but by fate. It's a connection that changes you, that makes you better. If you truly loved someone, Eren, you'd follow them into hell itself—not try to drag them into your own."

The weight of my words hung in the air, heavy and undeniable. Eren's tears fell harder, but something in his gaze began to shift. The anger, the wounded pride, was giving way to something raw, uncertain, and profoundly lost.

Sasha took a hesitant step forward, her voice barely audible. "Ashen…"

He didn't look at her. He couldn't. "Figure it out, Eren," I said softly. "Before you destroy yourself and her."

The arena remained silent as my voice softened, my gaze becoming distant, as if I were seeing something far beyond the scorched battlefield, something from another lifetime. This version was sourced from M|V|L^EMPYR.

"Let me tell you all a story," I said, turning to Layla, Noora, and the others. "A real one."

I crouched back down, my shadow stretching long and thin across the cracked earth, a storyteller weaving a tale of love and sacrifice.

"Once, in a remote, forgotten village nestled in the mountains, I saw a woman. Half of her face was a ruin of scar tissue, her hair gone on one side, her skin melted and twisted. She was, by the world's cruel standards, ugly. Yet she was smiling, a smile so radiant it seemed to outshine the sun. She was holding hands with a slim, ordinary-looking man as they picked wildflowers together in a sun-drenched meadow."

My fingers absently traced the faint, silvery scars on my own knuckles, a remnant of a battle from a life they would never know.

"An old woman in the village, seeing my curiosity, told me their story. That burned woman? She was once considered the most beautiful in the entire region. Men fought for her attention, offered fortunes for her hand. But she chose that slim, ordinary boy—someone 'not even ten percent as handsome as her,' the old woman said—because they had laughed and cried together since they were children. Theirs was a love born not of passion, but of a deep, quiet understanding."

My voice grew quieter, more somber.

"Then, just before their wedding, a wealthy, rejected suitor, his pride wounded, threw a vial of alchemical acid on her face. The village had no healing potions—they were too poor, too far from the cities where such things are sold. By the time a traveling healer arrived... it was too late."

"She was bedridden for days," I continued, my shadow flickering like a dying candle in the still air. "She wouldn't let anyone see her ruined face. She just screamed whenever someone came near, her cries echoing through the quiet village. Then one day, she called for her lover."

"The man came rushing to her side, his heart in his eyes, and tried to hug her. She refused, pushing him away with what little strength she had. 'You should move on,' she told him, her voice a hoarse whisper. 'Look at me—I can't even stand to see my own face in the mirror. How could you want this? What will the world think of you, tied to a monster like me?'"

"'He said, 'I don't care about the world—'"

"'She cut him off. 'Leave me,' she begged. 'It's over. You deserve better.' Then she pushed him out of the room. They both cried that night, their tears a testament to a love they thought was lost."

My voice dropped to a whisper, the memory a fresh, aching wound.

"The next morning, the man forced his way back into her room. She gasped when she saw him. His forehead was a mess of fresh, bloody wounds, his hair shaved off in jagged patches. He had smashed his head against the sharp rocks by the river until his own face was a ruin, a mirror of her scars."

"'Do I deserve you now?' he asked, his voice trembling but firm. 'Is this what it takes?'"

"She reached for him, her own hands trembling. 'Why? Why would you go so far?'"

"His answer was simple. 'Because I can't imagine a life without you. And this?' He touched the bleeding wound on his forehead. 'This is a small price to pay for a lifetime by your side.'"

"'She wept then, her heart breaking anew. 'I never wanted this for you!'"

"'He smiled, a gentle, loving expression on his ruined face. 'I know you'd never wish me harm. But how could you think—even like this—you'd ever be anything less than beautiful to me? I fell in love with your soul, not your face.'"

The silence that followed was heavier than any blade, thicker than any shadow.