You Want to Beg For Death? |✔|

I

The Hero let out a strangled cry. Warm blood pooled down his chest. It was a pain to breathe. He stumbled to the wall, leaning against it.

The Villain slashed again, his movement sharp and sure. The Hero grit his teeth, hissing as the blade cut into his arm. He let his sword slip from his fingers and his weak body slid to the ground. The sword hit the ground with a sharp clang.

Breathe. You have to.

He tried to ignore the pain as his chest slowly rose and fell, trying to suck in air. Blood trickled from a deep gash on his forehead, mingling with the sweat and dirt that clung to his skin. This is what losing feels like. The weight of his failure was suffocating.

The Villain crouched before him. Placing his blade under the Hero's chin, he forced his gaze up.

The Hero drew in another rough breathe. The Villain's eyes were boring into his, gleaming excitedly. He knew he was winning. Maybe he had already won.

You can never win, the Villain had told him. Not when I am the one in the right.

"Pathetic." The Villain's voice was a low, rasp whisper. He lowered his sword, and his nails dug into the Hero's cheek. "What did fighting back give you? Nothing but pain." He forced the Hero's face toward the battle. "Look at your people. Still fighting. Still thinking they could win."

"Please," was all the Hero could manage.

"Please?" The Villain grabbed his collar, rough once again. The Hero tried to choke a scream, his body protesting as the Villain forced him to stand. He pinned the Hero against the wall like a ragdoll. "You want to beg for death? Then beg."

The Hero wheezed. His heart was hammering, and he knew the Villain could feel it, too. The wall was damp, and the cold pierced his skin like daggers.

The Villain's gaze was unsettling, full of malice and anticipation. "What are you waiting for?" he taunted, amusement lacing his words. “You think your resistance holds any weight? Look where it has led you. Look at your pathetic state.”

For a moment, the Hero’s mind raced in despair. The Villain's breath was warm against his face. The memories rushed back — the devastation he had witnessed, the friends he had lost, the innocents who had perished. All because of their vain king. But the Villain was no better. His rule would bring the country no good.

It could not end like this. It couldn't. And yet, Alaric could barely breathe. The Villain's grip was strong. He still had his sword, and Alaric was defenseless. Cowering as the Villain firmly kept him in place.

The tension in his chest began to melt away, surrendering to an overwhelming sense of fatigue. Alaric had fought for so long, clinging stubbornly to the glimmer of hope that shimmered like a dying star. But now, with defeat looming over him, he felt that star flicker and fade. He was no longer the Hero.

"Do it," he whispered.

"What?" The Villain's grip loosened for a moment. Maybe Alaric imagined it, but the Villain was staring at him in concern.

Alaric's cheeks burned. He was almost ashamed to say it. "Just end it. Please." Every word hurt, both physically and mentally.

The Villain threw his head back to chuckle, but something was wrong. It sounded so forced. "So you really want me to kill you now."

"I've done everything I can," Alaric said weakly. "I don't even have my sword."

The Villain leaned closer. "Then announce your defeat. Let the world hear your surrender."

Alaric looked at the people still trying to win. Swords clashed. People shouted and screamed. All that effort for nothing.

"Stop fighting!" the Villain shouted over the noise, invoking almost immediate silence. "Your hero has something to say."

The battle had stopped. All eyes were on Alaric. Maybe his people were hoping Alaric was going to keep on fighting. That he would spit on the Villain's face and announce he would never yield. But Alaric couldn't. He could not even stand on his own.

With the little strength he had left, Alaric opened his mouth. "Please," he said, shakily. "Please, kill me."

For a heartbeat, the world fell silent. The city held its breath, the stars above seemed to dim, and the Villain’s grip released ever so slightly, as if he wanted to savor the weight of the Hero's words.

And then — victorious screams, from the Villain's supporters, shook the air. They resumed the battle, and now Alaric's people were losing.

The cold wall pressed against his back, the chill seeped into his bones, and he felt the last of his strength wavering. The agony of battle was too much — no more schemes, no more plans to thwart the Villain's reign, no more dreams of saving a city that had long since turned its back on hope.

"Very well, then," the Villain whispered. "Your wish is my command." He raised his sword, placing the tip of it against Alaric's throat.

Alaric shut his eyes, sending a silent prayer to the Fates. The blade was cold against his skin.

He braced himself for the killing strike, the final moment of pain until it was all over. He wanted to feel relieved. He would be free from having to play the Hero. And yet, everything about this was wrong. Alaric had let down everyone, all those people, left to die.

Nothing.

Alaric dared to open his eyes. The Villain was staring, hesitating.

He almost felt like laughing. "Feel like taking pity on me?" he managed.

The Villain frowned, but he did not press his blade. "Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"Giving up. It's not like you."

Alaric wanted to tell him that maybe he had it wrong. That, deep inside, Alaric was a coward. Scared of the dark, scared of villains like him. But his body couldn't take it anymore. He was so tired.

Alaric slumped to the ground, shaking. He felt the Villain kneel down, trying to get him up again, but he couldn't.

Stars twinkled before his vision, and then everything went dark.