The Blind Hero once reigned supreme.
Long ago, in a distant farming village, lived a humble couple blessed with three sons. They loved their boys dearly, yet quietly wished for a daughter — someone they could raise differently, someone who would bring a new kind of warmth into their home.
Two years after their oldest son was born, their wish was granted.
Or so they believed.
The child was born without the blessing of the Fortune Gods.
Her eyes held no color.
No light.
No sight.
They named her Yuna.
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Despite her blindness, she was never unloved. Her parents cared for her with endless patience, and her brothers protected her fiercely. Within the walls of her home, she knew kindness.
But kindness could not shield her from the world.
Growing up was difficult.
Children tried to include her at first, but play required things she could not share. She could not chase a ball across a field. She could not join games of pretend without seeing gestures and expressions. Even the quiet children who spent their time reading could not bridge the gap — what comfort could books bring to someone who had never seen a single letter?
So Yuna often sat at the edge of laughter instead.
Close enough to hear joy.
Too far to belong to it.
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Life at home offered no escape from hardship either.
Love did not make chores disappear.
Feeding animals required precision she struggled to maintain. A misplaced step or startled movement could injure livestock, and the thought of causing trouble for her family weighed heavily on her heart.
Rather than burden them, Yuna began trading tasks with her brothers.
She chose water carrying.
It sounded simple.
It was not.
At the village fountain, she worked slowly, carefully lowering buckets until she felt the shift of weight that told her they were full. Every motion demanded patience. Every step home demanded courage.
The path back home was uneven, rocks waited where she could not see them.
She stumbled often.
Knees scraped against stone and gravel. Buckets slipped from her grasp, spilling precious water into the soil. Each failure forced her to start again from the beginning.
Sometimes the pain grew unbearable.
Sometimes she returned home bruised and trembling, only to be patched up before leaving once more.
Most days, however…
...she finished the task anyway.
Step by step.
Fall by fall.
Because giving up would mean becoming a burden — and that was something Yuna refused to be.
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As Yuna grew older, her presence on the playground slowly faded.
Some days she remained inside her room, wrapped beneath blankets, refusing the sun rays of a morning she could never truly experience. Darkness felt safer than standing beside a world she could not share.
But her absence worried her family.
And so, she forced herself to return outside, crossing her heart with quiet determination, stepping again into the sounds of laughter.
It was on one such day that fate arrived.
A royal carriage passed through the village.
White horses adorned in gold slowed near the playground, their polished harnesses chiming softly. The stop was not planned. No ceremony had been scheduled.
The prince himself had simply noticed her.
A girl sitting apart from the others, eyes closed as though she slept while the world moved around her.
Curiosity drew him closer.
He spoke with her, learned of her blindness, and listened — truly listened — to her story.
And there, the legend says, suffering first gave way to joy.
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The prince was no ordinary noble.
He was the Holy Hero, bearer of sacred healing magic — a power revered across kingdoms.
Healing, however, could not grant sight where none had ever existed.
Such miracles were beyond even holy magic.
But another miracle was possible.
He took her hands in his own.
And through sacred power, Yuna was allowed to perceive the world through his eyes.
For the first time, she experienced light.
She saw herself through him, her cascading dark hair, her calm, unwavering expression, her perfect face adorned with ribbons.
Not as her own vision, but as a shared one — a borrowed window that changed her life from that day on.
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The royal family adopted her soon after, at the whims of their son.
Her parents accepted with heavy but grateful hearts, for above all else they wished for their daughter’s happiness — even if that happiness lay beyond their home.
Yuna moved into the castle.
It was vast compared to the dark room she had known, its halls echoing with life and purpose. Servants guided her gently, and for the first time the world felt less like an obstacle and more like a place welcoming her.
Her favorite moments came at night.
The prince’s days were consumed by duty — study, training, strategy. Destiny weighed heavily upon him, for he was to one day cross paths with the Demon Lord.
They could not spend every moment together.
But they spent enough.
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With time stretching endlessly before her, Yuna asked to work rather than remain idle during her await.
She became a maid.
The other attendants welcomed her warmly, assigning tasks suited to her abilities. Cleaning, dusting, small duties performed with patience and care.
At last, she belonged somewhere.
During the day, she tended the castle halls.
At night, she sat beside the prince and watched the stars through borrowed sight.
Seasons passed.
Friendship deepened.
Then quietly, inevitably, it became love.
Stolen novel; please report.
Promises followed soon after.
When fate was done with duty… they would travel the world together.
See every land.
Every sky.
Every sunrise.
And the prince intended to keep that promise.
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Peace never lasts long enough for promises to be fulfilled.
Far from the castle walls, something watched.
A demon without honor.
It observed patiently from the shadows beyond the kingdom, learning routines, waiting for weakness. It did not seek battle. It sought ruin.
And ruin, it discovered, had a name.
Yuna.
Each night she met the Holy Hero beneath the quiet sky, their shared moments hidden from courtly noise and royal expectation. Laughter, dreams, and futures yet unwritten lived in those hours.
So the demon chose the night.
It slipped into the castle unseen, hiding where nobody would ever doubt — within the girl’s shadow itself.
Waiting.
Listening.
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When the moment came, it moved.
Steel flashed.
The demon emerged behind the hero and drove a twisted blade through his back.
The strike was precise.
Cowardly.
Perfect.
The weapon pierced deeper than intended, its cruel edge passing through him and into Yuna as she embraced him.
For a heartbeat, neither understood what had happened.
Then blood fell.
The demon fled immediately, leaping through the window into the night. Panic erupted through the castle halls as guards gave chase. Those who blocked its escape were cut down without hesitation.
And then—
it vanished.
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Silence remained behind.
Yuna collapsed with the hero beside her, both wounded by the same blade.
His breathing grew shallow.
Her hands trembled as she tried to hold him together, as if sheer will could deny death itself.
Holy light gathered weakly around him.
Healing magic.
His magic.
With his final strength, he pulled her close.
Their lips met — their first kiss, stolen not by romance but by farewell.
The holy power passed from him into her.
Warmth flooded her body.
Her wounds closed.
Light returned to her eyes.
For the first time in her life…
Yuna truly saw the world.
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And the first thing she saw—
was him dying.
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He smiled.
Then he was gone.
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She fell to her knees.
Not saved.
Not grateful.
Devastated.
Even death beside him had been taken from her.
Her gaze fixed on the wound that refused to heal — the wound left not in flesh, but in absence.
Something inside her broke.
Completely.
With trembling hands, she clawed at her own face and tore away the sight, refusing a world that existed without him.
Her screams echoed across the entire city.
Guards arrived.
Servants wept.
Healers begged her to stop.
None of it mattered.
The Holy Hero was already gone.
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Grief swallowed reason.
Love twisted into rage.
The sacred magic within her struggled to remain pure — magic meant to heal, to protect, to preserve life.
But emotion is stronger than doctrine.
And Yuna no longer wished to heal a world that had taken everything from her.
She embraced the corruption willingly.
Holy light darkened.
Warmth turned cold.
Hope collapsed into something heavier.
Something endless.
Despair.
The miracle of healing decayed into a new power never seen before and never witnessed again.
Despair Magic was born.
And thus began the Blind Hero’s first and final journey—
not to save the world…
but to execute every demon from it.
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She walked.
And walked.
And walked.
Across burning fields and frozen valleys, through ruined fortresses and silent wastelands where demons once ruled.
She listened to nothing except the voice of her own magic.
Every demon she encountered fell without mercy, with no effort from the girl's side.
Yuna did not fight for victory.
She fought for absence.
For a world emptied of the race that had taken everything from her.
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Despair Magic was not merely destruction.
Death alone was considered mercy.
The souls she claimed were not allowed to fade.
They were bound.
Consumed.
Trapped within an endless cycle of torment — torn apart, restored, and torn apart again, sustained by the same healing principle that had once defined holy magic.
Suffering without end.
Suffering without release.
Until the caster herself would one day die.
But there lay the cruelest truth of all.
Despair Magic granted its wielder more than just strength.
True immortality.
Her body did not age.
Wounds could not appear.
Fatigue was exiled.
And so the screams within her mind never stopped.
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Years passed.
Or decades.
History lost count.
The Blind Hero annihilated demon armies, shattered strongholds, and slew their king along with the traitor who had struck the Holy Hero down.
Fate itself laughed at the tragedy, for nothing could have stopped it from unveiling upon the world just as prophecy dictated.
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Nearly eighty percent of demonkind vanished from the world.
Yet vengeance brought no peace.
Only silence.
Only echoes.
Her final goal remained simple:
Find the remaining demons hiding across the world…
and erase them.
Before despair erased her.
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With every step, stolen souls cried within her thoughts.
Thousands of voices pleading, raging, begging for an end she could not grant.
Emotion had long since burned away.
Her face rarely smiled at the pain shared between herself and her original tormentors.
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Then, one day, she encountered a boy.
A demon...?
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Her attack came instantly — a reflex honed by years of slaughter.
Despair surged forward—
And stopped.
She moved faster than her own attack, intercepting it before it struck.
For the first time in years…
she hesitated.
The boy was both human and demon.
Half of each.
A contradiction made flesh.
Her purpose fractured.
Protect humans.
Destroy demons.
What was she meant to do with someone who was both?
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The boy did not flee.
Instead, he begged for help.
He led her to a hollow tree that served as a fragile home.
Inside lay his mother.
A demon woman, weak and feverish, bound to a crude bed by illness rather than chains.
Once, a human man had loved her.
Such unions were forbidden, hunted, condemned by both races alike.
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The father had left in secret to search for medicine.
He never returned.
Since then, monsters had begun gathering nearby — whether drawn by weakness or by tragedy itself, none could say.
The boy’s voice trembled as he pleaded.
“Please… help her.”
Yuna looked upon the woman.
And felt nothing.
Not pity.
Not hatred.
Nothing at all.
For she was a demon.
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For the first time since beginning her crusade, the Blind Hero made a decision not born of rage.
She lied.
And refused.
She chose not to kill the woman…
but neither would she save her.
Allowing her to succumb naturally, rather than execution.
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The demon woman died quietly.
There was no battle.
No hatred.
Only a slow fading breath beneath the hollow tree.
In her final moments, she smiled — not at Yuna, but at her son — relieved that her son in, this cruel world, would be allowed to choose his own path.
Yuna watched without speaking.
She neither helped nor interfered.
For the first time in years, death arrived without her hand guiding it.
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The boy followed her afterward.
Silently.
Sneakily.
She noticed, of course.
She simply chose not to acknowledge him.
He had nowhere else to go.
And so he walked beside the Blind Hero as seasons passed and years folded into decades.
He grew older.
His voice deepened.
His steps slowed.
Yet despite his quiet kindness, despite cooking, speaking, laughing, and trying again and again—
he never once made her smile.
Her purpose never changed.
Demons still existed.
Therefore, she continued.
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Despair Magic grew stronger, and with every soul taken, its voice grew stronger.
At first they were only screams.
Then whispers.
Then faces.
She began to see them — demons she had slain standing at the edges of her awareness, condemning her existence.
They cursed her.
Accused her.
Mocked her crusade.
She ignored them all.
Their hatred meant nothing.
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Until warmth appeared.
A presence unlike the others.
Gentle.
Familiar.
Terrifying.
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The magic itself shaped it.
An imitation of the prince.
At first he looked at her with empty curiosity, as though they had never met.
Months later, fear entered his expression.
He recoiled from her actions.
Then one day—
he remembered.
And silence replaced fear.
Cold.
Distant silence.
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With every demon she killed, his expression changed.
Disappointment.
Anger.
Disgust.
The first word reached her only in fragments.
“…ter.”
Days passed.
“…ster.”
And finally—
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“Monster.”
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Within a single month, the imitation became complete.
The prince spoke freely now, his voice sharp with condemnation.
“You are a monster.”
“A murderer.”
“An abomination.”
"A... mistake..."
The boy who traveled beside her watched helplessly as the invincible hero collapsed to her knees, pleading with someone only she could see.
She begged.
Explained.
Cried that she had done everything for him.
For humanity.
For their promise.
But the apparition never softened.
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One day, the worst had finally came.
“I hate you.”
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Something inside her shattered.
She reached for a blade and drove it toward her throat, intending to end the pain.
The steel cracked.
Immortality denied her even that escape.
A fall from within the sky had only damaged the innocent.
Air was unnecessary.
Fire was cold.
Even water rejected her.
She sought battle after battle, hoping defeat might claim her.
None could.
The strongest being in the world had become its most desperate prisoner.
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So she chose another path.
If she could not die…
she would end herself differently.
Yuna fought Despair with Despair.
All suffering.
All stolen souls.
All eternity.
And forged them into a single spell.
Not destruction.
Not vengeance.
Punishment.
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The petrification began slowly.
Years passed as her body hardened piece by piece.
Stone crept across her legs, her torso, her arms.
Pain accompanied every moment — not physical, but spiritual — as the magic resisted losing its immortal vessel.
She endured it willingly.
Kneeling.
Hands clasped together.
Begging for forgiveness that would never come.
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When the transformation finally ended, the Blind Hero remained frozen forever in prayer.
Not victorious.
Not honored.
But pleading.
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And so the statue stands at the heart of the city.
A hero who saved humanity.
A monster who destroyed herself.
A reminder that despair does not end with victory.
Only with silence.
