I killed a villain...
The thought echoed in my head.
’But it wasn’t real.’
’It was just a simulation.’
Still... it felt real.
’That was the whole point of the VR training. To make you feel like you were in the moment. To make you believe the blood, the weight, the choice—were all real.’
In real life, you can’t kill a villain unless it’s life or death.
’Then what? Wait until it is life or death?’
’Wait until hesitation gets you killed?’
I clenched my fists as that voice—my own, annoying, brutally honest inner voice—cut through my thoughts.
In the novel, Ryen didn’t kill villains most of the time.
’So what?’
’You’re not Ryen. You don’t get that kind of luxury.’
’You don’t have a plot armor, a destined role, or a conveniently timed rescue.’
I gritted my teeth.
The blood felt real.
Too real.
And if I kept going like this—training like this—it would become real, sooner or later.
But I didn’t have a choice.
I’d already stepped onto this path.
And there’s no turning back.
But for time being, I want see my options before I decide to kill or not.
’Try all you want but know this you don’t have any other option. You will Kill.’
I gritted my teeth and approch VR simulation once more.
...And this time I won’t be killing.
As I said, I want to see my options before I decide to kill or not.
At least, I will try to do that.
-----
Just like before, I selected a random no-name villain from the simulation menu. Same difficulty. Same setup.
The environment flickered briefly as it loaded—an empty backstreet at dusk, bathed in grainy orange light, like a still from a low-budget crime drama. The cracked pavement, the faint sound of wind rustling through garbage bags—it all looked and felt too real.
Then he appeared.
Right on cue.
A few meters ahead, the villain spawned, holding a standard-issue combat knife—identical to mine. He looked older, mid-thirties maybe, with a hunched posture and dead eyes that tried a little too hard to look confident.
"Kids these days, man..." he sneered, chuckling under his breath. "Pretending to be heroes at your age? You got delusion syndrome or what?"
I didn’t say anything.
He frowned at the silence, like it pissed him off more than any insult could’ve. Then, without warning, he charged.
His movements were sluggish to me—not because he was actually slow, but because I activated my Talent: [Enhancement].
The moment I boosted my vision, everything changed.
The world didn’t really slow down, but it felt like it did. His posture, his grip, the twitch of his shoulder before he moved—I could see all of it clearly, like reading subtitles in advance.
His knife came swinging down. Wild. Clumsy.
I sidestepped and drove my fist into his solar plexus. He choked, staggered back. The impact vibrated through my arm in a way that was uncomfortably real for a simulation. But before I could follow up, his blade grazed my forearm.
A sharp sting shot through me.
It wasn’t deep, but it hurt more than I expected. The pain was raw, unnerving in its detail. The simulation was definitely working overtime today.
I didn’t let that distract me. I twisted behind him, forced the knife from his grip, and drove him to the ground. My knee pinned him down.
His shouting started immediately.
"You son of a bitch! Let me go! You bastard!"
Blood dripped from my arm. My knuckles ached. I could hear my breathing in my ears.
And for a second—just a second—I hesitated.
Because the pain felt too real. Because the fear in his voice almost sounded human.
Because I remembered something.
In the novel, Ryen—the real Ryen—barely killed. You could count the number of confirmed kills on two hands. He didn’t need to end lives. Just subdue. Detain. Let the system handle the rest.
And for a moment, I considered doing just that.
But I knew better.
This was the reason Ryen suffered later. This was the reason Kai Foster, one of the biggest villains in the early arcs, managed to slip away again and again.
Mercy had consequences.
So I silenced that moment of doubt and did what had to be done.
I stabbed him.
Right in the neck.
The sensation was nauseating. The knife met resistance—flesh, muscle, then something harder, maybe bone. My fingers tightened. He jerked once, then stopped moving.
Silence returned to the street.
I stood slowly, wiping the blood from my hand as the simulation around me began to dissolve—pixel by pixel—like a dream fading at sunrise.
Cold. Efficient. Necessary.
I told myself that, again and again, even as the metallic scent of iron clung to my senses like smoke after a fire.
This was just a simulation.
Virtual. Not real.
No one actually died.
But deep down, I knew better.
"Oh, but you will, won’t you?"
I didn’t respond to the voice in my head.
Maybe because I already knew the answer.
The truth was, I’d known since the first time I stepped into this simulation—when I fought my first villain and made excuses to justify what I did.
"It was self-defense."
"He left me no choice."
"I panicked."
But they were just that—excuses.
Even then, I understood what I’d done. I could’ve disabled him. I could’ve run. But I didn’t. I hesitated for a moment, then went for the kill.
Because deep down... I didn’t want to lose.
So I came back again. Another run. Another villain. Another fight.
And the result?
The same.
If I didn’t kill them, they would’ve killed me.
There wasn’t a clean way out. Not in this world. Not with the choices I had.
"Good to see you’re finally being honest with yourself," the voice murmured again.
I didn’t argue.
Not this time.
Because maybe that honesty—the kind that leaves you hollow inside—was the first step in becoming the kind of hero this world actually needed.
Not the kind in capes.
But the kind who walks away, blood on their hands, telling themselves it was the only way.