Maribell, stepping forward, raised her hand and made a gesture – slow, deliberate, as if the form of the movement itself held significance. It wasn't a gesture of surrender or a challenge. More of an invitation. A strange, almost ritualistic movement that sent a barely perceptible shudder through the crowd. To those around her, it seemed frightening, as if she were trying to negotiate with the storm. To Zario, it was merely a curious attempt to buy a few seconds.
She took a breath and spoke, and there was something in her voice that no one here had heard for a long time, a confidence that was not based on fear.
— I, the Heroine of Duttingham, am the Source of All Holy Deeds in the third corpse and, of course…
She didn't have time to finish.
Zario stopped her, not with a gesture or a word; he simply took a step forward. A single step, but the air around him seemed to compress. He let his will flow, not shaping it into an attack, not directing it toward a specific target. Simply thirst. Pure, thick, familiar to the point of disgust, a thirst for blood, honed by years of a past life and strengthened by this body, this world, this role.
He didn't look at her as an adversary. He looked at her like a predator, curious to see how his prey would react if he gave it hope – and then began slowly taking it away.
The crowd reacted instantly. Some backed away, others gripped their weapons so tightly their knuckles turned white. The tension became almost physical, and in the silence, someone's voice broke into a scream – harsh, broken, saturated with hatred.
— You're a fucking monster... Because you destroyed all the villages in the southern part of the Empire, all my relatives died...
The words hung in the air, heavy and awkward. For a few seconds, no one moved. Glances darted first to the one who had shouted it – a man with a contorted face and eyes in which pain had long since burned into rage – and then slowly, almost in unison, returned to Zario.
He just... smiled.
Not broadly or demonstratively. The smile was calm, even pleased, as if what he'd heard hadn't surprised him, but merely confirmed his previous conclusions. Somewhere deep inside, the thought flashed that this body had truly lived as expected. A true villain. Without excuses, without complex motives, without a desire to be understood.
Why not?
He found himself in a perfectly fitting shell, in a world where fear was currency and hatred was recognition.
The whispers came in waves. Not a single hum, but fragments of phrases, intersecting and contradicting each other.
— Didn't he kill him right away?
— Is Zario tired today?
— Maybe we will have a chance?
— Is this really Zario?
The name struck unexpectedly.
It's gone.
He heard it clearly, as if someone had spoken it right next to his ear. Something inside him twitched faintly, not fear or anxiety, but a strange, viscous sense of coincidence. He didn't remember calling himself by that name here. And yet they knew him. They knew him all too well.
"This villain's name was Zario? Just like mine, or something..."
The thought was absurd, almost laughable, but it sent a chill down his spine. This name was clearly not an empty sound. It evoked images, destruction, death, decisions made without hesitation. Whole chapters of someone else's history were linked to this name, and now, for some reason, this history was looking back at him from within.
Maribell remained silent the entire time. She no longer held her hand up, and the snake around her froze, tense, ready to strike at any moment. Her gaze changed. There was no longer caution or calculation in it, only pure, almost painful incomprehension.
She looked at him as if she was facing a familiar nightmare that had suddenly gone awry.
And Zario stood in the middle of this chaos, absorbing the looks, fear, hatred and doubt, and felt how the role imposed on him by this world ceased to be a mask.
She began to grow together with him.
Maribel stepped forward abruptly, as if she'd just jolted herself out of her stupor. Her voice rose to a scream and echoed across the battlefield, drowning out even the din of the fighting.
— Zario! I... well, we can't figure out what's wrong with you, but you will answer for all your actions... and... and I, I will answer that your head...
She choked on her own words.
Zario interrupted her before her words could take on a threatening tone. His voice sounded unusually calm, almost soft, and that only made it more terrifying.
— Maribel, I know you're not ready to die.
The words hit the mark.
Maribel staggered. It was only noticeable to those watching closely, but Zario saw everything. Her hands were shaking, her breathing was ragged, and beneath her stoic exterior, fear was evident—raw, undisguised, the kind that couldn't be faked. She truly was on the brink: one more step and she'd either burst into tears or burst into hysteria.
Gritting her teeth, she answered, forcing out each word:
- You don't know me one bit... You started the war against the Empire, and I will definitely finish it.
At that moment, Zario realized something strange: he didn't know what to do next.
Not because he was afraid. Not because he doubted. But because the situation wasn't going the way it "should" for the person they thought he was here. He felt anticipation – not his own, but the world's, the role's, reality's own, as if the scene had already been written and he'd suddenly forgotten his lines.
And as if responding to this pause, a piece of paper appeared in front of him again.
[The Mysterious Role "Primordial Nightmare Villain - Zario" wishes for you to release the hallow "Taste of Spell".]
Zario read the line and chuckled to himself.
He couldn't do it. His head held no other memories, no "tastes," no accumulated experience of this body. And no matter how much the role demanded, no matter how much the world pushed, the void couldn't be filled with orders.
He simply ignored the sign.
The leaflet remained hanging for another moment, and then disappeared, as if displeased.
Then there was only one way out.
Play.
Play the villain until the end, even without knowing the rules.
"Then what else can I do but kill you..." he said evenly. "After all, for me it's worth only a moment."
He raised his hand and began to slowly rotate it, changing direction, as if searching for something invisible. The movement seemed meaningless at first glance: no symbols, no energy, no flashes. Simply a gesture.
But inside he was thinking about something else.
What if taste isn't their only strength?
What if taste is an experience, a sensation, a memory?
What if you could try… on my own?
He recalled the rage, the fear, the excitement, the moment before the kill, the moment before death, the taste of adrenaline, blood, power. He didn't understand if it was working, but for the first time since waking up, he allowed himself to act intuitively.
A look of bewilderment reigned around him.
People exchanged glances, creatures slowed their movements, even Maribel frowned, not understanding what exactly he was doing.
And suddenly...
She laughed.
Not hysterical. Not nervous. The laughter was loud, sincere, and almost joyful. It was jarring in its inappropriateness.
"Ha, ha, hahahaha!" She laughed nonstop, throwing her head back. "What an idiot you are. No... what idiots were we to think Zario would come here on his own!"
The laughter turned into a hoarse exhalation.
"This aura... it's exactly like Zario's. But Zario would never act like that. It looks like the real Zario is heading straight for the Imperial capital right now."
Zario abruptly stopped the movement of his hand.
He looked around.
A look of confusion flashed among those who might have been called his subordinates. Faces that had recently been filled with fear and submission now expressed doubt.
And among the enemies... something much more dangerous was happening there.
A light came into their eyes.
Smiles appeared on the lips.
The weapon rose a little more confidently.
Hope.
And Zario realized this was the turning point.
He stood in the center of the battlefield, where a second ago he had been a living nightmare, and now, an enigma. All eyes were on him, all blades, spears, hallows, too.
He felt this tension in his skin, in his bones, in the very essence of his new body.
Desperate situation.
Exciting to the point of trembling.
"Well," he thought, exhaling slowly. So, I'll have to prove that even a fake Zario is still a nightmare.