I heard voices.

Not the schizophrenic kind — the real kind. The kind that comes from throats, not trauma.

And I knew them. Not personally — I didn't exactly do brunches with peasants — but I knew who they were.

They were the people of Moral.

My people.

The ones I was supposed to protect five years ago.

Instead, I failed them so hard it could've been used as an educational video titled "Leadership 101: How to Lose a Kingdom in One Easy Step."

They'd finally crawled out of their houses again.

Morning had arrived. Birds were chirping, corpses were cooling, and rent was still due.

Me and my crew had attacked at night — classic strategy. You know, when everyone's half-asleep, underpaid, and emotionally unavailable.

But now, as the sun came up, the villagers poured out of their homes like ants after a flood.

And when they looked at the sky — they froze.

Because they'd seen this before.

Malthus had once turned the sky into a damn 4K cinema screen when he conquered this planet.

It was like God gave him admin privileges and he used them for YouTube Shorts.

The people stared — confused, afraid, and slightly constipated — until their eyes found me.

And in that moment, their faces lit up like a million electric bulbs powered by pure nostalgia and bad decision-making.

Then they screamed in one unified voice:

"THE HERO KING HAS RETURNED!"

Their cries shook the ground, filled the air, and probably woke a few dead ancestors.

And me? I couldn't be happier.

They were cheering. For me. The same guy who once accidentally set his own throne on fire because I tried to cook ramen on it.

They weren't cheering because I was a good ruler — I wasn't. I had no idea how to rule.

That's why they loved me.

Under my rule, everyone did whatever the hell they wanted. It was democracy, but funnier and far more illegal.

Malthus, on the other hand, was a tyrant — a walking HR policy violation.

The people deserved freedom, or at least the illusion of it.

And after five years of suffering, their prayers had been answered.

So I raised my voice, trying to sound as kingly as possible, which for me means "pretending to know what I'm doing."

"Everyone! I am the Hero King! I wasn't dead — just training in silence! Today, you all shall gain independence. Today shall be our World Independence Day!"

My words boomed across the land like an overconfident TED Talk, and the crowd went wild.

"YEAHHHH!"

"KILL HIMMM!"

"He made our lives hell!"

"Yeah, he made me sleep with five girls daily!"

"Huh? Isn't that a good thing?"

"I'M GAY!"

"Damn. Yeah, Malthus is evil. Anyway, you free after this?"

Beautiful.

I gave them a speech, and they turned it into Tinder.

During my rally for freedom, two men literally started flirting mid-chant.

They'd probably be doing sword-fighting later — and I don't mean katanas, brother.

Anyway, time to bring back the dawn.

Literally.

Malthus had regenerated his right foot — the one I'd sliced earlier — because of course he did. The man was built like a subscription plan that refuses to cancel.

He glared at me with his dark red eyes — eyes that screamed, "I eat glass for breakfast and feelings for dinner."

"You've grown stronger, human king. And your heart… has become braver. Good for you."

"Praises don't flatter me anymore, Malthus," I said, gripping my katana. "I'm a man of action now."

"Then show me some more action!"

And BOOM — he blurred forward.

The air cracked. The earth moaned. And I barely managed to raise my sword before his hit connected.

SWISH!

Our blades clashed — metal screaming, sparks flying, the world trembling like a cheap phone on silent mode.

I countered, parried, dodged — the works.

Lucky for me, I had a skill for this. Literally. Without it, I'd be diced faster than onions in Gordon Ramsay's kitchen.

Malthus fought like he was born holding a sword. I fought like I was born holding trauma. It balanced out.

Each strike echoed across the battlefield.

It wasn't a fight anymore. It was a goddamn concert.

Every time our blades met, angels flinched, demons took notes, and physics sent in its resignation letter.

We fought in the air, on the ground, through dust and flame — both of us swinging like unpaid interns in hell.

But neither of us was landing a hit.

It was like trying to punch your reflection — all power, no progress.

I was patient though. I had monk-tier focus.

Malthus? Not so much. Dude had the patience of a toddler waiting for Wi-Fi.

He lived to end things fast — kill quick, move on, repeat.

But since I refused to die, his temper boiled like cheap whiskey.

Finally, he snapped.

He stopped swinging, raised his right hand toward the sky — and I had flashbacks of every anime villain ever.

I didn't know what he was doing. Summoning a dragon? Channeling divine power?

No.

Something worse.

Something hotter.

The air shimmered. The ground cooked. And suddenly, my sweat started sweating.

Then he screamed—

"Take this! PARRY THIS SUN, YOU SON OF A BITCH!"

My brain short-circuited.

Did he just say sun?

My eyebrows teleported off my face.

Was this man about to throw a sun at me?

Yeah. He was.

Heat exploded like the world's most illegal sauna. My skin felt like it was being unzipped by the devil's blow-dryer.

Blood boiled. Hair smoked. My katana started questioning its life choices.

But my master's voice echoed in my head — the same old line:

"Never give up, even when reality clearly says 'Please stop.'"

So I gritted my teeth, raised my sword, and told myself I could do it.

Malthus called it a sun — but it wasn't that big. I could cut this thing. I believed in my training.

And then—

[ You won't be able to cut shit, you idiot! You're the main character, not Chuck Norris. Put that katana down and let me handle it. ]

Oh great. The system was awake.

I wanted to yell back, "Let me cook!" but it didn't give me a chance.

[ Skill — Golden Shower: ACTIVATED! ]

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