Dark Dragon: The Summoned Hero Is A Villain

Othello strolled through the front gates of the Investigation Authority building as if he owned the place.

His dark hair was cropped neat, his face clean-shaven, and his… borrowed uniform perfectly pressed. The insignia of an Authority agent gleamed on his chest.

To anyone watching, he was just another tired officer reporting for his shift.

He blended effortlessly into the rhythm of the place.

At the first checkpoint, he nodded at the guards, trading a weary joke about long nights.

At the second, he signed his name on the duty ledger without hesitation, his handwriting identical to the one he had lifted days before.

No one blinked.

The building was a maze of corridors, but he walked with ease. The trick wasn't to sneak. The trick was to belong.

At last, he reached the cell block.

His boots clicked against the cold stone floor as he passed through the final gate.

The dim glow of the lanterns lined the hallway, casting pale light over the barred doors.

He nodded once more to the pair of agents stationed here. They greeted him curtly, then returned to their patrol.

Othello smiled thinly.

The moment their backs turned, he moved.

Two quick steps, and his hands snapped forward.

The air shimmered with a soft wave of mana, and both men dropped like puppets with their strings cut, their throats neatly opened before they could shout.

Othello adjusted his collar, then walked calmly down the row until he reached the cell he wanted.

Inside, Marlon hung limply from his restraints, his body ragged and half-healed, his skin pale with exhaustion.

"Ah," Othello murmured, voice low with amusement. "Look at you. Broken, beaten… but not without potential."

He unlatched the barred door and stepped inside.

With one hand, he seized Marlon's jaw, forcing his mouth open.

From his coat, he drew a vial of blackish liquid that shimmered faintly under the lantern light.

The cork popped free with a soft thunk.

"Drink," Othello whispered, tilting the potion into Marlon's mouth.

The unconscious man coughed once, then swallowed reflexively.

A grin appeared on Othello's face, wild and delighted. "Let's see what you become."

He turned, humming cheerfully as he stepped back out.

Without so much as a glance behind him, he left the door wide open.

A minute later, with Othello long gone, Marlon's eyes snapped open.

His vision was clearer than it had ever been.

Every detail of the cell was etched in his mind. The cracks in the stone, the faint shimmer of runes in the walls, even the shallow breaths of the agents on patrol outside.

His body trembled, but not with fear. Power coursed through him, molten and infinite, as if every fiber of his being had been reforged.

A calmness sat in his chest, unnatural but unshakable.

He was not lost to madness this time. His mind was his own, but it was filled with certainty.

He would not die in an Investigation Authority cell.

The iron restraints clattered to the ground as he stood, the steel warped under the pressure of his awakening strength.

He stepped out of the open cell, and made his way past the dead agents into the next corridor.

The agents there whirled, their eyes widening at the sight of him.

"Stop right there!" one barked, raising his staff.

Marlon moved before the words had finished leaving the man's mouth.

A fist smashed into his chest, caving it in with a sickening crunch.

Another agent fired a binding spell, chains of glowing blue light wrapping around Marlon's arm.

He flexed, and the bindings snapped like twigs.

With a growl, he seized the man by the throat and hurled him against the wall, bones shattering as he crumpled lifelessly to the floor.

The hallway filled with shouts, more agents rushing to block his path.

Spells flew, Fire, ice, lightning, each one crackling uselessly against his skin, dissipating in sparks as if the world itself bent away from harming him.

He plowed through them, his claws and fists tearing through armor, his strikes breaking men and women in a single blow.

When silence fell, Marlon stood among the bodies, his chest rising and falling evenly. Calm. Always calm.

He turned the corner, his steps carrying him deeper into the building.

He needed out. Needed air, freedom, life beyond this cage.

But as he entered a long hallway, his steps slowed.

At the far end, Lord Rowe stood.

His eyes were calm, the kind of eyes that had seen battles greater than this one.

His arms folded across his chest as he spoke, his voice filled the hallway.

"Marlon."

Marlon straightened, meeting his gaze.

"You will stand down," Rowe said. "You've gone far enough."

"I can't," Marlon answered, his tone calm, almost gentle. "I won't die in a cell. Not like that. I have too much left… too much I've already lost."

Rowe's eyes hardened. "You were a victim. But with these deaths, you've crossed the line. You are now a perpetrator."

"And I do not forgive perpetrators."

The air crackled as both men moved at once.

Marlon surged forward, claws flashing.

Rowe's blue aura flared, hunger mana spilling around him in waves that ate at the walls, gnawing at stone and air alike.

Marlon struck first, his fists slamming into conjured shields that groaned under the force.

Rowe staggered back a step, his boots grinding against the floor.

For a moment, Marlon held the advantage, his strikes raining down like a storm, every blow shaking the hall.

Rowe's barriers shattered, and the older man was forced to dodge, the edges of Marlon's claws grazing his cloak.

But Rowe's expression never wavered. This was a battle he'd fought a thousand times.

He was calm. Experience really was the greatest teacher.

The tide quickly shifted in his favor.

Rowe slowly began countering.

Each strike Marlon threw was met with a blue shimmer, spells eating into his momentum, slowing him down.

A beam of hunger light grazed Marlon's shoulder, searing flesh that hissed and smoked.

He roared, but Rowe didn't give him space to do more than defend, decades of battle experience flowing through every movement he made.

Step by step, blow by blow, Marlon's fury was broken down.

At last, Rowe's fist struck home, slamming into Marlon's gut with enough force to lift him off his feet and send him crashing into the far wall.

He slid to the floor, coughing blood, his strength fading.

Rowe approached, his energy dimming, his voice grave. "We verified your statement. You were telling the truth."

Marlon looked up weakly, his lips parting as if to ask why.

"But truth doesn't erase the crime you just committed." Rowe's palm glowed with blue light. "And there will be no more victims tonight."

The beam tore through Marlon's chest, ending him instantly.

His body slumped, still at last.

Rowe stood over him, sighing heavily. For a moment, he looked older, like a man who had seen more than the world had shown him.

"Clean this up," he ordered as agents poured in, their faces pale at the carnage. "Remove the bodies. No trace remains."

"And compensate the families of the dead agents."

And with that, he walked away, his cloak sweeping behind him.