Summoned a Hero But Got a Villain Instead

The boy's uniform was a perfect fit. A second skin that made him look average. Normal. Forgettable.

It felt like a better disguise than any shadow he could command.

To complete the look, he took a piece of his old, tattered cloak and made a simple handmade mask to cover the lower half of his face. It was crude. Rough. But it served its purpose.

It made him anonymous. Made him a ghost.

Now he could walk freely.

Yeah. This would work.

The city was breathtaking. Confusing. A mix of magic and technology that shouldn't exist together but somehow did perfectly.

The buildings were works of art. Their glowing stone walls and polished wood frames reached toward a sky filled with soft, ambient light from floating crystals. Like stars brought down to earth. Magic made solid and practical.

The people here—the students of the Silverleaf Academy—moved with easy, casual confidence. Like they owned the world. Their uniforms were a sea of grey and white against the bright colors of market stalls. Against vendors selling food, books, magical trinkets.

The smells were the most overwhelming part. The hardest to resist.

The air was thick with the scent of roasting meat. Sweet baking bread. Pastries. Spices he'd never known existed. Flavors from a dozen different cultures mixing together.

It was a tempting, delicious assault on his senses. A stark, cruel reminder of the life he'd never had. The simple pleasures he'd been denied.

But he couldn't afford a single piece of it. Couldn't buy even the cheapest street food.

That stupid old man, Rowan. That northern bastard king.

He'd promised to handle their arrangements. To provide for them. To make sure they had what they needed.

But his "provision" was a beautiful cage. A prison with tasteless, boiled rations that were only a small step up from the raw beast flesh they'd eaten in the trial. Barely edible. No flavor. No life to it.

He'd given them nothing. No money. No freedom. No choices. No dignity.

He'd made sure they were completely dependent on whatever scraps he threw them. Like dogs waiting for their master's table scraps.

'I'm sure that bastard told the headmaster nothing but lies about us,' Dante thought bitterly. His jaw clenched under the mask. 'Painted us as dangerous criminals. Ungrateful rebels who need to be controlled.'

'That old smug tyrant. I will beat his ass one day. Personally. Make him regret every second of this.'

The blessings he'd stolen from the Goddess had erased the physical feeling of hunger. One of the divine gifts he'd manipulated out of her. A useful but now frustrating benefit.

His body didn't need food anymore. Didn't require it to function. Could go days, weeks, maybe forever without eating and he'd be fine. Perfectly healthy. Perfectly strong.

But his mind, his soul, still remembered the craving. The desire. The simple, basic pleasure of eating good food. Of tasting something delicious. Of feeling satisfied and full.

The delicious smells wafting from every stall were driving him crazy. Torturing him in a way physical pain never could. Reminding him of what he couldn't have. What had been taken from him.

'I need to leave this food court,' he decided firmly. 'Let's explore other things before I do something stupid. Before I steal something and blow my cover.'

The mask, however, was drawing more attention than he'd expected. Way more.

In a city of confident, open faces where everyone smiled and laughed freely, a masked man was strange. Suspicious. Out of place.

People were giving him curious looks as he walked by. Some worried. Some just confused. Some looked nervous, like they thought he might be dangerous.

A few whispered to each other. Pointing. Staring.

He needed to be a background character. An unremarkable face in the crowd. Someone forgettable. Someone who blended in perfectly.

A mask was the opposite of that. It screamed "pay attention to me" louder than anything else could.

It made him stand out exactly when he needed to disappear.

He turned from the main street and followed a quieter path. A winding road with fewer students. Fewer people in general. Hoping to find a place where he could watch without being watched. Observe the city without standing out. Learn how this world worked.

The path led him to the back of a large, imposing building. Probably one of the academy's lecture halls based on its size and architecture. Old stone. Impressive. Built to last centuries.

It was a quiet, secluded space tucked away from the main roads. A small courtyard of cracked flagstones and overgrown ivy climbing the walls. Forgotten. Neglected. The kind of place students probably only used as a shortcut.

And then he heard the voices. Angry. Harsh.

"How many times do I have to tell you, you worthless piece of trash?"

The voice was harsh. Cruel. Full of pure contempt. The kind of contempt that came from looking down on someone you considered beneath you.

"You have to give us your credits on the very first day!"

He stopped immediately. Froze in his tracks. Melting into the shadows of a nearby alcove without conscious thought. He pressed himself against the cold stone wall and listened carefully.

Four students stood in the courtyard ahead. Their uniforms were perfect. Pristine. Not a wrinkle or stain. Their posture radiated arrogant, noble-born confidence. The kind that came from never being told no. Never facing consequences.

They had a single, much smaller boy cornered against a wall. Trapped. No escape route. Surrounded.

"I don't think he can remain in the academy for the rest of the year," another of the bullies said. His voice was lazy. Amused. Cruel. "He'll probably leave before the mid-terms. Save us the trouble."

The bullied boy was trembling. His face was pale. His eyes wide with familiar, pathetic terror.

"I'm sorry," he stammered. His voice was weak. Thin. Broken. "But without my credits, I can't live in the academy. Everything here is based on credits. How will I eat? How will I attend my classes?"

The lead bully kicked him in the stomach.

THUD.

The sound echoed in the quiet courtyard.

The boy doubled over. A pained, wheezing sound escaped his lips. Like air being forced from a punctured balloon.

"I won't listen to your excuses anymore," the bully snarled. He leaned down. Getting in the boy's face. "Just hand over the credits for this month as well. Now. Or you'll be beaten to a pulp."

"We're all nobles here. You're a nobody. A peasant who got lucky."

He grabbed the boy's collar. Pulled him up.

"We could kill you right here. And with our families' power, we could make it so your very existence was erased from the records. Like you never existed at all."

The bullied boy's face crumpled. His eyes filled with tears of helpless despair. Complete powerlessness.

He took out his smartphone. A sleek silver device that looked expensive.

With trembling fingers, he did something on the screen. Transferring. Sending. Giving away what little he had.

"I... I've sent all my monthly credits," he whimpered. Voice barely audible.

One of the other bullies stepped forward. His face showed satisfied pleasure. Like he'd won a game.

"Good boy," he said. Mocking. Patronizing. "And now, for your punishment."

The smaller boy looked up. Confused. Terrified.

"So you'll remember to pay on time in the future. We're going to teach you a little lesson."

He drew back his fist.

And punched the boy in the face.

The others joined in immediately. A flurry of kicks and punches. Coordinated. Practiced. They'd done this before.

The boy collapsed to the ground. Curled into a ball. His arms wrapped around his head trying to protect himself.

And Dante... he was just watching from the shadows. Hidden in the alcove.

But he wasn't in the courtyard anymore. Not really. Not mentally.

The scene shifted in his mind. Blurred. Changed. Overlaid with memories he'd tried to bury.

The voices echoed differently. Younger. Higher-pitched. But just as cruel.

The world turned to grey, rain-soaked concrete. A different alley. A different city. A different lifetime.

"Give it back, mistake."

The name they'd called him. The label they'd given him.

The smell of rotting garbage filled his nose. Made him gag. Made him want to vomit.

"He's not gonna fight back. He's too weak. Too pathetic. Too worthless."

The dull, throbbing ache in his ribs returned. A ghost of pain from a lifetime ago. From when he was the one on the ground. Curled up. Trying to protect his head. His stomach. His face.

"Let's teach him a lesson he'll never forget. Make sure he remembers his place."

The laughter. That particular sound. That specific type of laughter.

Cruel. Childish. Completely merciless. The sound of people enjoying someone else's pain.

It echoed in his mind. Clear as a bell. A sound he thought he'd murdered and buried long ago along with everything else from his old life.

But it was back. Vivid. Real. Like no time had passed at all.

He was twelve again. Thirteen. Fourteen. All those years blurring together into one endless nightmare of concrete and blood and laughter.

The next moment, his body moved on its own. Without conscious thought.

The bullies were so lost in their work. So lost in the joy of their own power. So focused on their victim and his suffering.

They didn't hear his footsteps on the cracked flagstones.

His strength was held back. Choked down to what he hoped was a survivable one percent. Maybe even less.

He knew that even at that level, a single punch—fueled by the rage that was now a cold, black fire in his soul—would kill them. Instantly.

So he used a different weapon.

He closed the gap silently. A shadow in the dim light of the courtyard. Moving like a predator stalking prey. Each step calculated. Controlled.

As he drew close, he raised his left hand. Fingers spread slightly.

The Ring of the Maelstrom on his finger glowed with faint, almost invisible blue light. Pulsing. Responding to his will.

He focused his intent. Not into a grand, explosive vortex. Not into the massive water attacks he'd used against monsters in the trial.

But into something small. Sharp. Precise. Surgical. Controlled.

Water.

He pulled the moisture from the damp air. From the ivy on the walls. From the humid night itself. From the very atmosphere around them.

And compressed it. Shaped it with his will. Gave it form. Gave it purpose. Made it deadly.

The bullies laughed as one of them landed a particularly nasty kick to the boy's ribs. The crunch was audible.

Dante fired.

It wasn't a blast. Wasn't a wave. Wasn't anything obvious or flashy.

It was a series of tiny, almost silent sounds. Barely audible.

Pfft. Pfft. Pfft. Pfft.

Four thin, impossibly fast needles of high-pressure water shot through the air. Moving faster than arrows. Harder than steel in that moment. Focused. Deadly.

They struck their targets with surgical, vicious precision. Perfect aim.

One needle for each of their faces. Right through the cheek.

The laughter turned to screams instantly. Transformed. Shocked. Pained. Surprised. Terrified.

The four of them staggered back like they'd been struck by invisible fists. Their hands flew to their faces instinctively. Blood poured from deep, clean puncture wounds in their cheeks. Straight through. Like they'd been shot.

They weren't seriously wounded. Nothing life-threatening. The needles had missed anything vital. But they were hurt badly. Shocked. Bleeding. And utterly, completely confused about what had just happened.

What the hell hit them?

They spun around frantically. Their eyes blazed with furious, disbelieving rage mixed with genuine fear. Searching desperately for the source of the attack. For whoever dared strike them.

Their gazes fell upon him standing there.

A lone, masked figure. Standing silently in the shadows. Partially hidden. Watching them with cold eyes.

"Who the fuck are you?" the lead bully shouted. His voice was high. Panicked despite the anger. Blood dripped down his chin. "Show yourself!"

Dante didn't answer. Didn't move. Didn't speak.

He just stood there. Perfectly still. Silent as death. His dark eyes visible above the crude mask.

Cold. Empty. Judging them.

Finding them wanting.