Transmigrated as the Villain Between the Heroine and the Villainess

Silence.

On the ground, two things were dissolving into the dirt: blood and tears.

The students were exhausted. Kaelen was leaning against the broken wall of a hut, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

Seraphina sat on the ground, her head in her hands.

Selvara, Orion, and Lyra were scattered, lying on the cold stone road, too tired to even speak.

Azrael stood tall.

He had taken every brutal hit, every painful vibration from the creature's attacks. But he was at his limit.

His body started to shake, his vision blurring at the edges. He was about to drop to the ground.

A pair of small arms wrapped around him, stopping his fall. It was Elvara. She was small, but she held him up, her own body trembling with the effort.

The last thing he remembered before he passed out was her face, full of a worry that looked surprisingly real.

Elvara looked around the broken street. A few villagers, who had been hiding in their cellars, were slowly coming out.

They had seen the end of the fight. They saw the ghost, the monster that had haunted their nights, crying in pain and patting a girl's head before killing himself.

They couldn't process it. They didn't know the story. But one thing was clear: the creature was dead. Their worries, their fear, it was all gone.

Some of the men came forward and gently helped the fallen students, providing them with water and makeshift bandages. Elvara, with the support of another man, helped carry Azrael to a nearby house for treatment.

The field was clearing. All that remained was Sabrina, her husband, and the old woman.

The village elder, a man with a long white beard, approached them. "What just happened?" he asked, his voice trembling. "Who was that... to you?"

Sabrina didn't say anything. Her eyes were fixed on the dusty hand of her father, which she now held in her own.

The old woman spoke, her voice carrying across the quiet square. "It was the same story I have been telling for years. The story that you all called a fairy tale."

She looked at the elder, her eyes sad. "The story of a boy who loved too deeply, and a girl who sinned to save him. The tragic story of Eric and Mariam—a love that tried to fight the world, but was broken by it."

She sighed, a weary sound. "Telling the whole story would be too exhausting. Why don't we sit and discuss it?" The old man nodded slowly.

The old woman then turned to Sabrina. "It's dark. We should go back. Tomorrow, we'll lay him to rest and say our final goodbye."

"You can go," Sabrina said softly, not looking away from her father's hand. "I will stay."

Her husband, who had been standing silently beside her, bent down and put a hand on her shoulder. He sat on the ground next to her, a silent promise that she was not alone.

The old woman looked at them, then back at the elder. "Let's go. We have a lot to discuss." She paused, her gaze sweeping the empty street. "And where is that boy who just made all this happen?"

____________________

Azrael woke up to the sound of chatter. His eyes were barely open, the light in the room a blurry haze, but he could hear their voices clearly.

"I haven't brought any dresses for a celebration," a familiar, melodic voice complained. It was Isolde.

"What about the attire they gave us?" Lyra's voice replied. "That traditional one?"

"It won't glorify my beauty," Isolde sniffed.

"Beauty? Look at your face," Selvara's sharp voice cut in. "Haha, it's swollen like an apple."

"Heh, look at you first," Isolde shot back. "You are in no room to say."

Elvara started laughing quietly, a soft, musical sound.

"Speaking of funny faces," Selvara said, "the most funny one I can think of is Azrael's. I mean, look at him."

He felt their eyes on him. He had been unconscious for a day.

He wasn't unconscious anymore. He was looking right back at them with a tired, annoyed face.

They all screamed, a comical shriek as if they had just seen a dead person wake up.

Selvara cleared her throat, her composure returning instantly. "Welcome back, hero. We were waiting for you to wake up."

She tapped her chin. "Umm... which wakey-wakey number was this? I've lost count. Every time you fight, you're gone for a few weeks, or even months. Luckily, it's only been half a day this time."

Elvara nodded in agreement.

"Well, we can count that later," Azrael said, his voice a rough croak. "First, what happened while I was gone? And why are you all in my room?"

"Well, no one here wanted the discussions in their allotted room," Lyra explained. "So there was one person who didn't reject the idea, and that was you."

'Why is it always me?' Azrael though. 'Why do I always get stuck with these kinds of people?'

"I should give you a small rundown of what you missed," Isolde said, taking charge. "After the villagers learned the truth about Eric and Mariam, or rather, the 'ghost,' they decided to have a festival today."

She ticked the reasons off on her fingers. "One, the end of the devil, the demon who was killing their people. Two, the tragic story of love cursed by fate. And three, to celebrate the hero that protected their village."

He looked around at the bruised but smiling faces. "Wait, me? A hero? No, I just..."

"It was because of you that the whole village is safe from terror," Elvara said, her voice firm. "It is because of you that we are all alive. It is because of you that a lost man finally found peace."

He thought about it. At least he had helped someone. He looked around at his broken, mismatched team. 'At least I saved someone's family. So, I guess I'll take that tag.'

"There are many villagers who wanted to meet you, to thank you," Kaelen said, his voice quiet but steady. "They have been coming again and again to check on your health, praying for your recovery. I think you should meet some of them."

"I am not the hero they think I am," Azrael muttered. His voice was low but steady. "I'm just… a person who fought because I felt I had to."

Lyra crossed her arms and nodded. "We all fought, but it was you who faced him head-on. You carried the weight of it."

Isolde smirked faintly, though her eyes were softer than usual. "And you almost died doing it. Not smart, but… that's why people call it heroic."

Elvara's grip on his arm tightened. She whispered, but everyone heard. "To me… you are the one because of which we are breathing, enjoying, laughing in this room."

Azrael looked at each of them. Their bruised faces, their tired eyes, their quiet smiles. He wanted to argue, to tell them they were wrong, but the words didn't come.

"I didn't save everyone," he finally said, his throat dry. "Eric… then the other two from our party. I couldn't stop it. I couldn't save them."

Elvara shook her head. "But you gave Eric the truth. You gave him peace. You gave his daughter a father for one last moment. Isn't that saving, too?"

Azrael's eyes widened. For a moment, he couldn't breathe. The weight inside him loosened, just a little.

Kaelen stood up, his voice calm but strong. "Hero or not… people outside are waiting. Some want to thank you. Some just want to see the one who stopped their nightmare. You don't have to believe their words. Just… let them believe in you."

Azrael closed his eyes. A long silence filled the room. Then he whispered, more to himself than to anyone else: "Maybe… if it helps them sleep at night… I'll let them call me a hero."

Elvara smiled. Selvara chuckled. Lyra let out a sigh of relief. Seraphina just stared at him.

He walked out of the room. Sabrina was sitting on the steps of the house, her hands clasped in her lap.

"Umm, hello," he said.

She turned, a small, panicked smile on her face. "Looking at your body... are you forcing yourself? Are you alright?"

He laughed, a real, quiet laugh. 'These days, people actually think about my health. Back on Earth, even if I had a dead face, no one would care, except my family. I guess this is one point I like about this place.'

"I'm fine," he said. "I just woke up, so I'm fatigued. And, of course, starving."

"Oh! Why don't we go to the festive grounds?" she said, her eyes lighting up. "They have set up many stalls and things for enjoyment."

"Well, it's been a long time since I went to one of those," he said, a distant look in his eyes. "Or enjoyed one. I can't remember the last time. But it was a long time ago, when my mother used to walk beside me."

She looked at him with kind eyes.

"And I am hungry, too," he added quickly. "So why not give it a try?"

She smiled. "Very well, let's go."

They walked as the sun began to set, the sky painted in shades of orange and purple.

"Where is your husband?" Azrael asked as they walked.

"He is working," she said proudly. "We have a shop at the festival. He is a blacksmith who makes weapons. A very fine blacksmith."

"And you are here with me? Don't you have any shame? You could be helping him," he teased.

She pouted. "It's not like that. He never lets me help him. Before yesterday, I would force him to let me help. But after knowing the truth... he said he won't let me feel like anything other than the princess I was. Now he's the one who forces me."

Azrael smiled. "Last night, huh? So, how did you feel about it? I'm sorry for bringing it up."

"It's okay," she said, her own smile sad but peaceful. "Yesterday was a hard day for me, but it was something I wanted, too." She looked at the sky. "In the morning, I bid the final farewell to my father."

She clutched the pendant that hung around her neck. "Mother and Father may be gone, but as Father said, they will always be by my side."

"Well, let's change the mood," she said, her voice turning cheerful again. "Today is for celebration! And look there!"

She pointed to a large, painted cutout of a man and a woman, standing together under a tree. They were crudely drawn, their faces simple and cartoonish, but they were smiling.

"Who are those two?" Azrael asked.

"Well, those are my mother and father," she said with a laugh. "After knowing the truth, the villagers decided to make them into memorials."

"But that doesn't look like Eric at all."

"I know," she laughed.

Then she pointed to another cutout. This one was of a person with black hair, standing on the corpse of a cartoonish-looking demon. The figure was horribly made, with a lopsided smile and crossed eyes. It resembled him, just a little.

"Who is that?" he asked.

"Of course," she said, her own smile widening. "That's our hero. You."

He stared at the terrible drawing. "Shit. Burn that thing. Right now. If any of those people from the academy see it, I'm dead."