The Hero Who Became a Monster Girl Will Never Fall to Evil

The Holy See, Central Temple.

A thin layer of dust had gathered on the old parchment cover. Lilian sighed, brushed it away, and opened the dossier.

The war three years ago had ⊛ Nоvеlιght ⊛ (Read the full story) become a nightmare for every one of its survivors.

When human reinforcements finally reached Mount Aisa, the entire town looked as if a hurricane had ripped it from the ground. Every building had been uprooted, scattered like trash.

A first squad had arrived before them—but not a single one of those people reappeared. All were declared dead. Of the former Hero Squad, only five still lived: some lay broken amid the ruins, some stood blank and hollow-eyed, like soulless puppets.

“The Demon King—was she destroyed by you?” the reinforcements asked eagerly. But soon the second wave was drowned out by more and more people flooding in from behind.

When they learned that the Hero and the Demon King had perished together, they wept with joy, embracing each other. Plans were made to erect a statue of the fallen Chief Hero upon their return, to praise his immeasurable virtue.

“It’s all gone... all of it.”

After the Demon King’s fall, the demon army had collapsed like a crumbling wall. But on the human side, the loss of their Hero only inflamed their zeal—they screamed for vengeance and charged forward.

Knights of the Church arrived as well. They found Lilian standing amid the wreckage.

“Your Holiness, Saint,” said one knight, “we are all grieved by what has happened. Please, return and rest. Leave the cleanup to us.”

Something faint in Lilian’s eyes flickered out. She glanced back at her unconscious teammates, pointed at them, and said nothing more.

The knights couldn’t see her expression; they assumed she was simply worried for the injured. They hurried to fetch stretchers, carrying the unconscious one by one toward the rear.

“It will be fine, Your Holiness. The Church’s healing magic is powerful. Your comrades will recover soon!”

The captain stepped forward, intending to support her—but froze in place.

He saw the Saint’s fingernails digging into her palms, blood trickling down her fingers. He didn’t understand why she would hurt herself—but instinctively, he felt the fury and hatred erupting from the young woman before him.

Three years later.

The weather was pleasant, the skies serene. The Royal Capital was filled with music and laughter.

Lilian reread the old dossier, confirming that her memory had not failed her. If so—then what was the source of the strange phenomena now reported in Mount Aisa?

And why were there suddenly bounty requests to “search for the Chief Hero’s relics”?

Who was behind them?

She thought of the four others from her old team—but after a moment’s reasoning, dismissed them all.

Aside from her and Aurora, the other three had never returned to the capital since that war.

“How odd... why now of all times?”

She hesitated. She could use her Saint’s authority to expose whoever was behind this—but she might alert them too soon.

As a Saint, she could hardly act freely without the scrutiny of countless eyes. Someone cunning enough to play this game wouldn’t give her a second chance if she failed.

A restless unease rose in her chest. Her thoughts drifted to her captain’s teacher—the woman deep within the royal palace, supreme leader of the Human Alliance, known to all as the Sword Empress.

The Empress... she must know something.

She had to.

Then why—why did she only watch in silence?

Even as a Saint, Lilian knew little of her. Beyond what appeared in newspapers or historical accounts, most of what she knew came secondhand—through the captain’s stories.

But memory is unreliable. Like pictures drawn in sand, time’s wind scatters them; tides wash them away. What remains is blurred, swallowed by distance.

A wave of sorrow welled within her. Lilian realized her memory had grown poor.

Only pain, grief, and regret stayed vivid; everything else faded away.

She tried to recall the words spoken back then—laughter around campfires, casual talk—but those words had been light as air. Time’s breeze had carried them off, far beyond reach.

“Being betrayed by the one you trusted most... that must have been unbearable, huh? Who could’ve known—Flaviel, that treacherous, scheming Demon King. If I’d known, I never would’ve let her have you.”

At least then you wouldn’t have died so miserably—with not even a grave to mourn at.

“Ah... couldn’t help you when you lived, can’t help you now that you’re dead, tch. Who the hell used resurrection sorcery on the captain’s corpse?”

Lilian rubbed her aching forehead. So long buried, yet still some bastard was daring to use the captain’s name, tarnishing it!

She couldn’t imagine—if this farce continued, if things spread any further—

Her chest tightened at the thought that their captain’s flawless record might be stained, turned into a target for others’ schemes.

“What will they say about our captain now?”

He had always been so careful with his reputation. If he knew that, even in death, people were using his name for curses and tricks, he’d probably claw his way out of the grave—

Oh. Right. He didn’t have one.

Then never mind.

But still—

Such defilement could not be tolerated.

Whoever was behind this had to be found—and killed.

After all, who but Lilian herself could still defend the honor of the Chief Hero?

The Empress?

Heh... a pile of royal bones in the palace. I’ll replace her sooner or later.

Aurora?

Ha. Bluster without courage. Flat chest, small brain—irrelevant.

Rania?

A student of his, yes—but too young, too impulsive, too reckless. Useless.

As for Reiko, Tia, Airoa, and the rest—

Tch. Mediocre fools. Not worth mentioning.

A long sigh echoed through the archive hall.

“Captain... why didn’t you leave anything behind?” she whispered, leaning against the shelf.

“My youth stayed there with you...”

...

St. Catarina Convent.

It should have been peaceful as always—but today, the air was thick with tension and the smell of smoke.

The black cat bristled, every hair standing on end. Jasmine stood frozen in confusion.

Before them stood a striking girl with violet hair, her ponytail swaying, the hem of her white dress fluttering in the wind. Her violet eyes lingered on Jasmine for a heartbeat, then shifted coldly to the cat.

“Even if you turn to ashes, I’d still recognize you,” she said flatly. “Now speak—where is Vieya?”

“Meow?” The black cat tried to play dumb.

“I can make you ashes.”

Jasmine wanted to say something but couldn’t get a word in. She had no idea who this scary big sister was or why she was so angry—why she wanted to find her mother, and why she was making the cat so nervous.

“No answer? Then I’ll—”

“Wait!”

A familiar old voice shouted from afar. The Old Dean came rushing forward, his tone frantic.

“Rania! What are you doing?! Didn’t Lilian tell you that fighting is forbidden inside the convent?!”

“......”

“I’m not fighting,” Rania said, pausing. She looked at the furious Old Dean, her expression serious. “I’m looking for someone.”