The words echoed in my skull long before anyone else dared to speak them. Traitor. I tasted the bitterness of it, sharper than any blade. I knew once I set my plan in motion, there would be no return—not to the life I had lived, not to the lies I had written for the Empire, not even to the quiet safety the rebels offered me.

But the war demanded a price, and my father's legacy demanded blood.

When I laid out my plan before them, the room went cold. Some recoiled, others leaned closer, unable to believe what they had heard. I was not proposing another ambush or raid. I was proposing to turn my pen, my name, my very life into a weapon, to become the enemy of Nam Thịnh, in full view of the world.

My father was right when he claimed I was his backup plan. Violence alone could not bring victory, so the pen would step in.

Though I had lived in the Noble District for only a year, I learned much: the cunning scheming of nobles, the ways they earned fortunes, and the darker ways they clawed for power. My father-in-law did not truly use me, he used my fame. With my name, he gathered connections, customers, and coin. But fame was never enough for him. To secure more, he made me his puppet. He declared me his son-in-law and staged a grand wedding, reaping wealth and influence from the crowds who adored me.

Yet once the wedding was over, his true plan unfolded, a plan to ruin me. Though I already had a family, my "wife" was never truly mine. She was the hidden wife of another young noble. It was a snare set in advance, meant to provoke me, to trap me in scandal, to brand me as a man of betrayal and lust.

Luckily, at that time I realized I had nothing left but my name, so I decided to protect it, to fight back against my father-in-law with the only weapon I still possessed. I never let myself near any woman, though my desire burned greatly. Instead, I chose the bottle. I let the wine destroy my mind rather than allow my name to be destroyed by scandal.

In that, I won against my father-in-law's trap. But victory came with its own poison, the wine would ruin me slowly, though not yet. What saved me from being consumed entirely was my father's plan for revolution. It gave me purpose, it gave my name meaning, and it kept me from being erased by the nobles' schemes.

If someone asked why my father-in-law did this, why he spent so much, even gave me his daughter, only to ruin my name, was he insane? I would answer, no, he was perfectly sane.

The year I became his son-in-law, I brought him everything: connections, customers, influence. My fame made him more famous. But he knew if he kept me beside him too long, one day that same fame would overshadow him, perhaps even destroy him.

So when he had gained enough, he destroyed me instead.

The year I spent in the Noble District, every word I heard was a lie.

My wife whispered that once I finished my learning, once her father handed me power, that would be the time our child would be born, LIAR.

My father-in-law claimed I was always welcome in his chambers, but only after I completed my studies, LIAR.

When I tried to write another story, they stopped me, telling me to focus only on my learning, LIAR.

All of it, lies upon lies. They spoke with care, with gentle words, but behind their smiles they only wished me gone. They said they welcomed me, but what they truly wanted... was my lifeless body.

They sent me to school, and thought what I learned there was garbage. They believed I left with nothing. They were wrong.

I could not run an enterprise. I could not read their endless reports. I could not make their business decisions.

But I learned something far more dangerous.

I learned where their fortune was born.
I learned what made them strong.
And I learned what could make them weak.

My father-in-law claimed me quicker than the other nobles. If not him, I would have fallen to another's snare. At that time, I was too naïve, too proud. I would have fallen into their tricks, one way or another.

They all wanted the same thing—my fame. They wanted to use it, to draw power from it. And when they had taken all they could, they would ruin it, because my fame was never theirs. They could not control it freely.

They used me as a pawn.
So I chose to turn their own game against them.

This time, I exposed all of their darkness and lies.

They claimed they gave their wealth to charity, yet that gold was taken from the sweat and blood of Nam Thịnh's citizens.
They claimed they offered their workers comfort, yes, the nobles' rooms grew more and more comfortable, while the laborers bent their backs in hunger.
They claimed the people were always treated with fairness, then I said, come and see for yourself.

They said they cared for everyone—but the truth was, they cared only for themselves and their connections.
The goods you buy from them are not only made of wood, stone, or cloth. They are forged from sweat, from tears... and even from the blood of those who made them.

The food they sell to you—did you taste the salt? Did you feel the pain, the sorrow?
That salt is not from the sea. It is the tears of the people.
Those meals, those feasts, they were stolen from the mouths of the poor.

While they feast, the people starve.
While they laugh, the people weep.
While they sleep, the people work, work until death takes them.

Each coin that fills their purse is a chain laid on the people.
Every debt they forge is a wound on our backs.
Even the newborn, before they take their first breath, already bear the burden of a debt not theirs.

If I had spoken of this at the very beginning, they would have laughed at me, called me bitter, called me a fool.
That is why I kept silent.
I told my story first.
I let the sorrow breathe, I let the lies unravel one by one.
And now, when the truth finally spills from my lips, it is no longer accusation.
It is proof, etched in the weight of every memory I carried.

My story spans only a single week, from the Merchant District to the Farmland. A handful of days, and yet already I was broken by what I saw.
But what of the people of Nam Thịnh? They have lived in this misery since the day they were born.
Every sunrise for them is another day of sorrow. Every night, another chain laid upon their backs.
You still don't believe me? Then come. Walk these streets, breathe this air, and see it with your own eyes.
Don't take my words, judge my story for yourself.

I thought I could end my story here. Yet the rebel leader's warning proved true. The army marched sooner than we imagined, and their steel showed no mercy. The farmland, once full of whispers of hope, turned into a hunting ground. One by one, the rebels fell; the soldiers cut down every last man and woman who stood in their way.

I watched as they dragged the rebel leader into the square. His execution was swift, but even in death, he was not empty. He had already passed the mantle of leadership to others—to us, to me. His last look was not despair but command. Carry on.

I clutched my drafts, my words, my only weapon. I hid them with care, folded beneath earth and stone, in a place only the new leader knew. My heart pounded with every shovel of dirt. If the soldiers found them, everything would be lost.

Then came the pounding at the door.

The soldiers stormed in, their boots heavy, their eyes hungry. They turned over every mat, broke open every chest. I stood still, breath caught in my throat, praying the papers remained hidden.

A hand seized my shoulder. Rough, calloused, merciless.

"Here he is."

I was dragged through the streets like an animal. People watched in silence—some with pity, some with fear, some too broken to even look. My arms ached, my legs trembled, but worse than pain was the thought echoing in my skull: Did they find my words? Or will they live on?

The prison gates yawned before me. Cold iron swallowed me whole.

It could have been a day, or two, or perhaps longer—I could not tell. Time dissolved inside that cramped box they called a prison. There was no light, only the stale air that seeped through narrow cracks, and the trays of tasteless food pushed inside. Darkness pressed against me, yet I sat without fear. My work was nearly complete.

The soldiers thought they had locked me away in silence, but silence has its own language. From beyond the wooden walls came a sound, faint but steady: a knock. Then another. Not random—never random. A rhythm. A signal. I pressed my ear to the planks and answered in kind.

I smiled in the dark. I was not alone. The rebels were still with me, side by side, even here.

So I made the prison my desk. My work now was not to write with pen and paper but to write inside my memory. Every story I had seen, every sorrow I had heard, every truth I had tasted—I repeated them silently, again and again, carving them deeper into my mind as though each word were chiseled in stone.

If they burned my papers, they would not burn me. If they took my body, they would not take my story.

In that cage of shadows, I practiced methods only I understood. To remember. To endure. To finish my task.

The door of the mobile prison groaned open. A sliver of light pushed in first—dim, thin, almost reluctant—yet even that faint glow struck my eyes like fire. Rough hands seized me. A soldier's grip, violent, dragged me out of the darkness.

We walked a narrow hall, each step echoing against the stone, cold and final. I soon realized where they were taking me: deeper, always deeper, until the gates of the Military District prison swallowed me whole.

They locked me in a single cell. No chains, no companions—only one warden stationed outside, his eyes colder than the iron bars between us.

I sat on the stone bench, waiting, listening, half-hoping for a signal from the rebels. But before any message reached me, another figure appeared. A doctor.

Without a word, he examined my wounds. His hands were clinical, his face unreadable. Then came the medicine—bottles and powders I recognized as expensive, far beyond what a prisoner deserved. They forced me to swallow every dose. From the moment he entered to the moment he left, not a single word was spoken. Only silence, sharp as a blade.

That night the medicine worked. My body eased; the pain dulled. Comfort, strange and foreign, crept back into my bones. Hunger soon followed, sharp and real.

The cell door groaned open. The warden entered, pushing a cart of food. Not prison scraps, good food, rich with smell.

He knelt beside me, lowering his head. A whisper slid from his lips:
"From green life to white life, everyone live."

The signal.

Green, the Farmland, where the rebels still drew breath. White, the Merchant District, waiting for freedom. Everyone live, the vow that the revolution would not stop until Farmland, Industry, and Merchant were free... until the governor himself was dragged from Ngạn Sơn.

I picked up the spoon and plate, steadying my hand. The warden leaned close once more, his voice thin as smoke:
"Speak your line. Short words only. I write. Do not interact with me. They can see us, but they cannot hear us. Keep your voice low, only for me."

Two days passed in the cell.
The doctor came in, examined me, gave me medicine, then left without a word.
Each night, when the warden entered, he gave me the signal before setting the food down, then stepped back to guard. I spoke with my voice low—just enough for him to hear. If I spoke too loud, he would knock on the door once. If too soft, he would knock twice, or if it's too fast, it would be three times.

The third day came.
The doctor entered in the morning, this time with several soldiers. She examined my health, then gave a small, silent nod.
Before I could ask, rough hands pulled me to my feet. One soldier strode ahead, leading the way, while the others pressed close behind. Their boots echoed against the stone, steady and unbroken.
I tried to measure the turns of the corridor, count the steps, but the prison's hallways twisted like a maze. Each shadow, each corner, held the question: Where are they taking me?

The soldiers pulled me out of the cell, their hands like iron shackles. The hall swallowed us whole. Silence hung heavy, yet the silence was not empty. Every step we took stirred ghosts of sound, the echo of boots striking stone, steady and merciless, rolling down the corridor like a drumbeat no one wanted to hear. The sound was not ours alone. It felt as if the walls remembered the footsteps of those who had walked before me... prisoners who never returned.

The air was thick, damp, and metallic. Each breath stung with the taste of rust, the reek of blood soaked into stone, and the sourness of old sweat. It was the air of a place where life had been crushed until it turned into nothing but stench. My chest tightened, yet I forced myself to breathe, for even poisoned air was still air.

We walked on. The hall stretched endlessly, like a throat that would not release us. The soldiers said nothing. Their armor creaked faintly, a whisper against the rhythm of boots. No cough, no mutter, no command. Their silence was not discipline — it was fear, as if even they knew the hall was listening.

Gradually, the darkness loosened its grip. A faint glow, distant and pale, began to spill down the corridor. The smell shifted too. The iron faded, replaced by a sharper scent — smoke, wood, even a hint of roasted meat carried by air too clean to belong to prison walls. My stomach turned with sudden hunger, but my heart sank deeper.

The brighter the hall became, the heavier the danger pressed. Light should mean safety. Here, it was only a blade's reflection, promising judgment. With each step, I knew I was being led not into freedom, but into the heart of something far worse.

The long walk stretched on, endless as the weight pressing down on my chest. Each step was a heartbeat, each echo another reminder that I was being carried deeper into something I could not escape.

At last, the corridor opened. The soldiers pushed me through the threshold into another chamber — vast, almost dazzling after the gloom of the prison. The air was clearer here, perfumed faintly with incense, carrying none of the stench of rust or blood. For a moment it almost tricked me into thinking I had left the darkness behind.

The room was richly adorned, its beauty cold and deliberate. Gold threads gleamed in the wall hangings. Carved pillars stretched upward like silent judges. And at the center stood a thing that was neither bed nor throne — a long chair, cushioned with red as deep as spilled wine, its frame gleaming with pure gold. It shone not with comfort, but with command.

The soldiers dragged me forward and forced me to my knees before it. My eyes lifted to the chair, heavy with questions. Who sat there? What judgment would fall from its seat?

The golden chair waited, patient and merciless.

I waited, my breath caught in my chest. No one moved. The soldiers stood rigid as statues, the silence of the chamber pressing down like a weight.

Then — a door opened. From it came four servants, solemn and precise, carrying a palanquin draped in silk. They marched without a word, their steps measured, their faces blank, until they set the palanquin before the golden chair.

For a moment, it seemed empty. But then, a faint shift — the suggestion of movement within. Whoever sat inside passed unseen from palanquin to throne. The servants lifted the palanquin again and carried it away, leaving only the gleam of the golden chair occupied.

Suddenly, the room bent low. Every man, every soldier, every attendant sank to their knees, their voices rising together:

"Long live the Empress!"

A heavy hand pressed my head down with theirs, forcing me to bow. My forehead touched the cold floor. Then a command rang out — clear, firm, undeniable:

"Raise."

The voice. That voice.
It slid into my ears, sharp as a blade yet strangely familiar. A chill raced down my spine as I realized — I knew this voice.

I lifted my head.

The Empress.

My wife.
The wife I had tried to kill in the Noble District.

Alive.

She looked down at me from the golden chair, her lips curving into a smirk sharp enough to cut.

"Look like you've seen a ghost, my dear. How about you come back and seize my fortune?"

My tongue locked in my mouth, frozen. No word could escape.

Her smirk deepened, her eyes glittering with venom.

"I must thank you, my dear. When you dropped that door on me, it saved me. The rebels passed by, saw me under it, and thought me dead. They left me. If not for you—" she leaned forward ever so slightly, her voice slicing the air, "I would have been truly dead."

Then her face changed. The smirk twisted into something harsher, more cruel. Her skin seemed to tighten, the glow of power replaced by bitterness.

"Only one thing happened to me, my dear."
Her voice trembled with rage as she tapped the armrest with trembling fingers.
"That door crushed my back. It broke me. It left me paralyzed. My body will never recover."

Her smirk snapped, breaking into a contorted mask of fury. Her voice thundered, echoing off the golden walls.
"You did this to me! You, with your schemes, with your arrogance! That door you let fall upon me — it crushed my back, shattered my body. You left me in the dark, left me to rot like a corpse! You thought me gone, didn't you? You thought me erased!"

Her hands gripped the red cushion, trembling with venom.
"But I lived. I lived, and every breath since that day has been filled with hate for you. Do you know what it is to wake each morning chained to a body that betrays you? To feel the fire of rage but not the strength to walk? You gave me this prison of flesh, my dear husband. And every curse I utter is carved with your name!"

She leaned forward, her face twisted, her voice a hiss like steel on stone.
"You killed the Emperor's son, and now you intend to kill me. Do you know what became of me after you left me half-dead? The Emperor found me. He dragged me back, patched my broken shell, and crowned me Empress. Empress—" she spat the word with disgust, "—only so my paralyzed body could serve as his filth, his plaything."

Her smirk twisted, hatred burning in her eyes.
"I felt nothing, yet he and his dogs laughed at me, mocked me, used me as their sport. But fate, my dear, has its own sense of justice. The Emperor drank, his friends drank, and one night... they all died. Just like that. No suspicion, no witness, no justice sought. Only corpses where tyrants once sat."

I sense her anger and hatred, but instead of disgust, only pity rose in me. Yet her rage boiled over. She shouted,

"Beat, beat, beat that dog until I say stop!"

Two soldiers stepped forward at once. The staffs in their hands whistled through the air before crashing down on me.

Crack! — the first blow split open skin on my back.
Thud! — the second drove the air from my lungs.

I clenched my teeth but the pain grew unbearable. My body bent under the force, blood soaking into my clothes. They struck in rhythm — one staff after another — never giving me a breath to recover.

The hall echoed with the sound of wood smashing against flesh, a hollow, sickening drumbeat. My knees scraped the floor, my arms shook, but the soldiers did not pause. The strikes rained down like punishment without end.

Each blow dug deeper, each scream forced its way up my throat but died in silence. The taste of iron filled my mouth. I felt my back break, my bones grind under the weight of their fury.

Still they beat me.
Still they swung.
Until at last — crack! — the staffs themselves splintered, broken on my body.

Silence fell. Only my ragged breath remained.

Then her voice cut through the air, cold and sharp, filled with poison.

"Stop. Doctor, tend his wounds. Don't let him die... not until I am satisfied."

The soldiers stepped back, their staffs splintered and useless, leaving me crumpled on the floor. Blood dripped down my arms, staining the polished stone beneath me. My chest heaved for air, each breath shallow, each movement a dagger in my ribs.

The Empress leaned forward on her golden chair, her paralyzed body still, but her eyes alive with fire. She studied me, not with pity, not even with satisfaction — but with a hatred so deep it seemed to burn the air between us.

Her lips curved into a twisted smile.
"You still breathe. Good. That means I can hurt you again tomorrow."

Her voice trembled, not with weakness, but with rage restrained too long.
"Do you know what I felt every night? Your 'dear' Emperor and his vermin friends climbing over me, laughing while I could not move. I felt nothing but their hands. I was a corpse they mocked... a corpse they used. And you"

Her eyes narrowed, her face pale with fury.
"you who left me like that, you who tried to kill me, you who gave me this half-body! I curse your blood, I curse your breath. You will crawl in pain until I choose to crush you."

Her words cut deeper than any staff.

"Doctor," she hissed, never looking away from me, "patch his wounds. Keep him alive. I want him to suffer long enough to understand what hell feels like."

The servants moved quickly, trembling under her gaze. But I did not look at them. I could not. My eyes were fixed on hers, those eyes that once belonged to my wife, now turned into a pit of venom, a furnace of hate.

The doctor knelt beside me, hands quick but face pale as she examined my wounds. Her fingers pressed along my ribs, down my spine, then to my legs. Each touch sent fire through my nerves until finally there was nothing at all — no feeling below the waist.

She exhaled, heavy and grim.
"His back is broken. The legs... useless. He will never walk again."

The words fell like a hammer. I stared at the cold floor, breath shuddering in my chest. Paralysis , the same curse that chained my wife.

A sharp sound cut through the silence, laughter.

The Empress threw her head back, laughing loud, wild, unrestrained. The voice was raw, bitter, nothing of the noble woman I once knew. Her eyes gleamed with delight, with cruelty sharpened by years of pain.

"Perfect!" she cried, her voice cracking with glee. "The dog that tried to kill me... now lies broken like me. You see, my dear? Fate is not without humor."

She leaned forward, her twisted smile wide, almost monstrous.
"Now you will crawl in the same darkness I did. Now you will rot in this prison of flesh, as I rotted. Husband, traitor, murderer" her laughter swelled again, echoing off the gilded walls, ", you are finally mine."

The doctor stepped back in silence, head bowed, as though ashamed to witness what followed.

The Empress leaned forward in her golden chair, her voice low but sharp as a blade.

"Look at us," she hissed, her twisted smile widening. "Both paralyzed. Both broken. But do you see the difference, my dear?"

Her hand lifted slightly, jeweled fingers trembling yet commanding.
"I sit on the throne. I rule this court. I command soldiers, doctors, servants. And you?" Her eyes narrowed with venomous delight. "You kneel in chains, stripped of honor, stripped of strength. A crippled traitor."

Her laugh rose again, cruel and echoing, spilling through the chamber like a curse.
"We share the same fate of the flesh... but only I turned my suffering into power. You" she spat the word like poison, " you are nothing but my shadow. A broken dog at the feet of the Empress!"

"Now bark, my dear. Bark the words begging for my forgiveness, perhaps then, in our marriage, I might grant you a swift death."

I coughed, blood tasting bitter in my mouth, my pain overwhelming, my back and legs numb. I looked at her and saw a face stripped of mercy, eyes wide and burning, waiting for my surrender.

But instead of begging, I smiled.
"Thank you, my dear. Our sins are great... yet because you still live, my sin is lesser than yours."

I looked at her, pain coursing through my shattered back and legs, blood dripping from my mouth. Despite it all, I forced a faint smile.
"Thank my dear... our sins were great, but for you still alive, my sin is lesser than yours."

Her face contorted with rage. "How dare you mock me!?" she screamed, voice slicing through the room. "Beat him! Don't stop until I say!"

Two soldiers seized me, staffs raining blow after blow across my back and legs. Pain exploded with every strike, my blood mixing with sweat, my body trembling under the merciless assault.

I struggled to breathe, vision blurring, yet my lips curled into that same defiant smile.

Finally, the doctor stepped forward, voice urgent:
"Your Majesty... if you continue, he will die!"

She glared at her, teeth clenched, but at last, she snapped her fingers. The blows ceased, leaving me broken, bleeding, and unconscious on the cold floor.

She snapped her fingers, glaring at the doctor. "Bring him to his cell! I am not finished yet. Tomorrow I will continue. If he dies, you will follow him, understand?"

The soldiers dragged me away, leaving me broken, bleeding, and unconscious on the cold floor. Her hatred lingered like fire in the air long after we left the room.

I woke again in the cell, the doctor having patched me up. I knew my days were numbered, I had to stay alive to ensure my work here was completed. The warden continued to help me with my story, quietly aiding me despite everything.

Her torment still burned in my memory, the vicious blows, the mocking laughter, but a strange current ran through me. Part of me felt sympathy for her, for the woman trapped by her own rage, twisted by the world and her own power. Yet that sympathy collided with my resolve. Every fiber of my being screamed that I had a mission to complete. No pity, no hesitation, could divert me. My body might break, my spirit might falter, but my purpose remained unshaken.

Even as I closed my eyes, feeling the night press in through the barred window, I clung to that thought. She could strike me down, destroy me, try to bend me, but she could never stop what I was meant to do.

Each morning, I woke to the inevitability of her cruelty. The first light would fall through the cell bars, and I would brace myself, knowing that pain awaited me. My back, my legs, broken, useless, a constant reminder of her wrath. Yet in that suffering, I found a rhythm, a fragile discipline. I reminded myself why I endured: every strike, every insult, every cruel command was a test I had to survive for my mission.

I measured my breaths, tensed my body just enough to absorb the blows without surrendering to despair. Each time the soldiers dragged me out, I held onto one thought like a lifeline: my story must be finished. My mission was greater than her hatred, greater than her cruelty. I became a ghost of myself, battered, bloodied, almost broken, but still conscious, still aware, still planning.

Even when the darkness of unconsciousness swallowed me after her relentless assault, a part of me burned with a quiet fire. My mind clung to the words, the lines, the truths I had yet to record. That fire was my defiance. That fire was my life.

This was the last night. I finish my story. With my last breath, I think. I redefine my works. I deny all my works, the Heroes series.

Before, I gave the strong men, the men who do special jobs, who live in light and honor, as heroes. But now... I see clearly. I will redefine the word of Heroes.

Don't look too far. Don't aim too high. Don't let your eyes wander just for spectacle. Let your body and mind take it in. Look around you, friend, Heroes are everywhere. Your parents. Your teachers. Doctors. Neighbors. Friends. And sometimes, strangers.

For me... my heroes now are my parents. The doctors, who gave their best to save patients. The parents, who gave their life to save their children. Anyone who shares their little food with the more miserable.

And you... who are your heroes?

Everything is in place. I have entrusted the warden with what must survive, saved my last breath for the doctor, not for him. My body screams for rest, my back and legs broken, yet my spirit burns with the task I set myself. If this succeeds, history will call me the Traitor of the Nation—not a rebel, not a hero, but the hand that dismantled a false empire, that honored the real heroes hiding in the shadows: my parents, the countless nameless who endured so others might live. My life ends here, but my mission begins.

And with my last words... if this is to succeed, let me be known not as a rebel, not as a hero... but as the Traitor of the Nation. The traitor who brings ruin to the empire, who topples its wealth, who shakes its very foundations.