The throne room was in ruins. Pillars of obsidian, which had stood for a thousand years, were now nothing but crumbling piles of gravel. The air was thick with dust and the cloying, sweet scent of burnt sugar—the smell of nitroglycerin.
The Demon Lord, the scourge of the dark realms, was on his knees. He coughed, blood splattering onto the cracked floor tiles. He looked up, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and absolute confusion.
Standing before him was a young man. He didn't look like a hero chosen by the gods. He wasn't wearing shining armor. He was wearing a tattered hoodie and cargo pants, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else.
"Im... Impossible," the Demon Lord wheezed. "My dark magic... my armies... how?"
Y/N stood amidst the wreckage, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. His expression was placid, almost sleepy. He looked at the Demon Lord the way one looks at a dirty dish they don't want to wash.
"You talk too much," Y/N said, his voice level and calm.
"Who are you?!" the Demon Lord screamed, his voice cracking. "You possess power that rivals the gods! Are you the Chosen One? The Hero of Light?"
Y/N sighed, scratching the back of his neck. "Nah. Just a guy."
The Demon Lord gritted his teeth. "Don't mock me! I will not be humiliated by a mere human!"
With a roar of desperate rage, the Demon Lord lunged. Dark energy coalesced around his claws, a final, suicidal strike aimed purely at Y/N's heart.
In that split second, the atmosphere around Y/N shifted.
The boredom vanished from his eyes. His pupils contracted into sharp pinpricks. His slouch straightened instantly into a combat stance. The chill vibe was gone; now, there was only the intent to win.
Y/N pulled his right hand from his pocket. Sparks danced across his palm like frantic fireflies.
"Stun Grenade."
BLAM!
A concentrated sphere of blinding light and explosive force erupted point-blank in the Demon Lord's face. The sound was like a thunderclap trapped in a jar.
The Demon Lord was blasted backward, crashing through what remained of his throne and embedding himself into the stone wall. He slumped forward, unconscious before he even hit the ground.
Silence returned to the room.
Y/N lowered his hand, smoke trailing from his fingertips. The intensity in his eyes faded, replaced once again by that casual, unbothered haze. He shook his hand to cool it off.
"And that's that," Y/N muttered.
He looked around the destroyed castle. He had saved the world. Again. He had defeated the ultimate evil. Again.
"I am so done with this," he said to the empty room.
He didn't want glory. He didn't want a statue built in his honor. He wanted to sleep in a bed that wasn't made of rocks. He wanted to eat food that wasn't roasted monster meat.
He raised his hand again, but this time, he didn't aim an explosion. He grabbed the fabric of reality itself—a trick he'd picked up around level 90—and tore a rift in the air.
Through the tear, he could see a blue sky. Concrete buildings. A city. It looked miserable, crowded, and oppressive.
It looked perfect.
"Time for a career change," Y/N said, stepping toward the portal. "No more Demon Lords. No more saving the kingdom."
He stepped through the rift, leaving the fantasy world behind forever.
"I'm going to high school. And I'm going to have the most normal, quiet life anyone has ever had. Even if it kills me."