Chapter 1: The Mask of the Saint

I’m the heroine in one of those post-apocalyptic web stories everyone reads online—gentle, kind, beloved by all.

Or at least, that’s what everyone thinks. The girl with the easy smile, the one who always helps, the one people cling to when monsters prowl and the world ends. That’s the part I play, and people need that illusion like it’s oxygen.

But then the transmigrator girl showed up and stole it all. She pointed at me, called me a saint, cursed me as a parasitic flower obsessed with men.

What she doesn’t know is this: I’m the villain here. More ruthless than any of them.

All that gentleness, that kindness—it’s just a mask I wear to get what I want. My so-called compassion? It’s nothing but the pity of the strong for the weak.

When the world ends, does the saint die first?

No. The "saint" survives. Forever.

A grotesque, swollen mass of flesh writhed down the cracked street, sprouting human arms and legs from every angle, each limb shoving the body forward with impossible speed.

The stench hit like a punch—rotting meat mixed with burning plastic. Each slap of a limb made the pavement squelch, a sticky, sick sound echoing off deserted buildings.

At the center of the thing was a gaping hollow—its mouth.

Inside, behind rows of jagged teeth, human eyeballs grew in clusters.

Those eyes darted, searching, then locked onto something ahead.

A tiny kitten faced the monster, fur bristling, letting out a low, shaky growl.

Its fur puffed up, tail stiff as wire, but the little body shook. It almost looked silly—if not for the way it glared at the abomination, deadly serious.

The monster found its prey and let out a guttural noise, almost like laughter.

A wet, rattling chuckle, as if it remembered how to laugh and was mocking the memory. The sound vibrated through the broken asphalt.

Its limbs flailed, scrabbling madly, making the massive body seem almost weightless as it lunged for the kitten.

The kitten didn’t stand a chance. It yowled, fur on end, as the thing bore down on it.

Its desperate cries bounced off shattered storefronts, so raw they squeezed my heart—though I knew better than to let myself feel it.

Just as the flesh was about to devour it, I reached out and snatched the kitten up in one swift motion.

It shook in my arms, claws digging into my jacket, its frantic heart fluttering against my palm.

The monster halted, every eyeball in its mouth staring straight at me.

The silence was absolute, chilling. The air thrummed with tension as every eye fixed on me, unblinking.

Cradling the kitten’s fragile body, I soothed it, keeping my gaze steady and calm on the monster.

I stroked behind its ears, whispering nonsense, letting my voice stay low and even. The kitten quieted—just a little.

“Mara, look out!”

Suddenly, someone yanked me back. Jace Holloway pulled me close, shielding me behind his broad frame.

Jace’s grip was firm, steadying. I caught the scent of sweat and gun oil on his jacket—the smell of someone who’s been fighting for days without rest.

The monster grew restless, limbs thrashing in agitation.

It slammed its arms against the ground, leaving streaks of blood and something darker smeared across the pavement. The air pressed down, thick with dread.

Jace drew his hunting knife and slashed his palm.

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t flinch—the knife was sharp, and he’d clearly done this before.

Blood dripped onto the ground, then crept up the monster’s flesh as if alive.

The blood slithered like mercury, winding over the creature’s limbs, sinking into its pores.

As soon as the blood covered the monster, Jace clenched his fist, and the blood erupted into black flames, devouring the thing completely.

The fire burned cold and silent, swallowing the monster from within. It wasn’t like any fire I’d ever seen—it was hungry, unnatural, leaving nothing but ash and the stench of burnt nightmares.

The monster burst like a rotten pumpkin, flames reducing it to ash.

The sound was wet, obscene. Bits of charred bone and teeth clattered onto the sidewalk, then crumbled away. Silence fell again.

Jace held me tight, like I was something breakable.

His arms were strong, but his hands trembled. He looked down at me, worry etched deep in every line of his face.

“Mara, you can’t do dangerous things like that again.”

His voice was low, almost pleading. I saw fear in his eyes—fear for me, or maybe for what I’d become.

I smiled up at him, making myself look as delicate and pitiful as possible.