The Hero Returns with his Yandere Wife-Chapter 23 - 22

Warmth spread through the room, a golden light blooming from her fingertips, illuminating the scars on her wrists, the filth caking her skin, a radiant beauty that clashed horribly with the ugliness of her task.

The injured villain groaned, his body slowly repairing itself under her cursed gift—broken bones mending with sickening cracks, torn flesh knitting back together as if time reversed itself, his life returning while hers drained away.

A miracle, once offered freely to the worthy, now stolen by the damned.

A curse, chaining her to their will.

Her power was meant for heroes, for the brave who fought against the darkness, not for these abominations who thrived in it.

But she healed him anyway, because she had no choice, because the alternative was a horror she couldn't bear to witness again.

When she finished, her body slumped, breath heaving in ragged gasps, exhaustion sinking into her bones like lead, her strength sapped by the act she loathed.

The shackles snapped back into place, cold and unyielding, locking her once more into her prison.

The gag was forced back into her mouth, its metal biting deeper, a cruel reminder of her silence.

The S-class villain's grunts handed over a wad of cash to the blond man, their voices rising in praise of the Vitalist with cruel delight, "Best healer in the world," they laughed, their mockery a dagger in her heart as they walked out, leaving her chained in the dark once more, alone with her shame.

Her head hung low, white hair falling like a veil over her face.

She had saved a killer.

Again.

And then the blond man called her name, his voice cutting through the silence like a whip.

"Look up, Saint," he said, his tone deceptively light, hiding the storm she knew was coming

She did, lifting her gaze with a dread that coiled tight in her chest.

And her world shattered, splintering into a thousand jagged pieces as the B-class hero's severed hand hit the floor beside her with a wet, sickening thud.

Blood splattered onto her robe, warm and accusing, staining the white fabric with the price of her defiance.

Her silver-gray eyes widened in horror, the sight searing into her mind, a nightmare she couldn't unsee.

A muffled scream tore through her throat, raw and desperate, as she lurched forward, rattling against her chains, struggling, thrashing with all the strength her broken body could muster, her anguish a wildfire consuming her.

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The blond villain laughed, a sound that grated against her soul, cold and gleeful.

"See? This is what happens when you get difficult," he said, twirling the wad of cash between his fingers with a flourish, his eyes glinting with sadistic pleasure, "I warned you before, didn't I—every time you act up, I'll make it worse, and you'll wish you'd just obeyed."

The hero's agonized screams filled the room, piercing and guttural, as he was dragged out, his severed wrist leaving a trail of crimson that glistened in the faint light, a path of suffering she couldn't erase.

The Vitalist trembled, her eyes burning with tears that spilled over, tracing paths through the dirt on her cheeks, her grief a silent storm raging within her.

She could heal deep wounds, mend broken bones with a touch—but she couldn't grow what had been taken, couldn't undo the mutilation she'd been forced to witness, couldn't save him from the fate her hesitation had wrought.

The blond villain knelt in front of her, tapping her cheek lightly—mockingly—before his hand reared back and slapped her, hard, the sting a sharp counterpoint to the dull ache of her despair.

"Try this stunt again, Saint, and next time, I'll take both his hands," he whispered, his breath hot against her skin, his words a promise of more torment, more blood, more pieces of her soul carved away.

She glared at him with all the hate she could muster, her silver-gray eyes blazing through the tears, a fire of loathing that burned despite her chains, despite her powerlessness.

He just smirked, a smug curl of his lips as he turned away, stuffing the money into his coat pocket with a casual air, as if her suffering were nothing more than a profitable game.

The door slammed shut, the sound reverberating through the room like a gunshot, sealing her back into her prison.

She was alone again, the silence pressing in, heavy and suffocating.

Her sobs dulled into the void, echoing faintly against the cold stone walls, a sound swallowed by the emptiness that surrounded her, a cry no one would hear.

She prayed—to anyone, to anything, her thoughts a desperate plea cast into the darkness.

For death, to free her from this torment, to let her escape the chains and the blood.

For freedom, to break these shackles and reclaim the life they'd stolen from her.

For power—any power, besides this cursed gift, something sharp and vengeful she could wield against them, something to make them pay.

But there was no answer, only the silence that mocked her pleas.

That night, she fell into an exhausted slumber, her head hanging low against the shackles, her body too weary to hold itself upright, her mind drifting into a haze of pain and resignation.

Then—a distant explosion, faint but unmistakable, rumbled through the stone, stirring the air with its promise of chaos.

Her eyes snapped open, silver-gray and wide, the sound pulling her from the depths of her stupor.

Another blast—this time closer, a tremor that shook the floor beneath her, rattling her chains with a metallic clatter.

Her heart pounded, a frantic rhythm against her bruised ribs, a flicker of something unfamiliar stirring within her.

A third explosion rocked the walls, the force reverberating through the prison, dust falling from the ceiling in a gritty shower that stung her eyes and coated her lips.

Then—the door burst open, splintering inward with a crash that sent splinters flying, smoke and dust swirling in the dim moonlight that spilled through the broken frame.

A man stood in the doorway, his chest heaving with heavy breaths, his presence a storm of raw, unshaken power that filled the room and stole the air from her lungs.

Black hair, wild and sweat-soaked, framed a face hardened by battle, and black eyes, deep and piercing, locked onto her with an intensity that cut through the darkness like a blade.

He carried a woman with chestnut-brown hair over his shoulder, her body limp and barely breathing, blood staining her combat gear, her life hanging by a thread that seemed to fray with each passing second.

The Vitalist's breath hitched, caught in her throat as she took in the sight of him, this figure who seemed forged from fire and defiance.

He was covered in blood, crimson streaking his torn clothes, his skin burned and glistening with sweat, the marks of a war freshly fought etched into every line of his being.

And yet, he stood tall, an unshaken force, like something untouchable, unstoppable, a titan who had walked through hell and emerged with fury still blazing in his gaze.

He looked at her, his fiery black eyes piercing through the darkness, meeting her silver-gray stare with a force that jolted her, awakening something buried deep within her shattered spirit.

For the first time in so long, the Vitalist felt something other than despair—a faint, trembling spark that flickered in the ashes of her soul.

A spark.

Hope?