The Death of the Hero

Barion felt calm--calmer than he had any right to be. Only moments ago, his head was infested with worry, and his body was syphoning the endless amount of frustration that had built over the course of centuries. But now, he was untouchable. The labours of his journey had disappeared without a trace. He hadn't given up at all, as Manyu had claimed. Rather, he was more excited to fight than ever. When was the last time he was excited about anything?

"What's gotten into you?" Manyu steadied his voice, "I wasn't expecting to see this."

"Dorma was right." He replied, "I've always been holding myself back--hiding beneath a veneer of anger and frustration. I was always afraid of giving it my all, knowing that if it wasn't enough, I'd never be able to pull myself together. But it is enough. And all this time, I've refused to even acknowledge that."

"You really expect me to believe…" Manyu began, "...that you haven't been pushing yourself?"

"It's the truth." He insisted, "-So whether you believe me or not… doesn't really matter."

"Hm." Manyu smirked, "Tell yourself whatever you need to hear. The real truth is that you're exactly like me--someone who can't live without a battle to fight."

"I won't shy away from that anymore." He answered, "I won't disguise myself as someone more honourable or gracious. When I look towards the fight, rather than away from it, why would I ever need hatred? My own happiness will carry me past those outdated limits."

"Words are pointless." Manyu declared, "-We knew this from the very beginning, and yet we simply can't help ourselves, can we? As always, it will be our fists that separate righteousness from unworthiness."

Manyu approached him--launched from where he stood like some kind of pouncing animal going in for the kill. Any other opponent couldn't possibly hope to overcome such an assault. Perhaps that's why he coveted their battle with such reverence. Barely an instant passed before Manyu was within range to strike, but something occurred right before the pivotal moment.

An impact--faster than even he could comprehend, colliding with his cheek like a ton weight, before his body was sent flying through the arena walls, careening over the lamplit streets of Gria like a ballista bolt, garnering the attention of common folk and merchants alike as they witnessed the spectacle from below. Within the arena itself, nothing remained of Manyu's presence bar a twirling maelstrom of dust that followed in his wake through the ancient architecture. Barion remained calmly with his arm outstretched, as if to imply that he was somehow responsible for the attack.

"W-Where did Manyu go…?" From the audience, Pale whispered those words.

"With any luck, he won't be coming back." Shilahi hoped, "Although I wouldn't put it past him to survive an attack like that. It's a good thing this arena is higher than the rest of the city, or Barion might have just levelled half of it."

"He's different from before…" She noticed, "Has he always been this powerful?"

"A difficult question. I believe the correct answer is whatever one reaches you first." Shilahi replied, "I suggested this tournament to offer Gria's rabble some well-earned peace from the horrors of this war, but the consequences were greater than I ever anticipated. At long last, the Hero of Legend has disappeared. Now we can begin leading this world towards a future untouched by the meddling hands of Black Luna."

"What about the match?"

"Well, I believe breaking the barrier is against the rules, for one thing. And leaving the arena is also grounds for disqualification, so I would certainly say this is Barion's victory--to the surprise of nobody." Shilahi paused, "It will be a pleasant change of pace seeing him unburdened with the Hero's duty for once. He was always wound a little tight."

"I apologise, but- I don't understand what you mean." Pale admitted, "What about this has to do with the duty of a Hero?"

"From the moment of his birth, Barion was shackled with that destiny. He was the man chosen to deliver this world from darkness, and spent the entirety of his adulthood struggling against impossible odds. Dorma and I--even the two of us had lives separate from our journey, with allies and nations to return to at the end of the road… but Barion enjoyed no such luxury." She explained, "A diasporic child born in the Steppe, torn from his people by circumstances beyond his control, and slave to a discipline that forced him to make use of his own frustrations. Truthfully, I don't believe he's ever been able to calm down--not until today, at the very least. With an identity of his very own, he can finally step beyond that miserable title and live as a free man, carving his own path."

"A free man…"

Shilahi was correct--leaving the battleground was an instant disqualification from the tournament, and Manyu had technically broken that rule. More than anything else, it seemed as though King Granda wasn't interested in seeing any more of the arena's historical architecture being reduced to rubble, and so gave the order for the match to end. Not that the audience were in any position to refuse--they, too, weren't keen on being openly exposed to the battle, and Barion's demonstration of absolute strength had more than satisfied their lust for blood.

Like that, the night's festivities had come to a rather abrupt close. As it turned out, Manyu had flown as far as the evacuee camp beyond the city walls, where a handful of guards dispatched to confirm his survival--or pick up the pieces of him that remained, encountered the man limping back into the city, looking more pleased with himself than was expected.

As King Granda descended from his seat to the arena floor, he had already prepared the bracket's prize beforehand--an armlet of pure orichalcum, said to be the only of its kind which had been passed down as a royal treasure through the Granda family for generations. It was far too small to fit a human's wrist, implying that it may have been created by Elven or perhaps even Aelven artisans, whose thinner limbs were often adorned with such treasures.

"Lord Barion." As he met face-to-face with the man in question, the crowd cheered as His Majesty took to the field, "For your martial prowess and invaluable support dedicated to our fairy city, I am honoured to present you with-"

"No."

Holding up a single hand to stay the King's spiel, Barion shook his head.

"I refuse." He stated simply, "-And I'm no Lord. Just a man. If you're so keen to offer this trinket up, then have it sold in some faraway country and use the gold to fortify Gria."

"W-Well, if I must be so frank, our treasury is already fully devoted to serving the people, as it always had been." Granda retaliated, "For the sake of ceremony-"

"No. I'm sorry." He repeated, "Sell it or don't--whatever decision you make doesn't bother me in the slightest, but don't hand it off like some pointless accoutrement."

"...As you wish." The King relented, retracting his gift.

"I need to go speak with the others." Barion concluded, "Farewell."

There was something different about his manner of speaking, Granda noticed. Less conflicted. More certain of his purpose. As the former Hero wandered away, the monarch tried to recall the last time he was spoken to so casually, turning his attention to the audience in order to close out the tournament gracefully.

For a single evening, the people of Gria had reclaimed a fragment of the normalcy stolen from them by Demonkind, and by the time they awoke the next day, their hearts would be prepared to face the trials that awaited. Those who weren't given the pleasure of attending--the downtrodden, the evacuated--could only sit tight as their suffering was prolonged, listening to the ruckus from the faraway arena.

Barion disappeared from his newfound sphere of recognition out into the streets of Gria, passing through the medical tents which were in the process of being dismantled now that the tournament was over. He wanted nothing more than a pleasant night's rest, but wasn't particularly bothered when he heard a familiar voice calling out to him.

"Barion!" The boyish shout couldn't have belonged to anyone else. As he circled the rotunda, Shilahi stood proudly alongside Dorma, Pale and Witilla with a satisfied grin on her face, "Just where do you think you're disappearing off to?"

"The shouts and screams of the crowd aren't for me." He answered, "-Not that I'll be left alone for long. Everyone in the city will know my name by sunrise."

"The city? Try the world." She replied, "Might I remind you that both Khazman and Fleecia have their eyes on us? There can be no denying now that the Barion of 500 years ago is still very much alive and well."

"At least we can finally get back to focusing on what's important." He responded, "In a matter of weeks, Gria's forces will be replenished by troops from both countries, and we'll be ready to defend ourselves if need be."

"But still--that was one fight I wouldn't have missed for the world." Shilahi admired, "To think you'd one day surpass Manyu to such an extent. Suppose there's no point in pretending that I can match up to you anymore, is there?"

"You're plenty strong, Shilahi."

"If you were an Onda, that'd be an unashamed declaration of love, you know?" She grinned, "A human should know better than to go around flirting when his woman's standing right next to him!"

"Shilahi, please…" Dorma muttered, "There's no need to be so vulgar about it."

"Hah? What are you on about, girl?" The Hermit retorted quickly, "If it wasn't for you, Barion would still be the same lump as always. Don't think I can't tell these sorts of things after all we've been through."

"It was nothing like that." She replied, "I was only there to-"

"No." Barion interrupted, "It really was thanks to you, Dorma."

"Eh?" The sorceress flinched.

"Shilahi is right. Ever since that day 500 years ago, I haven't been the same as before." He admitted, "-But you knew the truth--that I was hiding myself away, and you forced me to accept that because you knew it was for the best. I tried to refuse you, but that didn't dissuade you from trying.

"W-Well…" She stammered, "Come, now… there's really no need-"

"I'm not going to approach anything by halves now." He continued, "I want to move forward, towards the future I've always desired. And I want you to be there, by my side, to make certain that I'm never led astray again."

"Enough! Enough of this!" Despite her protests, Dorma was trying desperately to hide a smile, "I-I understand, so please! There is a time and a place for these sorts of things…"

"Hoh… to have the Ice Queen of Gria's royal council acting like a flustered maiden…" Shilahi crossed her arms and nodded, "Very impressive, Barion."

"Witilla-" The man shifted his attention, "Have you told us everything there is to know about Black Luna?"

"E-Everything…?" The girl repeated, "No… of course not."

"Come to the castle early tomorrow. We'll be needing as much information as possible if we hope to stand a chance at ending this." He instructed, "I hope we'll be able to continue relying on your support?"

"Y-Yes!" She stammered out, "I also… want to see this world protected."

"And Pale-" Barion redirected his gaze yet again, "As it stands, you're our only connection to the surviving tribes in the Steppe. From now on, attend the council hearings and make certain they understand everything they need to know about the situation."

"Look at this one, giving out orders like he owns the city…" The Rabbitkin girl crossed her arms and frowned, "...Well, not to say I have a problem with it…"

"The more time we waste from this point onward, the worse our chances will become." Barion proclaimed, "Naturally, we'll speak more about this tomorrow, but until then, know that all of you are essential to surviving this war, and that extends to Fusala, Larion, and Manyu as well."

"If he's still alive…" Shilahi muttered.

"He is. I'm certain." Barion paused, "But, until then… all I'd like at the moment is a comfortable place to sleep. Let's allow Gria its celebration for tonight."