Meet the Hero | Paris-la-Déchue

I imagine I must still continue to tell his story...

I hope to at least be the last narrator...

Let us begin.

Once upon a time, at the dawn of the space age, an unprecedented catastrophe occurred: the fusion of worlds. Mythical creatures—the Beast of Gévaudan, the White Lady, and so many other forgotten legends—came to life, defying a humanity blinded by science. Earth, rebaptized Fayiera Terra and tinted turquoise, became the stage for a new order where magic and reason brushed against each other with fragile hope.

But soon, coexistence gave way to war. Armies of scientists and fey clashed in an endless conflict, while the planet, battered by battles and famine, sank into darkness. The bowels of the Earth then split open, unleashing titanic demons straight from Tartarus, whose pitiless fury annihilated everything in their path.

As humanity and its allies took refuge in bunkers transformed into mobile cities, hope seemed to extinguish. It was then that a hero, whose name was lost in the mists of time, emerged like a ray of sunlight piercing the blackest night. His face, marked by silent tears, offered one final breath of hope as he repelled the darkness threatening to engulf Fayiera Terra.

The remnants of a once-glorious humanity mingled with a reborn nature, and the fey, in harmony with their world, reclaimed their place. Thanks to the Universal Archives, guardians of ancestral knowledge, some humans rebuilt new societies, marked by a precarious balance between domination and fragility.

Thus, despite the ultimate ray of light brought by the hero, Fayiera Terra remained cloaked in infinite melancholy, where every glimmer of hope mingled with the persistent shadow of a sky that stayed forever dark.

It is true, however, that one might have mistaken this sky, freed from darkness, for the dawn of a radiant future. None would err in such a way by accident, save for the narrator of the book the Hero was reading—who, in a surge of consolation, evoked better days to come. But faced with the ineffable emptiness of answers, he threw the volume to the ground, disavowing this frivolous tale—this childish fable, as absurd as grazing grass—for Reality, alas, had morphed into a vastly different existence, cruel and disenchanted.

In this way, despite the ephemeral breath of a final ray of light, Fayiera Terra remained enveloped in infinite melancholy, where every glimmer of hope intertwined with the stubborn shadow of a sky that, always, stayed dark.

The Hero lowered his eyes to the ground and counted:

One... Two... Three... Four... Five... Fifteen... Twenty-five... A hundred?

Over a hundred corpses littered the road. What lay before him closely matched the description he'd been given: dilapidated factories, ruined buildings, mounds of waste, and finally, heaps of the dead...

Clearly, he had arrived at Paris-la-Déchue—the Fallen City—a place of all dangers and all miseries.

Formerly the "most beautiful city in the world," it was now infested with rats, cockroaches, anthropophages, and other species-destroyers—though, as some said, this wasn't so different from its original state. A stranger to this new world, it was now nothing but the rubble of a bygone era.

Normally, this month was his rest period. He should have been walking his mutant mutt along the stream flowing just below his home. But the dog had recently been devoured by a giant alligator—rotten luck. Though usually ever-vigilant, he'd made the mistake of letting his guard down for a brief moment, and now another misfortune had latched onto his already wretched life. At times, he wondered if this fate that seemed to hound him so harshly wasn't upon him because he was merely enacting divine justice... The time had come for him to resume his search. And so, he'd landed in this dump—which had the audacity to call itself a "city."

According to rumors circulating about this place, a beast ravenous for fresh flesh—particularly men—lurked within. Few had dared confront this creature, and of the laughably small number of "brave souls" who'd gone to battle this monster, none had ever returned. I'm not sure "brave" was the right word.

To put it bluntly: where exactly is the line between courage and stupidity?

This time, it fell to this warrior in rusted armor—armor that seemed to hail from an era even older than your own—to take up the torch of his predecessors. To make matters worse, his cape was in equally dubious condition. The cruelest irony was that these warmongers chased one another toward hasty deaths for a mere handful of coins—not even enough to buy a cheap can of Cola in the Vécong.

Every step he took in this antiquated cuirass produced an unbearable noise. It resembled the sound of an old schoolmistress' nails scraping a blackboard; his armor made a racket loud enough to rouse the dead from their eternal slumber. The tatters hanging from his armor bore a design—the remnants of a noble house's crest, I presume. This emblem was meant to instill fear, terror, and respect in all who crossed his path. It was stained with blood that clearly didn't belong to our stranger. It was filthy and reeked worse than anything else the young man carried. It was the only thing that gave this youth—who refused to face reality and, by extension, grow up—a semblance of a past.

The boy wandered the streets of this nullified city, through labyrinths of waste. Occasionally, his gaze met the furtive glances of its inhabitants.

This city mirrored most others scattered across the blue planet: relics of a distant past that almost no one, if anyone at all, remembered.

Here stood a metal tower with a base divided into four legs. This steel skeleton, renovated over time into a "magic beanstalk," stood valiantly—if barely—upright despite storms, wars, harsh weather, and time's inexorable march toward its end.

Of course, its construction dated from an era prior to this one, long before the Age of Darkness, long before space conquest. It wasn't the first of its kind; this was likely its sixth iteration. It belonged to humanity's past splendors, a memento of their presence during glorious times that people surely needed to recall amid the catastrophes caused by the monsters now plaguing the planet, just to cling to a shred of hope. Yet humans seemed to pay it no mind, preferring to surrender to madness alongside their planetary roommates, the Fey.

Perhaps Earth itself had gone mad from all these changes?

This boy would never know that era of prosperity and joy. Condemned to live in this disastrous time—where there was no room for carefree innocence or kindness, where everything was rotten to the core: institutions, living beings, even the legends of History—it was no wonder this child had lost faith in everything...

But no time to dwell on that: there was a monster tyrannizing this place, one he needed to confront for information about a certain man... If things went south, he could always liberate the city from this vile creature's grip. After all, that was his role, I suppose...

At a crossroads of two streets, he encountered a slumped Ammu-robot, its screen flickering. He struck the machine to see if his blows would restart it and dispense plasma rounds for his rifle. Not only did nothing come out, but the interface also displayed that the "tin can" was empty. Seized by anger, he smashed the screen with his boots.

This time, it was truly broken.

He heard something behind him. He spun around and drew his sword. But no one stood before him. He looked left and right: it was a complete wasteland. Aside from the lifeless body of a vagrant being devoured by a pack of mutant scavengers—some of whom watched from the sky, likely hoping to feast on the boy's fleshier frame—there was nothing alarming. He saw only a shell embedded in a building labeled "USSR III"—the return of revenge.

Was this a new breed of monster confronting him? He gripped his sword Ymir tightly and assumed a defensive stance, anticipating every possible attack his new enemy might launch. His nerves were raw, his gaze and mind sharpened; he was prepared for any eventuality...

The boy felt a tap on his greave. He looked down and saw a little girl with a vacant stare. She wore a MEXDEX potato sack as clothing, her face smeared with soot. The stench emanating from her was pestilential, but he couldn't judge: it had been two weeks since he'd last bathed or removed his armor—so you can imagine the "aroma" inside.

He crouched and studied the girl. He noted her greasy, filthy hair clumped with impurities; her face covered in pimples; her eyes swollen, red, and ringed by enormous dark circles.

She looked truly ill.

"Are you here for the Ogress?" asked the little girl.

When she opened her mouth, he noticed she was missing several teeth.

Poor girl... This world had become a terrible place...

The armored boy nodded. She then motioned for him to follow. He complied, as he didn't know where his target was hiding.

They arrived at a dilapidated building—a former official structure.

The little girl led him inside. The knight guessed the entire city's population was gathered here. The girl approached the counter in front of them and rang the bell to announce their arrival.

During the brief wait for someone to answer, the knight in the orange cape surveyed this foul-smelling room with its drab, lifeless wallpaper. The people gathered here mirrored the filthy girl: some appeared to have leprosy, their limbs falling apart; others had contracted the plague, their bodies covered in enormous boils.

The Horseman of Pestilence had done his work...

Though their eyes were empty of life and it was clear they'd lost all hope, their intense despair was palpable.

These people slept on the bare floor; the luckier ones had a scrap of fabric to lie on, while the "strongest" claimed benches, chairs... or even tables? He even saw some sleeping on unusable freezers or beneath occupied tables, clutching knives to protect themselves from thieves, murderers, or rapists...

No. These people didn't resemble the little girl; they resembled the trash-city itself.

What could have happened to these people to leave them in such a state? The city was known as a metropolitan dump, but was it even livable enough for anyone to consider residing here?

Nothing could save them.

Even if the young man succeeded in killing the Ogress, would it save them from the immense despair haunting them? Would slaying the Ogress return their dead? Would it retrieve their souls from the dark abyss that seemed to have torn them away?

None of this mattered to the boy. He had something far more important to ask...

A hulking man with a potbelly arrived at the counter. He wore a torn, open floral Hawaiian shirt, a pig-like nose, glassy eyes, and a triple chin. Despite his barnyard-animal appearance, he didn't seem to be a therianthrope.

He looked down at the little girl. She pointed at the knight.

"He's here for her."

"Why else would he be here?" retorted the heavy-boned man.

He placed a cloth sack on the counter. The knight shook his head: he wasn't interested in any reward.

"Don't worry," said the "receptionist" in a falsely reassuring tone, "it's not for you. It's for her."

The boy didn't understand her meaning at first, but then noticed the bottom of the sack dripping with a scarlet liquid; a stain crept upward. He truly had no desire to know what was inside. It would spare him from passing judgment on them.

"You're the one who decided to confront her, so don't curse us up there if we consider you part of the offering..."

Ah, so he was part of the sacrifice?

The knight merely shrugged nonchalantly.

"Take this sack: it's our tribute to the Ogress. It contains the women's hearts she demanded," she explained, "so we can buy a few more days of respite..."

He'd just said he didn't want to know what was in the sack!

The boy obeyed and took the pouch. He started to leave but paused. He turned back, tousled the potato-sack girl's hair, and shoved a lollipop—from one of his armor's pockets—into her mouth. Then he left the building.

The girl's eyes widened at the strange taste in her mouth: she had never tasted anything so delicious! It was so sweet!

This must have been her first time tasting something sugary.

A strange smile began to form on her face, as if carved from stone and emerging from lethargy. It softened gradually, as if her half-dead spirit and living emotions were battling to dictate the feelings her face would show.

As the mysterious young man began to depart, the large man emerged from behind the counter clutching a camera.

"Show me your face so I can immortalize it. Why, you ask? Well, in this world, the life expectancy of a human or a Fey is as fleeting as a camera flash. Most of us have no person, no place that will remember we ever walked this ravaged Earth we lost long ago."

The knight understood the sacrificer's intent perfectly. He too had lost everyone who might have remembered him; having a photo of himself in this desolate place wasn't entirely unwelcome.

He removed his helmet, revealing his face. The strange, corpulent man dropped the camera, which shattered on the floor in shock. He abandoned the idea of taking a photo: he had no need. Everyone knew this child.

The young armored warrior smirked, amused by the reaction his face had provoked in the receptionist.

No surprise there! Nothing new under the sun...

He replaced his helmet and exited the building.

The pig-faced man collapsed to the ground, his legs unable to bear the weight of his heart; the sight of the adolescent's face had stolen his breath.

"That stranger you brought, Astarté, will surely be our salvation," he remarked. "But is trading one monster for a demon the right solution?"

Outside, the knight in grimy armor pondered how he would approach the Ogress. His thoughts were interrupted again by the girl tapping the back of his greave. He turned and saw her still licking the lollipop he'd given her.

"Mister, what is this thing?" asked young Astarté.

The boy had no idea what it was called. He simply shrugged in response.

He noticed the expression on the grimy child's face had transformed. Her eyes had changed: they were no longer as empty as when they'd first met. She seemed different now... happier.

"Is it true you can defeat the monster atop the 'Green Spire'?" the little girl asked, still licking her lollipop in ecstasy, as the mayor claims.

He couldn't believe his ears: this bloated oaf, to whom he wouldn't entrust his goat because he seemed like a sexual deviant, was the mayor of this dump. The world was truly full of strange curiosities.

And he dares to judge?

He stared at the iron tower looming before him and shrugged once more—he truly knew nothing, my word!

"Please, mister, I beg you, save my parents!"

The knight tilted his head, not fully understanding her request. Only men were taken to the top of this tower.

"She took my father!" she exclaimed. "I'd lost all hope of seeing them again until you arrived, gave me this sweet stick to taste, and Mayor Maxine said you could kill that thing that's killed so many people..."

So it wasn't a typo—she is a woman... Well, then...

The mysterious warrior knelt before her, looked at her through his visor, wiped the little girl's tears, and... shrugged. Then he left for the lair of the monster terrorizing this garbage heap they dared call a "city."

"So you'll save them?" the girl asked.

He raised his arms to the sky as if to say, "I don't know."

This guy is truly priceless. He's willing to dive into nothing.

But after all, he didn't know what would happen when he faced the Ogress. Nothing truly compelled him to kill her. On the other hand, he'd come to Paris the "Fallen Capital" to extract information about his mother's killer.

The rest meant nothing to him.

And if she tried to be clever, he'd use the little "gift" he'd planned to bring her.

He returned to the spot where he'd first met Astarté.

Before leaving her, he'd asked her to bring him an extremely long rope to climb the Eiffel Tower VI—at least ten meters—so he could haul the "little surprise" he'd have to drag all the way up.

After four and a half hours of walking and futile skirmishes against monsters spawned from trash and filth, stupid highwaymen preying on hapless victims to rob them of their meager belongings, and men enamored with the flesh of their fellow humans, the warrior finally stood before Paris's iconic relic: a green steel tower coiled upon itself.

He removed his helmet and hooked it to his hips; he gripped the rope with his teeth, wrapped it around his arms, and began his long ascent up the ancient monument—he could have taken the elevator, but as everyone knows, it's a bad idea to ride a lift with dangerous cargo, no matter the size.

The knight reached the tower's second floor. His surprise was immense when he discovered before him a veritable charnel house where a mountain of corpses piled on the ground…

Corpses?

Not exactly.

At the base of this mountain, it was undeniable they were dead, but based on his observations, most of the bodies before him seemed… alive. Yet their gazes said otherwise: they had the glassy eyes of dead fish; their bodies were limp, drained of all vitality; mouths agape with drool dangling from their lips, topped by macabre grins.

Suddenly, he heard a scream from above. He hastily re-donned his helmet and armed his rifle—though he had barely any plasma rounds left for defense.

A projectile seemed to hurtle toward him. But it didn't appear to be an actual missile or a magical creature recklessly leaping at him without fear of shattering its legs from the impact.

He squinted and realized it was just a shirtless human body plummeting toward his level. It crashed into the mountain of "stiffs" and rolled to his feet; it was in the same state as the other males in the corpse pile. He knelt and examined the man who'd fallen from the sky, searching him and finding a holophone. He woke it from sleep mode and saw a wallpaper image of little Astarté in cleaner clothes than she wore now—though they were still rags as filthy as her potato sack.

This must have been her father, with her mother embracing them in the background—she wore the family's pants, from what he could see.

He too was naked, wearing the same stunned expression as all the other victims.

He raised his head and glimpsed, despite his poor vision, large shadows in the distance.

The Ogress did not appear to be among them.

The knight took the man's body and lowered it with the rope.

He'd retrieve it later to bring to his daughter; all that remained was to find his wife, though he held little hope for her.

Then he reattached the rope to the "surprise" he'd reserved for the monster at the monument's peak and resumed climbing the Eiffel Tower VI. The knight ascended to the second floor while dragging the "package" he amusedly ferried to its delivery point. This pretty parcel, found on a street corner in this horrible city, would soon prove useful.

The encounter with the Ogress would be explosively spectacular.

He finally arrived at the third floor of the rusted monument. Before him stood the elevator leading to the antenna, and just prior, he noted a multitude of monsters surrounding a massive hole from which Astarté's lifeless father had fallen.

The boy's presence didn't go unnoticed for long.

Suddenly, two humans broke from the crowd and ran toward him. They appeared deeply distressed; from afar, they begged him for help. A man and a woman, both naked.

The young man advanced toward them without fear. He'd easily handle these creatures who would undoubtedly block his path.

However, abruptly, the two approaching humans transformed into humanoid snakes and lunged at the armored teenager.

As he'd said earlier: he'd have to deal with the two monsters blocking his path. He hesitated between using his plasma weapon or letting them play their pathetic damsel-in-distress act, but remembered he lacked enough plasma charges for such games.

Instead, though he loathed using it, he'd have to wield the cursed sword Ymir.

Drawing the blade from his back as fast as lightning, the armored youth sliced the two monsters into paper-thin strips faster than it takes to say it, turning them into frozen serpent escalopes.

Did they truly think such illusions could fool him? What nonsense. Generative AIs had already done a better job millennia ago.

He burst into laughter at the absurdity. After all, he was the greatest liar in this universe. But he was magnanimous, willing to forgive his adversaries' clumsiness. True, nothing betrayed his true nature—not that he was this being both feared and hoped for by ordinary citizens and underworld dwellers alike. They too would never discover who he truly was.

Seeing their comrades reduced to ribbons of flesh, the other magical creatures rushed the young warrior. He reveled in their enthusiasm, these miserable Fey who dared believe they stood a chance against him. How could they have guessed they faced something far more dreadful than their combined might?

Five minutes sufficed to reduce them to pulp. They stood no chance against the knight: his possession of Ymir, his use of this loathsome cursed weapon, its side effects, and the fury its use provoked in him reduced their odds of victory to… zero.

The young man wiped the blood dripping from his blade before sheathing it, then entered the elevator and pressed the button for the top floor.

The metal doors screeched open like an old schoolteacher's nails scraping a blackboard—the mistress of this place could've at least maintained it.

He plunged into the green tower's lift and arrived in the throne room of the one who terrorized the city below. The chamber was far more opulent than anything he'd seen since arriving in this city.

He exited the elevator without fear. He didn't see the infamous male-devourer he'd heard so much about before coming to Paris-la-Déchue. Instead, he saw six men leashed on all fours before Her Monstrosity's royal seat. Behind them, a row of heads with long or short hair; he approached one and realized they were women's heads. So this was what became of those who tried to rescue their husbands: drinking cups.

He felt more sorrow for these poor mothers, these loving women, than for the men enslaved in canine-like servitude. Their fate as the monster's sex slaves wasn't his concern. If his actions helped the Ogress's victims, good for them; if not, let her remain Paris's mistress—it made no difference to him.

As he moved to place the offering from the people below on the "royal" throne, he dodged a last-second attack from a shadowed corner with an awkward backflip that slammed him against a wall—his agility sorely lacking. He turned toward the attack's source and saw the one he'd come to meet: Albedo Wata, the Male-Devourer.

"OH!" she marveled, "I see I'm not dealing with a small fry, though you're not very nimble on your feet."

This woman differed starkly from her description. She appeared a fusion of fish-man (with scaled legs) and goat (thanks to the horns crowning her head). Her slender body and delicate face made him doubt his target.

[Not that he'd expected a famous ogress with green skin or boar-like tusks—]

"Who's telling this story? You or me?"

[...]

There.

So he knew she had a human appearance, but he hadn't expected such beauty. He'd anticipated more of a Hansel-and-Gretel witch than a Snow White.

She approached the boy and stroked the left side of his helmet before returning to her seat. She snapped her fingers, and one of the slaves crawled to her. She used him as a footrest.

This demeanor disgusted the young man.

"Though you're under her command," the Ogress laughed, "couldn't you show a bit more deference to me?"

This sentence confirmed what he desperately needed to hear: she knew about him.

This restored the boy's smile, his eyes glowing scarlet. He struggled to contain his rage but had to if he wanted leads beyond what she'd give.

The mysterious traveler shook his head to signal her misunderstanding.

"'No'?" said the man-eater, astonished. "You disrespect me! Or… you're not with him…"

He didn't confirm, instead giving a thumbs-up.

"So you're one of those fool adventurers after my head?" she laughed breezily. "What's my bounty these days?"

Still wrong.

He gestured ambiguously with his gloved hand. Killing her didn't guarantee a reward.

"You're starting to annoy me with your silence!" Albedo snapped.

He raised his arms and shrugged.

She felt his contemptuous smile through his stolen armet. Faced with such nonchalance, she couldn't ignore the arrogance of the man before her. She extended a nail that pierced the knight's helmet, sending it spinning through the air before crashing down, revealing the protagonist's face.

Though his head protection helped, it wasn't enough: he sustained a forehead wound. He couldn't deny this Fey's strength—a moment's distraction had nearly cost him.

While he was stunned by her attack, he didn't anticipate Albedo Wata's reaction to his face. Her terror was unforgettable: no longer the unflappable woman, she now resembled Edvard Munch's The Scream—yes, I'm cultured! She'd never imagined crossing paths with a Novillios survivor, supposed to be extinct.

"You!" she cried, trembling.

Five years had passed since that infamous 12th of Amikan. He couldn't be alive after all that had happened.

"So you've got that helmet because you killed one of his generals!"

The boy turned, picked up the helmet, cleaned it, and returned to his spot. He pointed at the helmet to demand the location of the Techno-Knight troop and their leader—his five-year quarry.

The Ogress's terror delighted the stranger: fear would expedite answers. Perhaps no bloodshed was needed.

"As if I'd tell you! You can keep drea—"

He interrupted her with a plasma gunshot grazing her ear—a deliberate intimidation tactic. He lacked time or desire to fight so strong a monster.

Unfortunately, his intimidation failed: she was furious. Pressuring this self-styled queen of a backwater was unwise. Humiliated by a fifteen-year-old with no witnesses, she wouldn't tolerate it.

He sighed in exasperation. Hoping for subtlety, he'd have to fight again. Worse, he'd wasted a plasma round; he needed one left for his backup plan. His expression likely screamed This is exhausting.

"You think you can threaten me in my own palace to avenge that stupid woman?"

That was the last straw.

He'd tolerated all her atrocities, witnessed and rumored, but insulting her crossed the line.

"What will you do?" she taunted. "Kill me? Don't make me laugh! Wearing that poor woman's armor grants you no right to such arrogance! I'll bring you down—literally!"

Ah! She shared his idea.

She charged, transforming her arm into a swarm of snakes. He barely had time to holster his rifle and grip Ymir. His pupils burned crimson.

He was ready to fight.

He met Albedo, severed her serpent army, and kicked her ribs, sending her flying into a wall. Insufficient to stop her. She retaliated with a shriek that disoriented him but didn't make him drop his weapon. She used the distraction to spread snakes through the floor, attacking from all sides.

The snakes encircled and lunged. He sliced all daring to strike. He wasn't stupid—they aimed to infiltrate his armor's gaps, not bite directly.

Albedo admitted this kid was sharper than previous arrogant challengers. Having an asset like him would let her challenge their leader—especially since the Heroine was gone. Less experienced than her, he'd still serve against the right hand.

Too many reptiles for the boy's taste. He let Ymir's "divine" power infuse him, gaining titanic strength. Muscles swelling, he shattered the floor to kill the snakes—risking a fall—and charged the male-devourer.

Caught off guard, she hissed for backup. But her lower-floor minions were dead; only her sex slaves remained. They mobbed the boy, restraining him despite his enhanced (yet waning) strength—barely beyond a normal adult's.

He had no desire to harm these wretches but lacked the voice or naivety to reason with their wretched state. He channeled Ymir again, spinning into a whirlwind. Albedo's men flew skyward before smashing down—yet they kept coming.

If she insisted on losing her playthings…

The knight shattered the first male's jaw, then blew the second's leg off with a sweep and tackle. He grabbed an orc's horns, double-kneed its chin, and hurled it into other "enchanted" men—their next-day soreness would be legendary.

"You're strong," the man-eater conceded, "but not enough to make me talk."

She lunged, clawing his helmet with her nails, but he caught her arm, twisted it toward her, and elicited a scream. He bent it further until she surrendered the Techno-Knight leader's location.

Writhing in pain, she begged him to stop. He ignored her. She tried seduction.

"If you wanted me so badly," the Ogress teased, "you didn't need this drama. Attacking a frail woman isn't chivalrous. And it's obvious you desire me," she insinuated. "No man resists me—you're no exception."

Delusional!

Using a fifteen-year-old's urges was low… effective on normal humans. He tightened his grip, annoyed by her lewdness. Seduction via sex was one thing, but this was her worst idea yet.

"At least consider it," she panted, pained. "Become mine, and I'll give you power for vengeance—even heal your stigmata."

He leaned closer. Seeing his face, she understood his refusal from his headshake.

"A pity," she lamented. "We'd have made a lovely pair of abominations… First spell of the northern winds: Gust!"

A violent gust threw the knight back. She caught herself on her hands. Sick of this fight, he'd end it. He tapped his helmet, repeating his question.

"He's the only man I fear. Don't expect answers."

Too bad.

He sheathed his sword, reloaded his rifle with his last plasma round, and aimed at Albedo. She charged, claws bared. He spun the weapon, lowered the barrel, and fired. The shot pierced the floor, detonating his carefully prepared "gift"—a shell lodged in a nearby building.

The explosion was cataclysmic, destroying the antenna and the tower's top floor. The structure trembled violently, swayed, then collapsed. Rivets from the old steel frame popped one by one. Too fragile for such force—though no construction could've withstood it.

Albedo fell into the void without understanding. She plummeted through the hole blown by her visitor's "surprise," witnessing her "palace's" ruin firsthand. She couldn't believe a mere human child had destroyed everything she'd built.

But she knew: he wasn't mere. That's why he'd succeeded.

This was his plan. If she refused answers, he'd take everything—just as they'd taken all from him at Novillios.

Where was this suicidal fool now?

Well, he'd had the presence of mind to unsheathe his sword and cling to a falling steel beam.

Spotting his target through the collapsing metal skeleton, he yanked his blade free and dove after her.

He saw her amidst green steel pillars. The knight leapt beam-to-beam, sprinted along one, and charged the Ogress at full speed to plunge his sword into her chest.

She blocked with a serpent-shield. Ymir pierced the barrier but stuck, unable to leverage full power. She tried attacking, but he struck first, using his sword as leverage to drive an iron greave into her spine, reverting her to her true gorgon form.

Then she understood: he wasn't like past challengers who became sex toys upon defeat. He'd honed his blade and skills for one purpose: slaughter. All of them.

Every strike radiated his hatred—understandable given his past. She was but a worm beneath his boot, her life his to take. Unacceptable!

"Whoever you are in this vile world," she hissed, "I won't be insulted or belittled!"

The Ogress armored her arms with scales and struck the young warrior's leg, denting his armor. He yanked his foot from her back, but before freeing it completely, she smashed him into a steel beam.

He touched his breastplate, noting the dent she'd made. Fury surged—this armor, inherited from his mother, was his sole memento in this fleeting world. He'd tolerate no damage.

He grabbed the beam he'd hit and prepared to hurl it at her, forgetting they were in freefall nearing the ground. For him, only retaliation mattered. But erratic movements ruined his aim. Gravity claimed them. Both crashed down with the structure.

A massive dust cloud rose from the fallen symbol of the old capital.

Miraculously, Albedo emerged 'unscathed': she rose to her feet, her joints screaming. She could no longer use her legs; she transformed them into a serpent's tail to slither through the scattered metal debris. She owed this corrupted body to the knight the Hero was hunting.

Already reduced to nothing, Paris now resembled a junkyard with this field of twisted steel.

Slithering between the steel pylons, she found the helmet of her challenger. A wide grin split her face, then she laughed uproariously.

'You came all this way, destroyed everything... just to die so pathetically? Pitiful!'

She grabbed the helmet and pulled out one of the women's heads used as interior decoration.

When she saw it, her face twisted in confusion. Her hands trembled. She dropped both the helmet and the severed head. The helm rolled to the feet of its 'owner,' who halted it with his boot and leveled the sword Ymir at the Ogress of Paris-the-Fallen.

Raising her eyes to her executioner, she glimpsed—in the sunset's crimson glow—the blackened visage of the monster they had created: eyes blazing scarlet, irises a terrifying yellow, his face as dark as the eternal night no hero had dispelled. Only his teeth glinted. Blood streamed from countless wounds masked by the 'stain' covering his features. A metal rod from the Green Tower pierced his skull, crimson rivulets cascading down his twisted neck—now snapped back into place with a casual jerk.

Though his face showed no distinct features, the Ogress could feel the emotions radiating from him: rage, hatred, bitterness...

Staring at him, she must have thought: What have we unleashed?

And that was precisely what the Hero wanted her to understand.

His killer's gaze was no facade: she wouldn't be his first victim. But she still had a chance to survive—if she answered his question.

The knight lowered his blade's tip and pointed it at the helmet.

'Still obsessed...,' the man-eater hissed. 'As if I'd tell you anything! Even with that sword—the bane of Earthlings—you're nothing against his power. That weapon is but a fragment of his strength!'

The Hero clicked his tongue in irritation.

The Ogress lunged at him in desperation.

Bad move...

He severed her head in one stroke, then fired a plasma round point-blank into her forehead. Her body collapsed, melting into viscous sludge from the gorgon's aberrant blood. The chimera's true form erupted from her throat like a geyser before crashing to the ground.

The monster's corpse reverted to human form, startling the boy—though this wasn't the first time. Did it relate to his curse?

This was the sixteenth thug tied to that damned knight he'd eliminated without a single clue to his whereabouts.

Another waste of time.

He retrieved Astarté's mother's head, donned his helmet, and retrieved her father's miraculously alive body.

Then he backtracked—he'd nearly forgotten the terror of Paris-the-Fallen's corpse.

At the 'town hall's' entrance, he hurled the persecutor's remains to the ground. The crowd gaped at seeing their tormentor up close, the one who'd drowned them in despair for years.

'Impossible!' cried Mayor Maxine.

She rushed from behind the counter to inspect the Ogress's body.

'So you're truly the one I feared...,' she whispered.

Maxine drew a magnum from her back and aimed at Paris's 'savior.'

He seized the antiquated firearm and snapped it in half with one hand.

Such strength, thought the swine-faced woman.

The boy noted her hairy, unhumanlike hands—was she a man-bear-pig hybrid? Maybe he should stop spending so much time in the Universal Library... and actually sleep there.

He turned to see Astarté in the corner. The crowd flinched at his every move. They had reason: he'd slain a monster they'd been too cowardly to confront—though blowing up her lair wasn't subtler than rat poison. But hypocrisy aside, he alone could purge these horrors.

The girl had failed to cling to the euphoria of the lollipop he'd given her. In this bleak atmosphere, it was futile.

He placed her mother's head and father's lifeless body before her. She sat frozen, staring at the remains. Only her tears moved.

The boy reached out to touch her, then stopped. He had no words of comfort—not for her, not even for himself... and no voice left to speak them.

All he could do was watch her weep, tears streaking his expressionless face.

He stood and walked away from the cursed building.

But after passing a few ruined blocks, he heard shouts. Turning, he saw little Astarté, eyes swollen, baring her teeth.

'This is your fault!' she screamed. 'You promised to bring them back alive!'

The boy stared, unmoved.

'I swear I'll find you! I'll make you pay! However long it takes—I'll skin you!'

The knight turned and waved goodbye. He had no guilt—she'd imagined his promise. And yet... he'd wanted to save them...

Beneath his helmet, a rosy liquid dripped. Blood? Or...

They called him a monster. An abomination. A demon...

Yet he was just a fifteen-year-old boy robbed of hope and dreams, cursed to live as an outcast. All that remained was the bitterness drowning his heart.

This is the hero of our story...

This is the Hero.

"Yo, who's claimin' you?!" growled a voice behind him.

The Hero raised an eyebrow and turned—just as a blow to the back of his skull dropped him unconscious…

The gears of Destiny began to turn...

The awaited hour had come...

Those who would save the world were about to meet...