A Fractured Path

"I have chased freedom for as long as I can remember, but the closer I get, the more it slips through my fingers."

A faint breeze stirs the dust at my feet. The sky above is endless, stretching beyond the horizon, yet I feel no closer to escaping the weight pressing down on me.

"You talk about freedom like it's something you can catch," a voice says.

I turn. They sit on a broken stone, one leg crossed over the other, watching me with quiet amusement. Their posture is relaxed, but there's something sharp in their gaze—like they already know where this conversation will lead.

"Like it's a prize," they continue, tilting their head slightly. I cross my arms, jaw tightening. "Isn't it?"

They exhale a short laugh, shaking their head. "No. Freedom isn't something you find—it's something you understand. And most people who chase it don't even know what they're running from."

I shift my weight. There's something in their tone that irritates me. A certainty, like they've already unraveled a truth I haven't even begun to grasp. "What have I been running from?" I say to myself. The weight of control? The chains of expectation? The feeling that no matter how far I go, I am never truly my own?

"I don't know," I admit, rubbing the back of my neck. "But I know what I don't want. I don't want to be shackled, to be told what to do, to live under someone else's will."

They nod, slow and knowing, their fingers absentmindedly tracing the cracks in the stone beneath them. "And yet, here you are—still searching. Still unsatisfied." Their voice is calm, measured, almost patient. "If running from control was enough, wouldn't you feel free by now?"

I exhale sharply through my nose. Their words hit a nerve, and they know it.

The silence between us is thick. Heavy.

Then, softer, they ask, "What if the thing you're running from isn't outside of you, but inside?"

A quiet tension coils in my chest. My breath feels too shallow. "What do you mean?"

They lean forward, resting their elbows on their knees. The sharpness in their gaze has softened—not pity, not mockery, but something else. Something closer to understanding.

"You seek freedom from others, from systems, from rules. But tell me—have you ever been free from yourself? From your own doubts? Your own desires? Your own need for power?"

I want to scoff, to deny it, to tell them they don't understand. But the words won't come.

Because deep down, I know what they're asking.

Have I been running toward freedom? Or have I been running from the parts of myself I refuse to face?

The wind picks up, swirling dust around my feet. My fists clench at my sides. I hate the way their words settle into my bones, like something I can't unhear.

They watch me carefully, waiting—not for an answer, but for the moment I realize I don't have one.

And for the first time, I wonder if I've been chasing the wrong thing all along…

No.

I've gotten this far, pushed this hard, just to find out it all amounted to nothing? My fist tightens, knuckles turning white. The frustration is a wildfire inside me, burning hotter with every word.

"Everything I've been through—all the times I've fought, struggled, bled, trying to grasp freedom in my hands. And every time, it just slips through my fingers, running even further away."

I turn toward them fully, my breath heavy. For the first time, I really see them—a young man, no older than me. No wiser than me. That realization stings, but I push it aside.

The fire in my voice returns.

"You're telling me all that hardship, all that pain, suffering, anger, hate, sadness—" my breath hitches, my throat tight, "all of that meant nothing?" I take a step closer, my voice cracking under the weight of it all. "The people I've tried to help, the people I've pushed away and hurt to achieve what I wanted—you're telling me all of that was pointless?!"

The words come out in a breathless rush, a mix of confusion, rage, and something deeper—something I don't want to name. It claws at my chest, tight and unbearable, an abomination of emotions twisting into something raw and ugly.

And yet, they don't flinch.

For a moment, the only sound is my own heavy breathing. The wind swirls between us, cold against my skin, but I barely feel it. My chest rises and falls unevenly, my heart hammering as if it's trying to break free from my ribs.

And then, finally, they speak.

"If it was all pointless," they say, voice steady, "then why does it still matter so much to you?"

My breath catches.

They lean forward slightly, hands resting loosely on their knees. "You act like you want me to tell you that your pain was worthless. But if you really believed that, you wouldn't be standing here, screaming at me, demanding answers."

I clench my jaw, but I don't respond.

Their eyes stay locked on mine, sharp and unwavering. "So tell me—was it truly meaningless? Or do you just hate the idea that you might have been chasing the wrong thing all along?"

A bitter taste rises in my throat. I do hate that idea. I hate it more than anything. Because if they're right, if I've been running in the wrong direction this entire time… then what the hell have I been fighting for?

But I can't admit that. Not yet.

Instead, I take a shaky breath and force my voice to steady. "If you're so sure that I've been chasing the wrong thing," I say, my tone quieter but no less sharp, "then tell me—what is freedom?"

They exhale, as if they've been waiting for me to ask. Then, they say, "It's not what you think it is."

They exhale, slow and measured, as if they've been waiting for me to ask.

"It's not what you think it is."

I grit my teeth. "Then what is it?"

They stand, stretching their arms slightly before rolling their shoulders back. Now that I'm really looking at them, something about their presence unsettles me—not because they're intimidating, but because they seem completely unburdened.

Like someone who has already found what I've spent my life searching for.

"Most people think freedom is the ability to do whatever they want," they say. "No rules. No restrictions. No one above them, no one controlling them." They pause, tilting their head slightly. "That's what you've been chasing, isn't it?"

I don't answer.

They take a slow step forward. "But that kind of freedom? It's an illusion. A trick played on desperate people. No rules? No limits? That's not freedom—that's just chaos."

I scoff, crossing my arms. "And what, you think your definition is any better?"

Their lips twitch upward, not quite a smirk but something close to it. "Yes. Because real freedom isn't about running away from control—it's about not needing control in the first place."

I frown. "That makes no damn sense."

They let out a short laugh. "Of course it doesn't. Not yet. You've spent your whole life believing that the only way to be free is to fight for power, to make sure no one can ever hold you down. But think about it—why do you want control so badly? Because you're afraid of being powerless. And fear?" They step closer, voice dropping lower. "Fear is the opposite of freedom."

Something cold runs down my spine.

They continue, voice calm but firm. "People like you chase power because they think it will make them free. But power is just another chain. The more you grasp it, the more you have to hold onto it, the more you have to fight to keep it. You've spent your life running from the people who had control over you, only to become someone who wants control over others."

My hands clench at my sides. "That's not—"

"Isn't it?" They don't sound mocking, but there's something pointed in their tone. "How many people have you manipulated? Pushed aside? Hurt?"

A bitter taste rises in my throat.

"You think I'm here to tell you that you've wasted your life," they continue, "but I'm not. I'm here because I know what it's like to be where you are. To fight, to suffer, to chase freedom like it's a prize at the end of the road." They shake their head. "But freedom isn't at the end of the road. It's the way you walk it."

I stare at them, my heartbeat loud in my ears.

They sigh. "You want my answer? Here it is. Freedom isn't about doing whatever you want. It's about being at peace with what you choose to do. If you need to force, manipulate, or destroy to feel free—then you never were."

They step back, giving me space. "Now ask yourself—have you ever made a choice without fear?"

Their words settle like lead in my chest.

For the first time in a long time, I don't know how to respond.

Silence lingers between us. The words they left hanging in the air press down on me, heavy and suffocating. I don't know how to respond.

I don't try to.

They study my expression, waiting, but when I say nothing, they let out a slow breath and look up at the sky. "You know," they say, "I used to be just like you."

I glance at them, wary.

They sit back down on the broken stone, their posture relaxed, like we have all the time in the world. "I spent years clawing my way through life, thinking if I could just take enough, fight hard enough, prove myself enough—then I'd finally be free." Their fingers drum against their knees, absentmindedly. "But every time I reached what I thought was the finish line, the goal post moved."

"More power."

"More control."

"More battles to fight."

I watch them carefully, searching for any sign of hesitation, but they speak like someone who has long since accepted their past.

"I thought I had to be stronger than everyone else. That if I wasn't the one in control, then someone would control me." They glance at me, eyes sharp. "Sound familiar?"

A lump forms in my throat, but I don't acknowledge it.

They lean forward, elbows resting on their knees. "But here's what broke me—what finally made me realize I had it all wrong. One day, I won. I stood at the top. No one could tell me what to do, no one could force me into anything. I had what I thought was freedom."

They pause. Their expression darkens slightly, but not with anger. Something closer to regret.

"And I was miserable."

I frown. "Why?"

They exhale sharply, shaking their head. "Because I wasn't free. I was just alone."

Their words hit something deep in my chest, something I don't want to acknowledge.

They gesture at me vaguely. "You say you want freedom. You push people away, hurt them, manipulate them—all for this idea that being alone means being free. But tell me, when you're alone at night, when there's no one left to fight, no one left to control—do you actually feel free?"

My hands clench into fists, but this time, it's not out of anger.

They sigh, rubbing the back of their neck. "I spent so long chasing something I didn't understand that by the time I realized I was wrong, I had nothing left. No one left." They meet my gaze, steady and unyielding. "That's when I finally understood—freedom isn't about winning. It's not about power. It's about being able to stand in your own skin, make your own choices, and not be afraid of the consequences."

They lean back slightly. "That's what I found. And that's why I'm here."

I swallow hard. "Why are you here?"

They give me a small, knowing smile. "Because you remind me of who I used to be. And if I had met someone like me back then, maybe I wouldn't have wasted so much time chasing ghosts."

Their words settle deep in my mind, refusing to be ignored.

I've spent my whole life running, fighting, taking. But I never once stopped to ask myself—if I ever caught freedom, would I even recognize it?

I don't know.

I stare at them, my thoughts tangled in knots I can't untie. Their words keep circling in my head, pressing against the walls of everything I thought I understood.

And then something clicks.

"If you stood at the top," I say slowly, narrowing my eyes, "then why the hell are you all the way out here? If you found freedom, why aren't you living in it?"

Their expression doesn't change, but something in their gaze shifts—just slightly.

For the first time, I see it. A weight in their eyes, something deeper than regret. Something like… mourning.

They exhale softly, looking down at their hands as if the answer is resting there. Then, they glance back up at me.

"Because I made a choice."

Silence stretches between us again, thick and unmoving.

I scoff. "That's not an answer."

They tilt their head. "Isn't it?"

I grit my teeth. "No. Because if you really found freedom, if you were at the top, why leave? What could possibly be worth walking away from all that power? What could be worth ending up here—talking to me?"

Their lips twitch upward, but there's no humor in it. Just something distant, like they're looking at something I can't see.

"Because standing at the top is lonely," they say quietly. "Because the higher you climb, the fewer people are there to stand beside you. And when you spend your whole life chasing power, by the time you get it, you realize it was never what you actually wanted."

I shift uncomfortably, something cold running through my veins.

They continue, voice calm but firm. "I had power. I had control. I could do whatever I wanted, and no one could stop me. But what no one tells you is that when no one can stop you, no one is with you either. And when I finally realized that, I had two choices."

They hold up two fingers.

"Stay at the top, alone, or walk away and find something real."

They lower their hand. "I chose the second."

I furrow my brow, trying to make sense of it. "But why come here? Why talk to me?"

Their gaze locks onto mine, sharp and unwavering.

"Because I see where you're headed." Their voice is quiet, but the weight behind it is undeniable. "And I know what's waiting for you at the end of that road. So I came back to ask you one thing—are you sure that's what you want?"

The question digs into my chest like a thorn.

Because for the first time, I don't know the answer.

I stare at you, walking over as I sit down next to you to rest my legs. Your words hit me as I stare at the stone ground covered with dust from the blowing wind and ancient debris around us. Do I really want to be alone, at the top? If so, would that mean I'd have to face him? Probably not since he gave up that spot. He seems adamant on nobody going down the same route as him but I can't be sure…

I clench my fist once more, but instead of being filled with anger, I feel a wave of determination and something else flooding

through me. "You gave up that position because you were alone, you've been traveling and fighting alone this whole time right? You must be that Hero that everyone talks about. The one who wiped out the demon race in a single week…"

I sit for a few seconds before speaking again. "I won't make the same mistake as you, I'll continue pushing forward. For my freedom's sake, I will fight."

The Hero doesn't respond immediately. He watches me, his expression unreadable, as if weighing my words, testing them for cracks.

Then, finally, he exhales, shaking his head slightly. "I expected you to say that."

I frown. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You remind me of myself too much." His voice is calm, but there's something underneath it—something almost tired.

"I said the same thing once. I thought if I just fought hard enough, if I pushed forward no matter what, I could carve out my own freedom." His gaze turns distant, as if he's seeing something I can't. "And I did."

I clench my jaw. "Then what's the problem?"

He turns back to me, his eyes sharp. "Because I never stopped fighting."

The words land heavier than I expect.

He continues, voice steady but firm. "When your entire existence is built on struggle, what happens when there's nothing left to fight?" He leans forward slightly, watching my reaction. "Do you actually want freedom? Or do you just want the fight?"

I open my mouth to respond—but nothing comes out.

Because I don't know.

His eyes soften, just a little. "If you keep going down this road, you might win. You might stand at the top, unchallenged, free of chains." He exhales. "But what happens when you realize you've spent your whole life breaking chains, only to forge new ones around yourself?"

I grip my knee tightly, my nails digging into my skin. "That won't happen."

The Hero gives me a small, knowing smile. "I hope you're right."

The way he says it—like he's already seen the answer—sends a chill through my spine.

I stare at you. I can tell what he's thinking. That I'll end up just like him but I won't. I refuse to suffer the same fate. I squeeze my knees harder but then I stand up. "I won't end up like you, regretting everything I went through just because I'm alone. That in itself makes everything I've been through meaningless."

The Hero looks up at me, his expression unreadable. For a moment, I think he might argue. Tell me I'm wrong. Warn me again.

But instead, he just… nods.

"Maybe you won't," he says simply.

"Maybe you'll be the first to find a different answer."

That catches me off guard. I expected more resistance, more of the same warnings. But the way he says it—it's not sarcasm. It's not pity. It's like he's genuinely leaving the possibility open.

I narrow my eyes. "That's it?"

He shrugs. "What else is there to say?" He leans back slightly, resting his arms behind him. "You've made your choice. And choices have consequences."

I cross my arms. "And if I prove you wrong?"

His lips twitch upward, almost like a smile, but there's no amusement in his eyes.

"Then I'll be the first to congratulate you."

Something about that response unsettles me. Like he's already seen how this ends, and he's just waiting for me to catch up.

I clench my fists. "I won't regret this."

He nods once. "I hope so."

A gust of wind sweeps through the ruins, kicking up dust around us. The world feels vast and empty, but I don't feel small. Not anymore.

I turn away from him, ready to walk my own path.

Ready to fight.

I take a step forward, ready to leave him behind—but something stops me.

Maybe it's curiosity. Maybe it's doubt.

I glance over my shoulder. "What about you?"

He raises an eyebrow. "What about me?"

I turn fully to face him. "If you left the top behind, what are you doing now? What's your purpose?"

He looks at me for a moment, then exhales, running a hand through his hair. "I'm searching."

"For what?"

His gaze shifts, staring past me, into the ruins, as if the answer is carved somewhere in the stones. "For something worth fighting for."*

I frown. "What does that mean?"

He looks back at me, eyes steady. "I spent my life fighting for power, thinking that if I just became strong enough, I'd be free. But when I won, when there was nothing left to fight, I realized something—" he pauses, choosing his words carefully. "Freedom isn't just about what you take. It's about what you build."*

I scoff. "So now you're just wandering around, trying to build something?"

"Not exactly." He crosses his arms. "I'm looking for people who still have something to fight for. People who haven't made the mistakes I did. People who might be able to find the answer I never could."*

His eyes lock onto mine. "People like you."*

A chill runs down my spine. "So that's why you're here."

"Maybe." His lips twitch slightly, but it's not quite a smile. "Or maybe I just wanted to see what you'd do."

I narrow my eyes. "And if I fail?"

His expression softens—just a little. "Then I'll be here to pick up the pieces."

There's something in his voice that unsettles me. Not condescension. Not pity. Something else.

I don't know if I hate it or respect it.

I turn away again. "I won't fail."

"Then go prove it."

I walk forward, not looking back this time. But his words stay with me.