Thank Goodness I'm Not the Protagonist
Eamon had long grown cynical about the fate of those destined for heroism. In this grim, forsaken realm—a world reminiscent of the darkest legends whispered in the corridors of despair—he had learned one immutable truth: the chosen ones were never blessed with happy endings. Tales of mighty warriors, whose every triumph was ultimately swallowed by corruption or twisted into tragic downfall, were as common as the bitter winds that howled across the blasted wastes. He recalled, with a wry smile, that in the annals of the Diablo chronicles, even the bravest champions fell prey to the relentless, consuming darkness.
"Thank goodness the hero isn't me," Eamon mused silently, the thought both a relief and a curse. For while others would be fated to endure endless torment—a life of constant betrayal by fate and an ever-present curse of hubris—he was merely an executor in a game of survival. His own destiny, though marred by hardship and perpetual struggle, would never be burdened with the blinding spotlight of a protagonist's tragic glory.
No sooner had these thoughts crossed his mind than fate beckoned him once more. Just as he finished savoring a bowl of hearty stew in the modest inn of Tristurm, a rapid clatter of footsteps shattered the fragile calm. A breathless militia recruit burst through the door, eyes wide with urgency.
"Eamon! Captain Ramford demands you come to the gate at once—those damned undead have returned!" the recruit shouted.
Without a moment's hesitation, Eamon rose, setting aside the fleeting comfort of the inn. Outside, the rain had subsided to a grim drizzle, revealing a cadre of nervous townsfolk and vigilant guards assembling by the great wooden gate. Captain Ramford, now clad in fresh, battle-worn attire, stood amidst them, orchestrating the hurried construction of barricades. His gaze met Eamon's, and with a curt nod, he beckoned him forward.
"Quickly now, lad," Ramford ordered. "We repelled one wave, but the dead keep coming. Their numbers may be slow, but their resolve is as relentless as the night."
As Eamon stepped into the cold light of dusk, his enchanted blade—Frostmourne—rested heavy in his grasp. Even though the undead appeared sluggish, their blank, unyielding eyes and staggering gait betrayed an unnatural, indomitable strength. Every shuffling step they took was laden with an eerie purpose, and the very air seemed to thicken with the promise of death.
Almost as if on cue, a soft chime echoed in Eamon's ears—a system notification from the mysterious Dimensional Codex that had become his reluctant guide. The message flashed before his eyes:
[Scene Task Activated: The Guardian]
[Dark and malevolent forces have descended. The flame of civilization flickers like a candle in the wind. Your challenge: fend off the undead assault and secure the town's safety. Reward: Skill +1, Dimensional Points +1]
Eamon's heart pounded as he tightened his grip on Frostmourne. Although he could call upon the full might of his soul stone—the very power of Arthas, the fallen Lich King—the limitations of its use were a sober reminder that even the mightiest magic bore a price. Now was not the moment for reckless abandon.
The air trembled with the approach of the undead horde. Their movements were methodical and unnervingly steady as they advanced toward the gate. The first of them breached the makeshift barrier with a dull thud, and in that instant, Captain Ramford roared, "Forward, men! Do not let them overwhelm us!"
Eamon responded instinctively. With a swift, fluid motion born of both desperation and resolve, he swung Frostmourne in a wide arc. The enchanted blade met its target with a resounding clang—a sound that echoed like a death knell. Though the undead were seemingly clumsy, their bodies were astonishingly resilient, as if carved from unyielding stone.
Each stroke felt like battling against an immovable force. The sword bit into cold flesh and muscle, yet the creatures absorbed the blows with a grim persistence that belied their sluggish pace. Amid the chaotic melee, the Dimensional Codex continued to whisper its cryptic messages, tallying the souls harvested and the progress of the "Guardian" quest.
"Soul Power +10… +13… +12…" the numbers flashed as the residual energies of each fallen foe surged into his being.
Even as the tide of battle pressed in, Eamon's mind remained sharply aware of his singular advantage: his status as a reluctant player in this relentless game. While fate decreed that true protagonists were doomed to bear an unyielding curse—betrayed by allies, overwhelmed by ambition, or perishing in a final, tragic blaze—he would not be so burdened. Instead, he fought as one who merely sought to survive, to persist until the next task called him forth.
Captain Ramford's voice rang out over the tumult, a beacon of grim determination: "Hold the line, Eamon! For Tristurm's sake—do not let these abominations break our defenses!"
With a fierce cry, Eamon met the advancing horde once again. Every swing of Frostmourne was a calculated act of defiance against the encroaching darkness. As the undead pressed closer, their numbers threatening to overwhelm the beleaguered defenders, Eamon's resolve hardened. He was not the chosen hero destined for sorrow; he was simply a man—scarred, resourceful, and, for now, inexplicably lucky.
In that crucible of despair and bloodshed, amid the clash of steel and the murmur of ancient magic, Eamon steeled himself against the inevitability of fate. The night was long, and the battle far from over, but as long as he fought with every fiber of his being, there remained a glimmer of hope—a fragile promise that even in a world designed to break heroes, survival was still within reach.