CHAPTER 4:

CHAPTER 4:The Warrior Who Forgot His Purpose

Deep in the heart of a land where the sun bled gold over endless fields, there was a man who once had a name that shook the earth. Kings had spoken of him in hushed voices. Enemies had cursed his strength. His sword had carved history itself.

Now?

Now, he was half-asleep on a broken chair outside a quiet little tavern, chewing lazily on a stalk of wheat.

His name was Orion, but no one called him that anymore. Around here, he was just "the big guy who drinks too much" or "that fella with the scary eyes." The days of battle, of honor, of destiny? Gone. Swallowed by time, like smoke vanishing into the sky.

And honestly, he didn't mind.

The world had enough warriors. Enough bloodshed. Orion had spent too many years fighting wars that never truly ended, wars that left scars deeper than the blade ever could. So he had thrown his sword into the river, walked away from the battlefield, and ended up here—in a place where no one cared who he used to be.

It was peaceful. Boring, sure. But peaceful.

Until, of course, the chicken incident.

The Call Comes in the Most Annoying Way Possible

Orion had just settled into his usual spot outside the tavern when it happened. A gust of wind swept through the village, carrying a strange whisper, like distant thunder in his bones. His fingers twitched. His muscles tensed.

Then—BAM!A chicken slammed into his face.

Not just any chicken. A wild-eyed, possessed-looking menace of a bird that flapped its wings in a frenzy, knocking his drink clear off the table. Orion sputtered, grabbed the creature by the wings, and held it at arm's length.

"What in the—?!"

The chicken glared at him. Actually glared.

Then, in the clearest, most unsettlingly human-like voice he had ever heard, it spoke: "You are needed."

Orion blinked. Stared at the chicken. Looked around to see if anyone else was witnessing this madness. But the villagers went about their business as if magical poultry weren't giving out cryptic prophecies.

The chicken flapped once, as if irritated. "The time has come. Go to the mountains."

Orion slowly, slowly set the bird down. Stood up. And walked back into the tavern.

He needed another drink.

Denial Is a Warrior's First Response

For the next three days, weird things kept happening. The wind whispered his name when no one was there. His reflection in the river seemed… off, watching him a second too long before moving. And worst of all? Every single time he tried to enjoy a drink, the damn chicken was there.

Just standing outside the tavern. Staring at him. Unblinking. Judging.

Finally, after waking up to find the chicken inside his house, perched on his chest like some kind of tiny, feathery demon, Orion gave up.

"FINE!" he shouted, throwing his hands in the air. "I'll go to the stupid mountains! Just—leave me alone!"

The chicken gave an approving nod.

And so, with nothing but an old cloak, an iron dagger he swore he wouldn't use, and a deep sense of annoyed curiosity, Orion set out toward the unknown.

Toward the temple.

Toward the truth he had long tried to forget.