The Weight of Legend… and the Hunger of a Hero
The Weight of Legend… and the Hunger of a Hero
The path back to the surface was longer and more painful than any hell Arion had ever endured.
There were no monsters. No traps.
Only silence, Valerius's steady footsteps, and the slow, merciless awareness of every torn muscle and every broken bone in Arion's body.
Three days and a night passed—each hour an eternity of quiet agony.
He walked leaning heavily on the old lion's shoulder, who supported him with calm strength and not a word of complaint.
Each step sent waves of pain through his shattered leg, each breath reminded him of his broken ribs.
He was so hungry that his stomach had stopped growling and settled into a painful, hollow silence.
So thirsty that his throat felt coated in dust and sandpaper.
"Eat this," Valerius said at one point, handing him a strip of dried meat and a water skin.
Arion took them with trembling hands and devoured them like a wild beast who'd found his first meal in weeks.
But while his body screamed gratitude, his mind screamed questions.
He watched Valerius—this man who had wiped out an army with a mere flick of his hand, now walking calmly, sidestepping every question with wise smiles or vague answers.
"It was a forgotten beast. Now it's gone."
"How did it leave?"
"Some old spirits, boy, need no one to kill them. They simply… grow tired of staying."
They were the words of a poet, not a warrior.
Arion felt that every word was a wall, every smile a mask.
This calm, this absolute self-control, was more unsettling than any monster's roar.
Why lie? That question echoed in his exhausted skull with every step.
And every time, he told himself Valerius was only trying not to burden him further.
At last, after a journey that felt eternal—though it was less than half a day—they saw it on the horizon:
the towering walls of Arcadia, gleaming beneath the midday sun.
Arion felt a wave of relief so strong it nearly knocked him off his feet. He had survived. He was home.
---
The Heroes' Return
As they neared the main gate, the guards were the first to spot them.
"It's Master Valerius!" one of them called out, his voice filled with genuine relief.
The gate bells rang out, announcing the Guild Master's return.
Other guards ran to clear the way, bowing as the old man approached.
There was no surprise in their eyes—only reverence and expectation.
Their master had vanished for three days and now returned. Of course he had returned.
He had gone to do what heroes do: face the impossible.
"Welcome back, Master!" said the guard captain.
"We knew you wouldn't let our young hero's spirit be lost to the dark."
But as he spoke, his eyes shifted to the battered, half-dead figure leaning on Valerius.
His eyes widened. Then widened more.
His face froze into a mask of absolute disbelief.
He wasn't carrying a corpse.
The one beside him… was alive.
"Lo… Lord… Arion?" the captain whispered so softly it was barely a sound—like a man seeing a ghost walk under the bright sun.
The word spread like wildfire.
It wasn't just a whisper, but a gasp of shock that passed from one guard to another, then to the nearby merchants, then into the bustling streets.
As Arion and Valerius took their first steps inside the city, the scene transformed.
People began pouring out of shops and houses. Wagons stopped in the middle of the road.
A strange, dreadful silence fell—a silence of disbelief and suspense.
Then everything erupted.
Not in wild cheers, but in gasps—muffled cries of shock—people covering their mouths with trembling hands.
Their reaction to Valerius was as expected: they bowed their heads in silent respect.
"He did it. He came back." That was the message in their eyes.
But their eyes on Arion… were something else entirely.
They looked at him as if witnessing a miracle.
They saw his thin frame, his face a mask of bruises and dried blood, his torn clothes barely covering his battered body.
They saw how he limped, how each breath seemed an act of pure agony.
They saw a man standing on the edge of death—yet walking.
"He's alive…" an old woman whispered, tears streaming down her wrinkled cheeks.
"He's back! He came back from the depths of hell!" a young man shouted from the crowd.
Arion, barely able to keep his eyes open, didn't understand.
Why were they staring at him like that? Why was that woman crying? Was he really that pitiful?
Then he began to hear snatches of talk—fragments of the legend that had been born in his absence:
"… they say he stood like a wall of steel to protect his comrades…"
"… sacrificed himself, fell into the abyss with the beast…"
"… he didn't die! He killed the monster in its lair and returned from the dead!"
In that moment, Arion understood the terrifying truth.
His return alive didn't kill the rumor of his death—
it made it a thousand times stronger.
He was no longer just a hero who sacrificed himself.
He had become the hero who could not die—
the legend who went to hell, spat in death's face, and came back walking on his own feet.
He looked at their wide-eyed faces filled with awe and reverence.
He saw the pride in the warriors' eyes, the hope in children's eyes, the admiration in the eyes of women.
They did not see a lucky, terrified boy.
They saw the embodiment of unbroken loyalty and an indomitable will.
"Look," a young adventurer whispered to his friend, his voice trembling with emotion. "Valerius is the city's sword—its strength.
But Arion… Arion is its shield. Its spirit that refuses to surrender."
The impossible had happened.
In just three days, his name was whispered in the same breath as Valerius's.
Not as a sidekick or a novice—
but as a rival for the throne of legends: Valerius with his overwhelming power, and Arion with his sacrifice and death.
---
The Weight of Legend
They finally reached the guild hall.
The crowd had clogged the street, yet fell silent and parted to clear a path for this funeral march turned stunned procession.
Valerius held Arion firmly, leaning down to whisper in his ear:
"Hold on, boy. We're almost there."
But Arion could no longer hear.
His mind was drifting in a whirl of exhaustion, confusion, and pain.
All he saw was a sea of astonished faces.
All he felt was the weight of their eyes—
the weight of their legend.
Heavier than any hammer,
more painful than any broken bone.
When they finally stepped inside, where a team of healers waited, Arion's body gave out at last.
His grip slackened. His body collapsed into Valerius's arms.
The last thing he saw before the darkness swallowed him—
was Valerius's wise face, staring down at him not with pity,
but with an expression far more complicated…
one that carried a trace of guilt.
Then, all faded to black.