What Do You Want to Be?

What is a “hero?”

Are they a noble gentleman who carries a banner of righteousness?

Are they the swiftest afoot? Elusive and dashing like lightning?

Are they the strongest? Unparalleled in might and virility?

Though a hero may carry such beguiling talents, such superficial qualities could not possibly describe a “hero” in its entirety.

Nobility is corrupted, swiftness decays, and strength without wisdom begets only violence. Indeed — even a child could wield such attributes.

Thus, the definition of a hero must lie within another perspective, the perspective of all.

The weak live out their pitiful, miserable days as the strong have their way with the commons. The commons rebel against their fiendish masters, only to become despots themselves when given power and opportunity. This cycle must not end, it cannot end, for it is the very nature of the human heart to crave.

Man must suffer. Man must writhe. Man must extend their hands towards greater heights, only to fall and rot as the Morning Star.

Who can save those tragic souls yearning for a new day? Who can wipe the tears from their crestfallen mien? It is here, the desire for a savior, that the hero is born.

“I love everyone; thus, I must save everyone.”

There was once a hero of great renown who held such sentiments. He did not play with his words. They dripped with sincerity and kindness above anyone who had come before. He swore to wipe their tears, mend their broken hearts, and liberate the tortured souls of hell. It is only with this immutable love that the hero could embrace such a burden.

That hero’s name was Zoltin — The Legendary Hero .

———

Tension.

The tension in the air was palpable. Without even a single blow exchanged, it seemed as though the very world itself would crack under pressure.

In one corner, a mature, handsome man, with piercing blue eyes and teal hair stood relaxed, his blade resting perfectly in his hands. He assumed the fool's guard, anticipating a frontal assault. Everything about the man screamed, “experienced.” There were no flaws in his posture, balance, center of gravity, or even his gaze. This man was Zoltin of the Promised Victory .

I, on the other hand, was all too eager to strike. I assumed the plow guard, intending on a quick, unabated thrust. It was an obvious strategy, yet I cared little for reasonable alternatives. I refused to give the man in blue, my father, even the opportunity to offend. This was not a matter of jumping into a gaping maw, but piercing through it. My name was Ereth - Son of the Legendary Hero .

Both he and I were equally confident in our victory. The fate of the battle had already been decided. “I will win,” we thought without an ounce of shame. Our standstill was merely the prelude, the appetizer for a most enticing meal.

“...”

“...!”

I initiated the exchange just as his pose had foretold, leaning forward with dropped knees, akin to a track runner’s starting position. This maneuver placed my center of gravity closer to the earth, maximizing propulsion. I then pushed off the ground with all of my might, rupturing the very earth beneath my feet, and thrust at the man’s throat.

It goes without saying that such speed came at the cost of stability. I could no longer stop or change direction. It’s not like evasion was an option available to me anyway. No matter what, my blade would strike true.

The blade flashed like a beam of light, its edge nearly imperceptible to the human eye.

“...”

Despite this, my father, the man in blue refused to submit to fear. His heart was but a calm lake amidst a tumultuous storm, unperturbed by the world. It was due to this austerity that he could predict and subsequently react to the strike.

He readied his guard, meeting the shining blade with a blade of his own. Though piercing attacks were incredibly strong in a linear path, they were feeble on their sides. All it took was a bit of pressure applied to the blade at the precise moment to neutralize the threat.

With superhuman timing, father's blade intercepted the attack. My thrust missed its mark. Its trajectory was thrown off to father’s left, leaving me utterly exposed.

A devastating slash came barreling down from above. For a moment, I felt the cold grasp of death. It terrified me to my core, yet I refused to yield. If I weren’t ready to stand upon the edge of life and death, then I had no right to call myself a warrior.

I rolled, narrowly avoiding the fatal blow, before countering with a sweeping slash to the Achilles’ heel. The attack was made in neither haste nor desperation, but a calculated effort to cripple my opponent. My fortune was rather lacking, however, as father reacted to the maneuver and performed a small step backwards.

“Back to square one, Ereth ,” said the man in blue. “Shall we speed things up a tad?”

I smirked, taking a battle position once more. “Yes, Zoltin . Please try”

My ferocity only increased with each pass of the bind. Where father preferred the weak, employing an array of counterattacks and quick repositioning, I favoured the strong. Each bind had lasted no more than a fraction of a second, with neither willing to seize ground. The strong were met with the weak. The weak were met with the strong. Thrusts were met with thrusts.

Father may have held the upper hand in terms of finesse and martial prowess, but finesse was but one of many ingredients necessary to seize victory.

“HA!”

With a hardy exhalation, I raised my lead foot and stomped on the earth below, causing it to rupture and burst like pulp flesh. The cliff broke apart, giving way to the vastness of space beneath us.

The basis of swordsmanship lies at the foot. Footwork and an ample understanding of space were the foundations of bladework, and without it, conventional techniques became useless, including father’s techniques.

He guffawed joyously at the occasion, exclaiming proudly, “So this was your aim? To neutralize the difference in skill?”

“Think you can keep up like this?” I replied, unleashing countless strikes at the enemy’s core. Footholds meant nothing to me. As long as I could keep cutting, then my strength alone would suffice.

“Alright, I’ll play ball, but what about this? ”

In an unexpected maneuver, father let go of his sword, closing the distance and locking my dominant arm.

“Hm??!”

He clenched his fist, cocked it back, and landed a blow square in my face.

“Wai-”

“Don’t talk, keep fighting!”

My father, Zoltin, continued to pummel me as I struggled to escape his grip. This brutish act was unlike the fabled warrior, who prided himself on his elegance and tact. The confusion was so great that even I was too stunned to fight back or think himself out of the situation properly. Before I knew it, Zoltin had already grabbed my face and held me down as we plummeted to the earth below.

I needed to think of something, and fast. Falling head-first would result in a catastrophic loss, no matter how durable I was.

Think think think! I pondered at a mile a minute. How can I reverse this situation?

I let go of my sword — it was useless in this position. Rather than cutting, I instead focused on twisting my opponents hand by applying pressure and twisting his wrists in a counter-clockwise motion. The obstacle was removed. Now the second phase of my attack began. I grabbed father’s hand with all his might before flinging his legs around the man’s neck, tightening his hold of the arm.

It was a rather rudimentary arm-bar, but it was effective nonetheless.

“If I’m gonna hit the ground, then I’m at least taking you with me.”

“I see…you have a decent survival instinct, Ereth. But it’s just that — decent.”

Father placed his foot on a nearby wall in an attempt to slow his descent. It worked, but this level of friction was not enough to ensure his safety. He scoured the area beneath, spotting a thick, hearty branch protruding from the side of the cliff. It was here that he would meet his saving grace.

He latched on, the branch creaking and aching with pain as it struggled to support both of our weights.

“What was the point of that? You still need your other arm. Holding on will only delay the inevitable.”

“No, I think I'll do just fine.”

“...?”

Rather than hold the branch with his free arm, he chose to hang himself upside-down by his legs. Now, he was free to use his left arm as much as he liked, and he had no intention of playing fair.

Father pulled out a small blade hidden under his pants in a leg brace, slashing his hand apart, along with my own. With my grip now rendered useless, I plummets to the ground below.

“You’re a cheater.” He said in frustration.

“Don’t feel too bad, kid! Let’s practice tomorrow like we usually do!”

———

“I died again. That's no fair. You definitely cheated."

Father broke out into a hardy laugh, his hand stroking his thin, patchy beard. "You're far too predictable, Ereth. Despite that poker face, my son is a rather emotional boy, isn't he?"

"How many rounds does that make?"

"Mmmm..." Father placed his hand on his chin, recalling some distant information. "Around 7,345? You must think it's pretty fun if you're willing to lose that many times."

"It's not like that..."

Father got up and stretched his back like an old man, yawning and wiping his eyes. "This game was fun, but there's something else I want to talk to you about, Ereth. Come with me."

I followed him out of the living room and embraced the abundance of warmth in the air.

In its place: an endless horizon bathed in golden sunlight. Its rays of light shimmered off the surface of the distant, crystal blue sea. Countless bookshelves hung in mid-air, filled with information from every era and culture imaginable. The hallway dissolved behind us. Some were bound by leather, others in metals or strange glass that pulsed faintly with light. They drifted across the sky like an isle of memories. Amidst the sprawling fields stood gigantic monuments of alien creatures. They struck various poses, some lying in agony, some clasping their hands in prayer, as though their tragedies were forever unbound by the passage of time.

One might compare this land to a sort of heaven , and it wouldn’t be a completely inaccurate assessment.

This was the Eternal Twilight , a land in which time as a concept had no meaning. The world itself was immutable and unchanging, hence the rather literal name. No matter how many times one may die in this realm, they will simply ‘return’ to their previous state, and this included all phenomena in this world.

After a bit of a climb up a hill, father scoured through an endless bookshelf.

"Got it," he said.

The Legend of the Great Hero.

The large novel chronicled the great adventures of a legendary swordsman who had brought peace to the lands of Wisteria.

“He would never die. He would never lose. That legendary hero would become a blade of unparalleled slaughter, annihilating all that was evil in this world.” He read off the manuscript in a trance, as though he were compelled to finish every line without exception.

“No matter how truly despairing the situation, he raised his sword. No matter how much blood he spilled, he raised his sword. In terms of blood spilled and shed, none came close to that man.”

After a brief moment of silence, father met my gaze, closing the old novel.

“An interesting story, eh?” Said Zoltin, standing behind the boy with a weary smirk. “It’s always weird hearing people recount my life. It's like I’m sort of a monster…”

“Are the legends true? Were you really so strong?”

“Huh? Are you calling me weak?” father asked, annoyed.

“No, it’s not like that. It’s just…hard to imagine you were someone so brutal. Was your world really this scary?”

“Aye, it was. Wisteria was a warring land. Though I may have come from luxury, it did not exempt me from seeing the horrors of war.”

“So why did you fight? I heard in many stories nobles don’t have to fight.”

“They don’t, I fought out of my own volition. I fought because I loved them.”

“Love who?”

“Everyone. Every individual, equally and without exception.”

"Hmmm…” I furrowed my brow in contemplation. “That’s kind of a hard concept to wrap your head around.”

Father guffawed loudly at my assertion, rubbing my head as a parent would their child. “Yeah, it is! Everyone is a burden that not many people can handle, and, to tell you the truth, even I couldn’t. That’s part of the reason why I ended up in this world.”

“...”

“Ereth, I want you to have something.”

He reached out his hand, summoning forth a wave of light that swelled and burst in the air. The pressure alone was enough to bring about gales of formidable strength. The light condensed and lowered in radiance before revealing the form of a certain weapon — a sword .

“This is the Sword of Promised Victory, a gift from one of my mothers. I want you to have it.”

The Sword of Promised Victory was a long Zweihänder with a black blade and golden accents. The blade was chipped at it's edges with a clear fracture at it's center. The top third of the blade had been snapped off from a battle long ago. Its handle was long and thick, with two cross-guards: a larger one and a shorter one. Despite its clearly weathered state, one could consider the blade a truly divine work of art, far surpassing human metallurgy or forging techniques.

“It’s a lot cooler than the legends imply, ain’t it?” father said with a smug grin.

“It’s certainly a blade. Just where the hell did you get this thing?”

“One of my mothers. It’s a long story.”

“Wait, why do you have more than one mother? Why would your mom even have something like this?”

“Pay attention, idiot!”

He slapped me on the head, reorienting my focus.

“It’s not about where I got the damn sword! It’s about why I’m giving it to you.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” I said in a submissive tone.

Father knitted his brow in frustration and sighed, “I’m giving this to you because I think you’re ready for the outside world.”

“...”

The outside world — a land of passing seasons and day and night cycles. It’s not like I particularly cared to venture into the outside world. I couldn’t help but feel a bit apprehensive about the whole ordeal. It is for that reason that I chose to hold my tongue.

"The land in which I was born was a cruel world. It was ravaged by war, hatred, and animosity. The weak and failed of society reached out for salvation, and I, in my infinite arrogance, believed I could save them all."

Though his face carried the same juvenile smile as always, his words carried nothing but sorrow and regret. I had rarely seen my father in such a poor mood.

“I couldn't save anyone, and my life ended in spectacular failure. This isn't some exaggeration or emotional spiel either. That's the truth.”

The conversation felt utterly one-sided, but what could I have said? I hadn’t lived to see the same tragedies my father had. I lived and died by the sword, but my heart lacked experience. Thus, there was nothing to do but listen to the woes of father, the hero I wished to emulate.

"Sorry about this, Ereth, but you'll have to indulge in my selfishness a bit."

He tossed me the broken Sword of Promised Victory with a casual swing. He seemed to handle the blade in a rather rough manner despite its nature as a divine construct. I , on the other hand, struggled to catch the blade properly. It was a bit heavy, but that alone didn’t make it hard to wield. The blade was simply too extravagant for me, an unworthy vessel of its power.

“Are you…really sure about this, father? No…Zoltin?”

“Yeah, kid. You don’t wanna live your life in this dingy old world, right? It must be boring for a kid like you.”

He rubbed my head with the tenderness of a father.

“What do you want to be, Ereth?”

“I…” For a moment, I hesitated. What did the boy truly desire here in this unchanging realm? Of course, there was only one answer the boy could give, an answer truest to his heart. “I want to become a hero.”

“I see. In that case, I’ll open the path.”

Zoltin clasped his hands together in the form of a prayer, invoking an ancient power within the Eternal Twilight. Gigantic monuments of humanoid creatures sprouted from the earth, their backs hunched, hands clasped in supplication.

The drifting libraries came together circularly as divine light shone from the sky, as though the very heavens had been summoned to the earth.

“With this, the pact has been sealed. You’ll live on as a ‘human’ in the natural world from here on out.”

Suppressing my urge to cry, I nodded in affirmation. I clenched the broken Sword of Promised Victory with all my might as the divine light consumed me.

“I promise, father! I promise I’ll become a legendary hero for everyone! And once I’m strong, I’ll come back here and kick your ass!”

“Ha! I sure do hope so! Come and face me at any time, kid!”

With that, the father and son said their goodbyes. I was sure to face a perilous path unfit for an ordinary boy; that much was certain, but it is from this path that a new era was soon to be born.

I wonder, what answer will I find beyond the abyss? No one can say for sure. However, if one can cross the abyss and find himself in a beautiful world, then that man alone must surely be God.