As dawn broke, it was unmistakable: we were branded.
Each of us now wore the round symbol that had not been there the day before. The shock ran deep. No one could sleep. We lay awake, listening to every sound. But no one came.
With the first rays of sunlight, there was a knock at the door. No hesitation – the soldiers entered and ordered us to get ready. We stared at them motionless. Only when Kyodai began packing his clothes did we follow him.
Outside the city gate, a group of soldiers was already waiting. In their midst: Kururl.
He looked tired, exhausted. Was it due to the early hour? We didn’t know. But he yawned when he saw us.
When he saw us, he straightened up. His gaze swept over us. "Ah, finally! The true heroes among the 100!"
He let his eyes linger on us. He saw the bewilderment in our eyes and savored the result.
"I hope you had a restful night. Today begins your journey ‒ the battle against the angels."
Anger and confusion mixed. I couldn’t take it anymore. "What was that yesterday?"
His gaze was a blow. I had never intervened ‒ until now. Now, all of Kururl's attention was on me. He examined me, and after a second, he probably knew exactly who I was. His gaze became clear and relaxed, as if he had found the information and could now place it on me.
"Do you mean the miracle?" Kururl's face remained expressionless ‒ only the corner of his mouth twitched.
"What kind of miracle?" I swallowed my fear and continued speaking. Kyodai and Akai looked at me in confusion. Why had I started talking? Why couldn’t I keep my mouth shut? The gazes of Kururl and the soldiers, they burned.
"We were attacked in the middle of the night. And... and this was done to us." I lifted my shirt, revealing the branded mark on my back.
The others instinctively touched their marks – as if they were suddenly burning again.A whisper spread among the soldiers around Kururl.
"This is the proof. You are the true heroes." He placed his hands on his chest, making a gesture of relief.
"We were worried, because so few survived. But without knowing it, only the 20 true heroes survived." He stretched his arms out again and pointed to the sky. "Given the danger posed by the angels, the legend became true, and you were chosen. It was supposed to be 100, but in truth, it has always only been 20!"
He was playing a role. An actor on the stage of his life. His face: a mask. His clothes: a costume. His words: a farce.
I didn’t understand it. A legend? The true heroes? Yesterday there were 100, today only 20. They twisted the story to suit them. I looked around: Sayuri, once so full of conviction, now marked by doubt. The green-haired man gripped his mace ‒ and did nothing.
A murmur spread through our group. A whisper, a hiss. It was clear now: they were doing whatever they wanted.
My gaze darkened ‒ and Kururl noticed it.
"Enough of the explanations. The mark is proof enough. You will march into war as heroes ‒ for you are the chosen ones." He crossed his arms behind his back. "You will triumph. And return in a month."
With a gesture, he signaled to the soldiers. Seven stepped forward and lined up around our group. They did nothing. They just stood there, waiting. We were prepared for anything ‒ for another attack. But not for what came next.
"These elite soldiers will accompany you. They are the best of the best ‒ to support you, but also to monitor you." Kururl smiled. A narrow, satisfied smile.
Guards? We hadn’t expected that. But they had to ensure we completed our task.
Kururl gave a signal, and the gate creaked open with a loud groan. Beyond the gate lay the landscape we had seen yesterday. The city, the fleeting green, and the endless blue. The freedom we believed in now stood before us. Just a few more steps.
Kururl stood upright one last time before us, completely serious in his role. He was the king’s advisor ‒ a man who would do anything for him. His gaze swept over our group. Our backpacks were packed to the brim, weapons hanging from our belts or other fittings on our bodies. The soldiers behind us were also equipped and ready to depart.
Then he spoke his final sentence ‒ the farewell speech to the 20 true heroes. His expression, usually as hard as stone, took on a hint of humanity. He almost seemed... approachable. But behind the mask, behind the costume, there was something else: a desperate figure who didn’t quite belong in this play.
"Good luck."
No more than that. Then he turned to the left and walked away.
With his final words, the soldiers moved forward and pushed us ahead. We followed ‒ for we had no other choice.
Only a few meters separated us from the gate. Every step felt heavy. The hope we had tried to suppress began to stir. But it was out of place.
I shook my head. It was no use.
Kyodai moved unsteadily. His legs trembled, as if they could barely support his weight. He tried to smother the hope ‒ but it still began to grow within him.
Akai rubbed her wrists. Her breath was shallow, ragged. The unshakable warrior? Gone. In her place stood a frightened child.
Yogore couldn’t hold back the tears. They streamed down his cheeks ‒ heavy, thick. Tears that didn’t belong to him. And yet, they were a part of him.
Sayuri and the green-haired man looked around frantically. Were they searching for freedom? An escape route? Or an answer to the incomprehensible?
Each of us showed our uncertainty, our fear ‒ and our exhaustion ‒ in our own way. The seconds stretched endlessly. The closer we got to the gate, the more time seemed to drag.
Then, we took the first step into freedom. We passed through the gate.
The walls that had held us captive for two months now lay behind us.
No time to process it.
Barely had we passed through the gate when cheers and shouts erupted from all directions. The streets were packed with people, and arms were raised into the air. Some had their children on their shoulders so they could see. Faces pressed against the windows, curious, expectant.
Flowers and colorful paper flew through the air ‒ for us.
"You will succeed!"
Cheering ‒ a lie.
"Bring those sky rats down!"
Hope ‒ in vain."The 20 heroes! The true heroes!"
The farce? Unbreakable.
The further we walked down the streets, the more people came toward us. They accompanied us, urging us to show the marks on our bodies. Everything about it had a very bitter aftertaste.
As we reached the edge of the city, the cheers around us rose to a deafening roar. The hope that hung in the air was almost tangible, infectious ‒ yet an indefinable feeling urged us forward, without a glance back. As if we were freeing ourselves from something, but at the same time leaving something else behind.
We kept walking.
Heads lowered.
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