Runaway Hero and the Soldiers

As I walk on a road cutting through hills, I look up to the sky and stare at the tranquil, cloudless sky. Even on such a peaceful day, however, I cannot shake my feeling of foreboding. Last night, I saw another vision of disaster. A village gone up in flames. People cut apart, stuck in place as the fires approach. Even if cremation and the spreading of ashes is military standard, I’ve never liked it. I have quite a distaste for watching their bodies, in truth.

I don’t know where or when it will occur, only that it will. And that, as always, I’m too weak to change anything. That fate will come to pass, and I cannot stop it. I would have thought that after more than a decade of seeing tragedies I have no way of preventing, I would get used to it. But I haven’t. It still pains me down to my soul to know of all the suffering I cannot stop. I’m a failure of a Hero, because why else would I have these visions if not so I could save people?

I thought that running away from my duty might dampen the pain, but it hasn’t. It’s done the opposite. I choose for myself not to save people, and yet now I despair for the loss I cannot stop even more. How much of a fool am I? How much lower will I sink before I realize that I am not made to save anyone?

The group of five that had been waiting around on the other side of the hill I walk beside finally make their way to the top. They stop there, and I glance at them. It was a group of soldiers. Their armors are all highly decorated and ornamental. They’re all so gaudy. It’s obvious that they’re royal soldiers. And it’s obvious that they’re weak, because only the weak ones displayed their authority in such a showy way.

Although I’m certain of their identity, their group is still strange. It’s strange for royal soldiers to be dawdling in the hills. It’s strange for a regiment of them to number only five. It would only make sense if they were off-duty, but then they would not wear their armor. The order does not take lightly to deserters either, so I doubt they would make themselves such easy targets. I cannot fathom what they might be doing here.

The soldiers notice me and begin to approach, even though I’m sure they couldn't know my identity from where they stood. I turn to face them. They surround me with a tight encirclement, a well-worn tactic when the army fights those much stronger than them. The one I’m facing starts talking.

“Hey, traveler, by the authority of the crown, give your supplies and any goods to us.” I click my tongue.

“How disgraceful. Move.”

What has the world come to? The Hero won’t fight the Demon King and knights behave like bandits. The common person truly has no recourse. We’re all so shameful.

The soldier who was talking grabs at my shoulders. The others do nothing. Their encirclement was not the stratagem of soldiers, but a pathetic imitation of it to intimidate the weak. When he grabs me, he knocks back my hood, revealing my light blue hair. He goes silent when he sees it. Then the soldiers scatter away from me.

“T-the Hero? Why is he—?”

“I-I thought he was dead—”

“H-how can he—?” The one I was facing seems to collect himself.

“So, you were the Hero, huh? If you’re here, and the Demon King is still alive, then you must have run away. Like a spineless, gutless coward! You ran away from your duty! And yet we’re the disgraceful ones! We’re still carrying out our mission! What do you care if we have a little fun along the way! What right do you have to talk down to us when you can’t even do the one thing you’re supposed to!? We really should have known this would happen. Ever since you were a child, you refused to obey us. You wouldn’t train how we wanted. You wouldn’t fight the battles we told you to. Even just last year you stopped doing any proper reports just so you could run around with the stupid little playmate of yours! You’ve never been anything more than a disrespectful child! And now you’re a coward too! Men, we have no need to fear a weakling like this!”

The five of them rally and begin to charge at me. I weave past them and evade their strikes. I’m lost in thought, too lost not to kill them with a single swipe. Everything he said is true. I’m nothing more than a child upset about nothing. I have no pride. I have nothing to be proud of. I’ve never wanted to fight. And even when I fight, I can hardly protect anyone. I hate it. I can’t stand it anymore.

The five of them approach in unison to stab at me from every angle. Once they’re all in range I attack. I strike out at their arms and legs, and before they realize what happened, they can fight no longer. They fall to the ground in one big group, their swords littered around them. I’m done with this affair. I’m leaving. But as I step outside the circle of their bodies, I turn around to hear the desperate pleas of the soldier.

“P-please! Don’t leave us! Don’t leave us! You can’t leave us stuck here! I’m sorry! I’ll never speak ill of you again! So please just take us with you!” I answer him coldly.

“You’re soldiers. If you have any pride, drag yourselves home with your own power.”

I repeated that phrase the soldiers used to love so much. I’ve always hated it. From the first time I heard to when it now passed my lips I’ve hated it. But I want nothing more to do with these five men. I stop listening to the pleading and turn my back on them. And then the pleading stops. And, without a sound, five strong pulses become zero. I turn back to see them lying there, dead. Only four bodies, but still no other pulses of life. It’s a mockery of me, and a mockery of their lives. And it’s no tragedy. It’s as if I killed them myself. I turned my back on them, and for that they died. I truly can’t save anyone. All I want to do is turn away and let them die. I am no Hero.