Chapter 2: When the Land Refused to Stay Silent

I stood in the middle of the burning village.

Black smoke hung low, stinging my eyes and throat. The smell of scorched wood mixed with dust and damp earth, creating a bitter taste that clung to my tongue. Around me, the people of Citra Village ran about—some carrying buckets, some pulling children away, others standing frozen, unsure of what to do.

And before me—

Baalgor Tharun.

His body towered like a wall that had no place in a village this small. Every step he took made the ground tremble, as if the earth itself refused to bear his weight. The massive hammer in his hand was covered in scratches and cracks—marks of countless battles.

“You’re standing too far forward for a human,” he said, his voice heavy, like stone being dragged by force.
“Do you wish to die quickly?”

My hands clenched without me realizing it.
Not from bravery—but from trembling.

I could hear my heartbeat pounding in my ears. My breathing was short and rapid. Cold sweat ran down my back even as flames still burned around us.

I am not a hero.
I don’t even know how to lift a sword.

But behind me were houses still half-standing. There were children crying. There were people calling out the names of their families.

If I retreated now, everything would end.

Baalgor swung his hammer.

There was no warning.

The hammer struck the ground several steps in front of me. The explosion of dust and debris slammed into my body, sending me flying like a rag doll. I crashed into the remains of a house and rolled across the ground.

The pain came late—
but when it came, it came in full.

“Ngh—!”

I forced myself to stand. My knees trembled. My vision swam.

“You’re getting up again?” Baalgor snorted.
“You’re stubborn… but that only prolongs your suffering.”

I ran. Not with technique, not with a plan—just instinct.

My fist struck his arm.

And pain surged back into my own arm, as if I had punched solid iron.

“Fool,” he said.
“You don’t know how to use that power.”

He struck me with the back of his hammer. My body was flung away, slamming into the hard ground. The air was knocked from my lungs.

I lay there, staring up at the gray sky shrouded in smoke.

I’m going to die, I thought.
Simple. Cold. Without heroics.

And then—

a voice touched my mind.

Gentle, yet clear.
A woman’s voice.

Calm.

I flinched.

“Who…?” I murmured between ragged breaths.

Listen. Don’t fight with strength.

I didn’t know where the voice came from. But somehow, it felt… familiar.

<Miracle Breaker>.

The words echoed in my head—not as a spell, but like a memory that was not my own.

Baalgor swung his hammer again. I raised my hand on reflex—not to block, but because my body moved on its own.

Light exploded.

Not a beautiful glow, but a shattering light—like glass breaking from within.

Baalgor’s attack stopped in midair. The demonic energy coating his hammer collapsed, shattered, and vanished.

“What… did you do?!” he roared.

My hand shook violently. My knees nearly gave out.

I didn’t understand it myself.

Not yet finished, the voice whispered.
You must force him to retreat.

<Abyssal Judgement>.

The air around me changed.

Not heat—
but weight. As if the world itself was holding its breath. Shadows on the ground stretched, connected, and crawled toward Baalgor like dark fractures.

“What is this…?” Baalgor’s voice trembled.

I stepped forward, each step feeling like I was moving against a powerful current.

“I don’t want to be a hero,” I said hoarsely.
“I don’t want to fight a war.”

The shadows erupted from beneath his feet.

Baalgor was blown away, his massive body slamming into the ground with a heavy crash. He rolled several times before finally stopping. His hammer slipped from his grasp.

He rose unsteadily. His breathing was heavy. His chest heaved.

For the first time—
I saw fear in his eyes.

“You… are not an ordinary human,” he said quietly.
“You are not a hero like the ones I know.”

He stepped back once.
Then once more.

“This isn’t over,” he said, pointing at me with a trembling finger.
“I will return. Much stronger.”

And Baalgor Tharun turned away, leaving behind destruction and silence.

I stood still.

My body trembled.
My legs nearly gave out.

“Sir Hero!”

The cheers came late—
but they came in waves.

The villagers surrounded me. Some cried in relief. Some knelt. Some embraced one another.

“We’re saved!”
“The Hero protected us!”

I wanted to say they were wrong.
That I didn’t know what I was doing.

The old merchant approached me.

“The Kingdom of Latavia will surely be glad to hear this,” he said hopefully.

“I won’t go,” I replied quietly.
“I don’t want to fight a war.”

The merchant fell silent. For a long moment.
Then he nodded.

The afternoon passed as we rebuilt the destroyed houses. Wooden beams lifted as if they were light. Walls rose again quickly. The villagers gave me food, clothes, small gifts.

I could only smile awkwardly.

Far away in the Kingdom of Latavia, inside the Church, the news was met with cheers.

“The Hero is still alive!”

But a woman with silver-and-brown hair stepped forward.

“No,” she said firmly.
“That is not Reinhart Solvane.”

The room fell silent.

“Someone has taken his power. Even his appearance.”
“Or this is a deception by the Demon King, meant to gain sympathy.”

The leaders of the Church nodded.

“Tomorrow, send the troops. Led by Yuzare.”

Yuzare nodded quietly.

That night, I fell asleep from exhaustion.

In my dream, the figure appeared again. This time, I could step closer. But before I could speak, the world faded.

Morning came.

I woke up, washed my face, and looked at the handmade toys the village children had made. I smiled.

Then the sound of horse hooves stopped in front of my house.

I opened the door.

And there stood the woman whose voice had called to me in my dreams.

Yuzare.

We looked at each other.

Without words.
Without enough distance to explain the longing held back for far too long.

And I realized—

my greatest battle had not yet begun.