...Maybe Being a Hero Starts With Chickens?

Barely a couple days had passed since Flint and Isla left the village. The mountain road wound between towering pines and rocky cliffs that had once marked the edge of Flint’s entire world.

Now he couldn’t see the village anymore.

All he could see now were mountains. He had dreamed of this road countless times, imagining himself leaving full of hope with a hero's coat upon his shoulders and the whole village waving him onward.

Instead…

All he really had from that dream was the coat.

Beside him, Isla walked at an easy pace, humming quietly to herself.

Flint knew why.

She wasn’t humming because she was particularly happy, but because silence had become unnerving. Whenever neither of them spoke, their thoughts drifted back to Berthram. So they didn’t let the silence last long.

Flint still didn't know how to keep going after what had happened, but he had quietly decided that Berthram's death—and the faith the old man had placed in him—wouldn't be in vain.

The road itself felt different from the stories.

Flint had expected adventure—ancient ruins, legendary monsters, the sort of sights storytellers loved to boast about.

Instead, there were wagon tracks, birdsong, and the scent of pine.

The world hadn’t changed simply because he’d left home.

It had just become… larger.

“There aren’t as many of them as I would have thought.”

Isla pointed out. Flint looked over his shoulder.

“Undead, I mean.”

“You’re right.” Flint thought for a moment, “But we haven’t seen any people either.”

Isla fell silent, her thoughts lingering on that statement while Flint's gaze drifted to the sword at his hip—the very one he'd gladly have hurled from the nearest cliff.

“…I think it has a name.”

Isla glanced sideways.

“The sword?”

Flint nodded slowly.

“I… don’t know how.” He frowned, as though trying to grasp a dream already slipping through his fingers, "But I saw fragmented images while I was asleep."

“What did they show you?”

“I couldn’t make sense of them. But one word stayed… Bloodblade.”

“That’s… an unsettling name.”

“But It fits.”

“That’s the worst part.”

Flint scratched the back of his head.

“It also…” He hesitated, “…talks.”

Isla blinked a few times.

“The sword.”

“Yes.”

“…Talks.”

“Yes.”

Her expression shifted into the patient look she wore whenever village children insisted monsters lived under their beds.

“…Flint.”

“It’s true.”

“What does it say?”

“Ominous things… but it doesn’t talk much.”

“Like what?”

“It told me to draw it.”

Isla sighed.

“…Which I guess wasn’t exactly bad advice.” Flint continued.

She pouted, narrowing her eyes at him.

“If it tells you to jump off a cliff, don’t listen.”

“I’ll try my best.”

Flint scratched his cheek, his gaze lingering on the sword at his belt.

“I don't want to draw it again.”

Because if he did… it would feel like admitting defeat. The last time he used it, he was overcome with power. But… it didn’t feel like his own.

And the price was too much.

Whenever you draw, a human must die by the blade.

Isla didn’t answer right away.

“I… understand.”

Flint nodded.

“Where was it even buried this whole time?” Isla said, almost like thinking aloud, “You said you found it in the forest, didn’t you?”

“It was in a pit at the eastern side of the woods. I just… fell in it.”

“If that pit was always there, then how come no one found it before you?”

“Ronan told me Lori lost his sickle. I found it down there too.”

Isla brought her hand to her chin, “Hm… maybe Lori disturbed something he shouldn’t have?”

“That does sound like Lori.” Flint laughed dryly.

The bushes beside the road suddenly rustled, causing both of them to freeze. Flint’s hand dropped instinctively to the handle of his axe as Isla tightened her grip around her quarterstaff.

Maybe the undead were better at staying quiet than they thought…

The leaves shook again.

Isla gulped…

Then, a tiny white rabbit hopped onto the path. It paused and twitched its nose, looking up at the two of them.

Isla’s shoulders immediately relaxed.

“Aw!” She crouched, smiling despite herself, “Well, aren’t you adorable?”

The rabbit took two tiny hops toward her.

Flint let out a slow breath as the tension drained from his shoulders.

False alarm.

The rabbit really was cute, though.

“…Think it tastes good?” he ventured.

Isla turned her head, eyes narrowed.

“…Flint.”

“What?”

The silence stretched on until Isla burst into laughter, and before he even realized it, Flint was laughing with her. Their voices echoed through the trees long after the rabbit had darted back into the undergrowth.

Neither of them realized how much they’d needed that.

They walked for a couple more hours before the trees thinned and the trail reached the crest of a hill.

Flint came to a stop. Beyond the slope lay a small town nestled between rocky ridges, ringed by sturdy stone walls as smoke curled from chimneys and wagons rolled through gates far busier than anything he'd ever imagined.

“…Wow.”

A smile found its way onto Isla’s face.

“There it is.”

Flint couldn’t take his eyes off it.

“So many people…”

“It’ll be a good place to spend the night.”

She unfolded an old, yellow-edged map from her satchel.

“…We should probably buy a new map too.”

They made their way down the hill until they joined a short line of merchants and travelers waiting to enter through the gates. Two guards stood watch yet neither looked particularly interested in conversation.

One simply stepped forward to meet them.

“Purpose?”

“Just passing through,” Isla answered politely.

The guard nodded.

“Where from?” He eyed Flint, almost as if measuring him.

“Uh… the one up in the mountains.”

“Doesn’t it have a name?” The guard didn’t seem amused.

Flint turned to Isla, but she seemed just as stumped.

That was a good question.

Before either of them could answer, the guard stepped closer, his eyes settling on Flint.

“Look at me.”

Flint blinked.

“…Uh, sure.”

The guard studied his crimson eyes for a moment before giving a satisfied nod.

No blackness in them. That was a good sign.

“Any bites?”

“No.”

“Very well.”

He stepped aside.

“Welcome.”

As they crossed beneath the gate, Flint noticed a weathered wooden sign bolted against the wall.

REPORT ALL BITES IMMEDIATELY.

Failure to do so is punishable by death.

“…They really don’t take chances.”

“Can’t say I blame them.”

Isla’s smile faded just a little.

“The same goes for the Elders of our village over the years.”

The town however… was alive. People walked in every direction. Merchants called out from colorful stalls while horses pulled wagons through streets paved with stone.

Stone? Flint looked down in disbelief.

"Isla... the road is made of rock."

“That’s called paving, I believe.” Isla smiled wryly

“People pave roads?!”

“What did you think they did?”

“…Walk around mud?”

Isla didn’t know what to answer. A loud bell suddenly rang overhead.

DONG

Flint nearly jumped out of his boots.

“What was that?!”

He instinctively reached for the axe at his belt. Some townsfolk turned to stare.

Isla covered her mouth, trying, and failing, not to laugh.

“It’s the church bell. I’ve heard of those before.”

“…”

“It tells the time.”

“How? I just heard a dong.”

“3 knocks means… midday, I think.”

Flint slowly let go of the axe.

“…I thought we were under attack.”

“I’m sure everyone noticed.”

“How do you know all that, Isla?”

“I read a lot of Ms. Irma’s books.”

“I… see.”

Maybe he should have read more too?

A little farther ahead, Flint wandered to a notice board covered with papers.

Missing goat.

Escort wanted.

Reward for finding runaway chickens.

He stared.

“…People hire adventurers for chickens?”

Isla folded her arms.

“It would seem so.”

Flint rubbed his chin, brows furrowed in deep concentration.

“…Maybe being a hero starts with chickens?”

Just beyond the square, water splashed softly against carved stone.

Flint looked over. Isla had stopped walking again.

She stood before a broad fountain, sunlight dancing across its surface as water spilled endlessly from the statue at its center.

"It's..."

She smiled.

"It's so pretty."

“They built this just for show?”

Isla turned around with a pout, “What, you don’t like it?”

“I don’t get it. But it’s nice.”

“…It’s beautiful!”

Before Flint could answer, an unfamiliar aroma drifted through the street.

He sniffed once. Then again as if to double check.

His head snapped toward it. A street vendor stood behind a small cart, skewers sizzling over glowing coals.

People were buying food… and eating it while walking.

Flint stared in complete disbelief.

“…You can do that?”

The vendor, a man with broad arms and a moustache, blinked.

“…Do what, son?”

“…Buy food…” He pointed toward a man walking past with a skewer in one hand, “…Without sitting down?”

“Of course.”

Flint slowly turned toward Isla, his eyes wide with wonder.

“This…” He crossed his arms, rubbing his chin, “This changes everything.”

As they continued down the lively street, two village kids taking it all in, Flint came to a realization.

Nobody called out to him. Nobody asked him to fix a fence or lend a hand with chores. For the first time in his life, Flint was surrounded by people who didn't know his name—and he wasn't sure whether that felt freeing or lonely.

They walked until a wooden sign swinging in the breeze caught Isla’s eye.

A mug.

A bed.

An inn.

She smiled.

“I think we’ve found tonight’s home.”

Flint nodded.

“…And hopefully tomorrow’s breakfast.”

Together, they stepped inside.

𓌏

The inn proved quieter than the streets outside.

Flint had expected songs and drunken adventurers. Instead, he found tired merchants, families sharing supper, and two travelers arguing over nothing.

Their own meal arrived a moment later—a thick bowl of stew with fresh bread and roasted vegetables. Flint stared at it for a moment before picking up the spoon and swallowing.

“…This is good.”

Isla smiled.

“You haven’t tried it yet.”

He finally took a bite.

“I knew it.”

She laughed softly. For a while, neither of them spoke, they simply watched the room around them.

People laughed as a merchant celebrated a successful trade, an old bard strummed beside the fireplace, and two children chased each other between the tables until their mother finally caught them by the ears.

Despite the Blight…

Life went on. Maybe that was how humanity had survived all this time.

Not by fighting every day. But by refusing to stop living.

𓌏

Their room wasn’t nearly as grand as Flint had imagined, though it was warm, clean, and far more comfortable than sleeping beneath the open sky.

“You take the bed.”

Isla tilted her head.

“There’s two beds…”

Flint squinted.

She was right.

…

“Good night, Flint.”

“…Night, Isla.”

When they turned in for the night, the murmurs of the inn hadn’t subsided yet. Eventually, exhaustion lulled them both to sleep.

 旅

Morning came much earlier for them than it did for the rest of the town. By the time they stepped downstairs, the common room was nearly empty.

The closer they got, the clearer the voices drifting in from the front counter became.

“…Please.”

The innkeeper stood with both hands raised.

“You’ve already taken enough.”

His wife clutched his sleeve, her face pale.

Across from them stood three heavily armed men. Adventurers by the likes of it. One casually tossed another sack of dried rations over his shoulder.

“We’re protecting these roads,” he said, “We’re taking what we’re owed.”

The innkeeper lowered his head.

“…Please… leave us enough to last the week, at the very least.”

Flint stopped, brow furrowing.

What were they doing? Isla brought her hands to her mouth.

“We told you what would happen if you didn’t give us our share, right?”

“Please… I have children to feed… an inn to run!”

Flint gritted his teeth.

That was when he came to a conclusion.

Even if the world was beautiful, even if humanity had somehow learned to carve out moments of joy amidst the Blight, there would always be another side to it.

The ugly side.

But Flint wouldn’t accept it. He refused.

“Leave them alone.”