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 as all.

  The weak suffer 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 Immortal Sword Saint.

  ———

  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.

  In contrast, his opponent seemed all too eager to strike. He had dark skin, curly hair, and grey, soul-piercing eyes. He assumed the plow guard, intending on a quick, unabated thrust. It was of course an obvious strategy, yet the boy cared little for alternatives. He refused to give the man in blue even an opportunity for offense. This was not a matter of jumping into a gaping maw, but piercing through it.

  Both fighters were equally assured of their victory. The fate of the battle had already been decided. “I will win” they thought without an ounce of shame. Their standstill was merely the prelude, the appetizer for a most enticing meal.

  “...”

  “...!”

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

  It goes without saying that such speed came at the cost of stability. He could no longer stop or change direction, but he had no intentions of doing so regardless. No matter what, his sword would strike true.

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

  “...”

  Despite this, 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, the blue man’s blade intercepted the attack. The harrowing thrust did not meet its mark. Its trajectory was thrown off to the man’s left, leaving the curly-haired boy utterly exposed.

  “Tch…!”

  A devastating slash came barreling down from above. For a moment, the boy felt the cold grasp of death. It terrified him to his core, yet he refused to yield. If he were not ready to stand upon the edge of life and death, then he had no right to call himself a warrior.

  He 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 effect to cripple his opponent. His fortune was rather lacking, however, as the man in blue had 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?”

  Ereth smirked, taking a battle position once more. “Sure thing, Zoltin. Just try to keep up with me.”

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

  Zoltin 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, Ereth raised his 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 them.

  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 Zoltin’s techniques.

  Zoltin guffawed joyously at the occasion, saying to the young boy, “So this was your aim? To neutralize the difference in skill?”

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

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

  In an unexpected maneuver, Zoltin let go of his sword, closing the distance and locking Ereth’s dominant arm.

  “E-Eh?!”

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

  “W-Wait! Wh-”

  “Don’t talk, keep fighting!”

  Zoltin continued to pummel the boy as Ereth struggled to escape his grip. This brutish act was unlike Zoltin, who prided himself with his elegance and tact. The confusion was so great that even Ereth was too stunned to properly fight back or think himself out of the situation. Before he knew it, Zoltin had already grabbed his face and held it down as they plummeted to the earth below.

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

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

  Ereth let go of his sword — it was useless in this position. He instead focused on twisting Zoltin’s hand by applying pressure and twisting wrists in a counter-clockwise motion. The obstacle was removed. Now the second phase of his attack began. He grabbed Zoltin’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.”

  Zoltin 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 life. He scoured the area beneath, spotting a thick, hearty branch protruded 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 himself and Ereth’s weight.

  “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.

  The man in blue pulled out a small blade hidden under his pants in a leg-brace, slashing his own hand apart, along with the hands of Ereth. With Ereth’s grip now rendered useless, he plummets to the ground below.

  “YOU CHEATERRRRRRRR!!!!!!” He shouted in frustration at yet another loss.

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

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  ———

  “Ugh, I died again! You totally cheated that time!”

  “The only rule of combat is to win and not die.”

  “...”

  “If you can complain, then you can get better. Go find some books in the study. Those’ll help.”

  “Alright…”

  He got up and walked upon the endless grassy hills, admiring the horizon bathed in golden sunlight. The rays of light shimmered on the surface of the distant, crystal blue sea.

  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 includes all phenomena in this world.

  Though, that is not to say that the ‘extraordinary’ did not exist in this world. It was quite the contrary. Countless bookshells and grand libraries remained suspended in the air, containing information from every era and culture imaginable. The origins of these books remained a mystery to Ereth, though he had lived in this place so long that it seemed natural.

  He had already organized them all in his mind — history, language, arts, mathematics, science, culture, literature, biographies, and miscellaneous studies. He had little interest in most of the library, but there was one particular field that delighted him to no end. The boy loved myths, specifically heroic myths.

  Ereth loved the grand adventures of heroes, traveling in search of some ancient treasure or favor from the Gods. Beowulf, Achilles, Mulan, Heracles, and Fionn mac Cumhaill — they were men of great renown, known for both might and the overwhelming faith others placed in them. Their mere presence was enough to invite hope within the hearts of all, soothing their cries and bringing about a bright new day.

  After a bit of a climb up a floating bookshelf, he found the story he had been looking for — The Legend of the Immortal Sword Saint.

  It 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.” Ereth read off the manuscript as though he were in a trance, 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.”

  “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?”

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

  “N-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…” Ereth furrowed his brow in contemplation. “That’s kind of a hard concept to wrap your head around.”

  Zoltin guffawed loudly at the boy’s assertion, rubbing his head as though they were parent and child. “Yeah, it is! Everyone is a burden that not a lot of 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 Zwei-hander with a black blade and golden accents. Its handle was long and thick with two cross-guards, a larger guard and a shorter guard. 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?” Zoltin 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 mom? Why would your mom even have something like this??”

  “Pay attention, idiot!”

  He slapped the boy on the head, reorienting his 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.” Ereth said in a submissive tone.

  Zoltin 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. Though Ereth was certainly ecstatic about the prospect of venturing out into that world. He couldn’t help but feel a bit apprehensive about the whole ordeal. It is for that reason that Ereth chose to hold his 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. Ereth had rarely seen his 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 honest truth.”

  The conversation felt utterly one-sided, but what could Ereth have said? The boy had not lived to see the same tragedies as his father. He had lived and died by the sword, but his heart lacked experience. Thus, there was nothing to do but listen to the woes of his father — the hero he wished to become.

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

  He tossed Ereth the 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. Ereth, 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 Ereth to consider himself a worthy vessel of its power.

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

  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 the boy’s head with the tenderness of a father.

  “What do you want to be, Ereth?”

  “I…” For a moment, he 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 forward with hands held together in supplicant prayer.

  The drifting libraries came together in a circular fashion 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 his urge to cry, Ereth nodded in affirmation. He clenched the Sword of Promised Victory with all his might as the divine light consumed him.

  “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. Ereth was sure to face a perilous path unfit for ordinary man, that much was certain, but it is from this path that a new era was soon to be born.

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

  Now come along, my dear reader, let us observe the Palais Garnier unfold. Though its essence is rather cliched, I can assure you that its actors are of the finest fold. None shall bore or tired of this tale.