It is a recurring theme in history, that no matter how good the original intentions of an institution were, it will inevitably be corrupted. That was the fate of Octavian’s empire. It had been a monolith for hundreds of years. A bastion of culture and humanity. But it was falling to corruption. Spartan the unnamed, a simple soldier was the final straw. He understood the teaching of Hestia in a way beyond the reaches of man. Hope is the power that guides the actions of man. If only I could grasp such power. If only I could have his control.

When Spartan was merely a green soldier, he met Angelica’s descendant. And the blade he wielded. God-slayer. The descendant had heard stories of an old man and the rivers he drew and was seeking the old man out in hopes of learning. I listened as the descendant told stories to an enamored Spartan, on a cold windy night. Stories of his adventures, of climbing the Mountain of Adam, of crossing the endless sea, of slaying monstrous creatures. To Spartan, he was a living legend. To me, he was a reminder and an oddity. He was not linked to traditional fate like most, only indirectly related through causality. That night I felt fate shift around Spartan as the descendant spoke his final words,

“It's a glorious truth of the universe. What is born must die. And we can be vessels of that change.”

He looked at Spartan with burning azure eyes,

“Remember this kid, because I learned it far too late. There is no can’t. There is only won’t. So long as we are willing to pay the price, even godhood is within our reach.”

With those final words, he got up and headed back into the windy night. He never found the old man nor his painting.

At first, Spartan’s life stayed the same. He trained and enjoyed the company of friends. Then one day,

“To arms!” yelled the messenger who had just burst through the barracks door. “Rebellion in the east!”

I don’t know why I kept watching this common soldier. He was born with no great fate, no mighty mind, no immense strength. He was normal, in every sense of the word. Yet… as I watched him march through the cold spring, I knew he would change the world.

It was dusk when the rebels struck, the Imperial legion was caught by surprise as a rain of arrows poured down. They quickly regrouped and raised their rectangular shields. Spartan was in the front, side by side with his friends. The rebels came down upon them like the endless waves hounding the shore. Almost immediately, the green front lines started to buckle. I watched as blood painted the ground crimson and death came to ferry away the souls of the fallen. Then, when all seemed lost, an old soldier jumped to the front, drew his blade, and cleared the way like a scythe through wheat.

“Forward men!” he yelled, continuing his dance “Forward!”

The imperials regrouped and advanced. It was a long bloody battle but the imperials won with heavy casualties. Spartan wept over the corpses of his friends, wallowing in the guilt of being the only one left. The battle had been terrifying. The rebels… their eyes burned. Burned with light beyond them. They shone like stars. To stuff out those stars… had been horrible for Spartan. He could still remember the desperate hope in their eyes as their warm blood splashed him. For the rest of the march back, he was listless. Hollow.

Back at Lyke, the city that was once his home, the soldiers were all given the week off to recover. Spartan stumbled aimlessly through the streets. He was lost. I guided him, holding his hand as he stumbled through the streets. We arrived at the street of temples, an avenue of glorious statues and monolithic buildings. We passed them all, the white marble temples and the deep sea monuments alike. Eventually, we arrived at the smallest of them all. Hestia’s temple. I left Spartan there, and I stepped back to watch. The priests came and gathered him up, whispering sweet nothings into his ear. They guided him to the roof and helped him lie down. Among the priests of hope, and the sobs of the hopeless Spartan slept soundly for the first time in days. He woke to a moonless night. The stars shone with their full might, free from the obscuring rays of the moon. And above Spartan was a single small star. It was a star I knew well, for I had pressed Hestia’s path into it so long ago. It was steeped with the essence of hope, and hope is what it granted Spartan. Where others saw a single, lonely star, he saw a burning soul, ablaze with the light of life. He saw the eyes of those who had died on his blade. He saw the triumphant mother, watching her children eat, even as she starved. The dying man, smiling at his children. The doomed lord, giving the last of his wealth to the people. He saw hope in but a fraction of his myriad forms. And then I saw him do something remarkable. Lit by the flames of hope, he turned not to blind rage, but instead simple contemplation. It is remarkable how few humans take the time to properly think something out, instead of throwing themselves into the shredder with all the passion of a burning star. He retraced the steps that had led to that horrible day. The screams of the dying. The crimson mud. The flashing blades. And finally, their terrible burning eyes. Except now, they were not terrible but beautiful, reflections of the star above. It clicked. They fought for hope of a better future, just as he fought for that same hope. They just fought in different ways. He sought to better his situation in the empire, they sought to end it. But why? The increasing rebellion. The decreasing wealth. The bickering of the leaders. There had to be a reason. The stars shone on a moonless night, and a man peeled back the veil of lies. Finally, he looked up again,

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“The empire killed my brothers.” he whispered “and so many others. The empire exists to serve the people. And when it cannot anymore, it must be replaced”

I felt it then, the start of a formation of a path. A powerful one, but he hesitated. It's a shame that often those thoughtful enough to consider their choices end up without the conviction to truly commit. I watched the pendulum swing back and forth, the nascent path swinging from destruction to completion. Finally, it reached its head,

“There is no can’t. There is only won’t.” he whispered. Focusing his eyes back on the stars he spoke louder, “I will not back down. My brothers, I will create a better world in your memory.”

The path solidified, and the light of Hestia blessed him.

Within a day he was on the road towards the capital, Wuking, traveling not with the blind rage of an avenger but rather the gentle calm of a saint. The true tragedy of transcendent revelation is that it is almost impossible to once more embrace simple mortality after peeking at the great forces that drive the cosmos. Those with it burn brilliant and short, unable to sustain their mortal shells in the luminosity of their transcendent insight. Spartan was no different, and as he rode the winds of hope to the rescue of the damned, he contemplated his death.

The city was a powder keg, roiling with tensions between the powerful rich and the weak poor. And a star had just entered.

Spartan walked to the center of the slums. And he began to speak.

Some people underestimate the power of simple words. They believe that true change can only be accomplished through careful planning and exacting actions. I have seen many men to prove them wrong. But not so much as Spartan. When he opened his mouth and spoke, his words were heavy with meaning, drowning in essence. He was less a mortal in those moments, and more like a conduit of his path. Of Hope. He spoke and the people listened. They listened well. More and more gathered to hear the words of a man who had touched godhood. He spoke like the wind, breathless and endless, giving voice to their deepest thoughts. Soon enough, soldiers came to arrest him, but they too fell under the spell of his words. He began to walk, leading his flock through the streets. Today they were the students, but perhaps tomorrow they could be the teachers. The gates to the inner palace snapped open, like the jaws of a massive beast and soldiers streamed out. The men and women behind him began to step forward to intercept them, but Spartan waved them back.

“Take me to the emperor” he commanded.

They escorted Sartan to an opulent throne room where there, on a throne of gold, sat the emperor. He was a fat man, decked in layers of gold and jewels,

“Is this the rabble-rouser?” He questioned mechanically.

“Yes, My Emperor”

“Execute him in the morning”

Spartan spent the night in silent meditation, preparing for his death. Tomorrow he would break the chains of hopelessness and ascend with the rising sun.

The morning came, and Spartan was dragged down the streets, accompanied by the crowing of the roosters.

A massive crowd was already gathered, waiting with bated breath.

Spartan climbed on the platform, the rising sun at his back, ringing his dull brown hair in a ring of violet fire.

The square hushed as the condemned man faced death with a straight back and calm smile.

He addressed them, unbothered by the soldiers behind him, “Change comes only to those willing to pursue it. I stand under the scythe of death and I hope for a better future.”

He smiled at them,

“Stand beside me. And hope with me.”

The headsman approached him, sharpening his axe ominously.

Spartan continued,

“Hope is immortal, as am I. Not in its mortal vessels but in its immortal meaning. I die today, my body returning to the earth, but not the path I stood for, the hope I instilled. That is still there. Today is not the death of that hope, but rather the day where that transcendent hope is released from its mortal vessel.”

The soldiers grabbed Spartan and forced him to his knees in front of the chopping block. The people began to roil dangerously,

Spartan raised a hand from his kneeling position,

“Stop. You cannot fight the empire yet. I beg of you, from my death, take not anger and fury, but rather understanding and hope. Throw yourself not into a futile task, but take the time and care to make that task simple. Hope shall open all paths, but you must choose the right one.”

The headsman raised his axe.

Spartan’s mask fell away in his last moments, his calm facade giving way to eyes that blazed with light,

“There is no can’t. Only won’t. We are gods. Act like it.” He commanded.

The sun ringed the corpse of the peaceful martyr and his blood anointed the faces of the hopeful.

I witnessed something extraordinary that day. The people simply walked away. They didn't rebel, they didn't futilely throw themselves against impenetrable walls. They walked away, souls alit, back to their homes and families. Two years later the empire collapsed in a series of carefully orchestrated and executed events. Guards fell asleep on duty, lords had mysterious incidents, and the emperor choked on a fish bone. In the resulting vacuum, peasants rose up and the empire was quietly shattered into a dozen small kingdoms, freeing humanity from the threat of hegemons.

The empire forged in such carnage and madness had met its end in the quiet action of ordered peasants. It was fitting.

I pressed Spartan’s path into his own constellation, one eternally orbiting Hestia’s single star.

Hope and its peace.