"One chaos replaced by another. Go forth, young hero... or should we say, empty husk? It is your duty, your responsibility, to reclaim that which we lost." An old crone in a robe of jet black feathers sitting cross-legged under a withered and charred black tree speaks, a toothless grin and milky blind eyes mocking the man before her.
Once a knight in shining bronze and silver, now rusted and shattered. A face once filled with the radiance of youth, the unwavering conviction in the righteousness of his own actions, now darkened and sunken by the harshness of reality. Heroism and genocide go hand in hand. When the enemies are not faceless soldiers hiding behind the anonymity of shields and helmets, but living, breathing beings with families, friends and aspirations, heroes learn of the errors of their ways.
"Go, and rekindle the fire that once burned within your eyes. Bring back your shield, bring back your voice... bring back your love. Kekeke..." Rustling black feathers resound all around the husk, a murder of crows caw along with the cackling of the crone. "Hold that pure blade high, as you did when you banished the chaos. Hold it high as you did when you ushered in the new chaos. Maybe this time, it will return order. Or will it only be ruin yet again? Only the gods will know." Her toothless grin wider than ever, she stands up to reveal her almost skeletal frame, before the crows come down on her, a storm of wings and beaks and claws. "Go forth, empty hero! Kekekekeke..."
Alone he stands, once again. The wind carries off the last feather, belonging to the crone or the crows, nobody knows.
The sky hangs thick with the smoke from countless fires. Soot covers the crops and renders them inedible. Still, nobody remains to harvest them, nobody remains to douse the flames claiming ever more empty homes. Simply, nobody remains. The only testament to life is the evidence that it was snuffed out only recently. Burned bodies, charred into oblivion, litter the land. Piles of people, twisted pyramids of limbs, extinguished pyres, emit the stench of unjust death.
Wandering through this world of embers and ashes is the young husk, every further step weighed down by the hellish sight, the result of his selfless sin. A layer of the remains of the people once alive and grateful for his deeds, rains down and clings to him like the final accusations towards their savior turned traitor, the source of their malady, their murderer.
Still, he places one foot before the other, a definite destination before his mind's eye. Not all is lost in this world; sanctuaries remain, the last vestiges of the peace granted by the chaos he banished so innocently, so unwittingly. His righteousness was repaid with ruin, rapture replaced with regret. Will his sin ever be forgiven?
Only the gods know.
Leaving behind the remains of another city he once defended against the forces of evil, now destroyed by those he considered allies, the empty hero continues on towards the mountains in the distance. He follows a rumor, a murmur on the wind, that speak of a former comrade's whereabouts. Joy and dread are mixing in equal parts inside his mind at the expected reunion.
How did things go so wrong?
The landscape changes, and rolling fields of ruined wheat is replaced by an evergreen forest, now gray and heavy from the ashes of the world he helped burn. A path once treaded by many, now overgrown by weeds, ugly but at the same time pure and uncorrupted. His deeds banished that aspect of the world, but the curses were replaced by the darkness within the heart of man.
Finally, a place not ablaze, a broken haven of torn walls and shattered gates. Life still exists, clinging to the world in all its wretchedness. Streets filled with rubble and withered husks, formerly humans, now little more than skin and bones. War and famine, pestilence and death, are passing through the lands, bolstering their ranks with ever-growing numbers and riding with unhindered swiftness.
Still, the empty hero remains well-nourished, and he is not the only one. Cities have governors, and these governors are the scourge of the times. Never has the class distinction been as exacerbated as his actions have caused them to become. The poor serve as fuel for the bonfire of a war that threatens to consume the world, while the rich warm themselves at its side, oblivious to its volatility.
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The power is in his hands, the symbol of purity lost, a blade that stands for glory and righteousness, but was lifted against those it was meant to protect. Those he had vowed to protect, even as he was unaware of that vow's implications. The victims are not always innocent, the aggressors are not pure evil. A distinction he had been unaware of, but had to experience first-hand to understand.
"The Wandering Pariah has been sighted nearby. It would be better to get out of here before it's too late." A man, his soul not completely lost yet, speaks to one that is but the shadow of a human being.
"Where should we go? Everywhere is the same." The shade responds, lifeless eyes looking at the sick and dying strewn across the streets. "What use is there to run?"
The husk, once hero, approaches them with definite steps. He wishes to hear more about this Wandering Pariah. The one still retaining the embers of life replies as the shadow barely registers his presence.
"It's said to pass through this forest very soon and the governor has already evacuated to his winter residence." These words elicit an angry look in his eyes. "He's just leaving us to die out here." Yet the anger soon subsides into an impotent frown. Nothing can be done by the powerless masses, when numbers are meaningless before the power of magic. The empty hero would have stood up against this injustice before, but he is aware of his hypocrisy now.
Taverns have long since closed their doors, the guild has all but disappeared in the absence of the corruption and in the presence of military needs. Men and women, once working for the common people, now answer to those who trample their former patrons underfoot. Unquestioning, unwavering, only selfishly thinking of their own less than guaranteed survival.
Even in a city, he can only camp out in the streets, his sheathed sword leaning on his shoulder. Sitting at a small fire barely adequate to banish the darkness and less so in providing warmth, his eyes close to see the images of death and destruction he sowed in the name of righteousness. Sleep does not come easily to him these days, as the voices of his fallen comrades, of those who trusted him, haunt him in his dreams, accuse him of betrayal. Betrayal of his own ideal.
The morning greets him with cold fingers and thick mist. The fire has quickly died with nobody to tend to it. Exhaustion has ushered in a dreamless night, the only form of rest the empty hero is granted these days. A noise is responsible for waking him up. The sound of the town alarm bell. Someone is still fulfilling his duty even in these times.
Some people run, most remain listlessly on the ground. They have given up on life and welcome the sweet release that death promises with dangerous whispers. He would have raised his sword towards the sky, rallied their hopes and spurred them to action in times past, but now he is close to becoming one of them himself. The little hope that remains in his heart is something he can no longer share without risking to extinguish it for good.
"The Wandering Scourge was sighted at the western gate!" A man screams in passing when asked by him. "Get out of here quickly!"
However, he walks towards the calamity those who still care flee from frantically. He moves towards it as if looking forward to its ruinous embrace. Hope is reflected in his eyes, the same hope a young man feels while looking forward to be reunited with a long lost lover perhaps. Yet there is also dread. The doubts and fears about finding out that the lover has changed her mind, or even found someone else in their long separation.
Empty streets save for the simply existing - no longer living - human husks, greet him at the western gate. Those who still hold onto life have fled, the bell has ceased, and silence blankets the city. Only the sound of something like a hammer hitting the closed gate announces that the one he has been waiting for has finally come.
One, two, three. The sound grows louder, the wall shakes and the heavy steel gate bends. Another one, and another, and another. Hinges break, bricks shatter. Then the entire gatehouse is blown away and thrown into the air. Its pieces rains down on the city behind it as a deadly shower of steel and stone. A cloud of dust explodes from where it stood firmly only moments earlier and wafts through the streets.
The empty hero walks towards it fearlessly, his arms hanging slack at his sides, the sword resting in its sheath untouched. The dust begins to settle and silence begins to return. Then, the sound of slow footsteps can be heard coming from where the gate once was, belonging to someone who is smaller and much lighter than he is.
A female figure emerges, shoulders slouched and the head hanging down. Just another husk. Seeing her, the man's expression is filled with affection, sadness and joy, and a hint of hope but also despair. He walks forward defenselessly, and the female continues on her path without noticing him.
Finally, only steps away from each other, she looks up. Night-blue, shoulder-length disheveled hair, dark purple skin, and violet eyes once possessing an enchanting glow, now empty and dull. She does not recognize him, but he smiles a smile full of despair. If he still had tears, he would be spilling them now.
"What happened to you..." He steps forward to embrace her, but she lifts her right arm, a grotesque deformity that radiates violence and power. "... Kamii..."