“It is said that the first heroes arose as the gods called them. Whenever gods called, heroes came to be. I know it's true, because when they called, I answered.

-???”

* * *

???

He answered, he fought, and he vanquished. Then, at some point in his life, he died.

His goals all accomplished, his loved ones already gone, he had nothing to regret. Nothing worth shedding tears over, at least. What he could do, he had done – what he didn't, he couldn't have anyway. Since long, he had made peace with the one fate that nobody could escape. Such determination had been, perhaps, the foundation of his way of life. He and the others couldn't have done all that, had they been struck by the fear of death and pain. Only the braves could have fulfilled the Duty.

There was nothing to fear, nothing to lament. Then why, as the grim doors of nothingness opened to him, was he feeling bitter? In the end, bitterness was the last thing he ever felt.

Or so he thought.

It felt like a long dream. One he couldn't escape from, no matter how hard he tried. It was dark, warm, and silent. The occasional sound reached his ears, but his mind could no longer comprehend the meaning of a sound, or the even meaning of his own existence, in fact. In this strange inertia of the mind, he tried to think, but even that failed.

He couldn't recall when it began exactly, but he could now feel the presence of his body, and the sounds were getting more and more distinct, clearer as the time passed. The only certainty he had was that time was passing. How much, how long, he couldn't fathom. How old was he, now? He had no idea. Who was he anyway?

At first, it hurt when he tried to think about it. Then it started to come back to him, bits by bits. In that state of ever-fading consciousness, his memory and his self-awareness were being rebuilt slowly but surely. Soon enough the darkness around him was no more, with a faint light creeping through a veil. For a long moment, asking himself the heck is this place? was the extent of his ability to question his environment.

By the time another major event happened, he was more or less sure he had died. Whatever that meant. Or perhaps he was still dying. Perhaps he was currently on his way to the nothingness, or the Abyss, or wherever else the dead went. Across the world, he had travelled through many lands and visited many cities, and there were all sorts of beliefs regarding death. Some would say his soul was being sent to another realm. Some would say his memories coming back to him was just the infamous process of seeing one's life before the end.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

As far as he was concerned though, each of these rumours were most likely crap. He clearly felt his own body, so he wasn't a mere soul. And if he was seeing his life flashing before his eyes, then something was wrong. The order was wrong. More importantly, as far as he was concerned, and the gods knew he was really, really concerned right now, whatever was currently happening was entirely more terrifying than any idea one could have of death. He was being pulled away from the warmth, and he could feel his body being torn apart. His legs clutched, it was as if something was dragging him in the cold underground. Demons from the Abyss! he surmised, panicked, as his instincts screamed for him to defend himself.

Alas, he had neither sword nor pike, and despite his pleas, begging the gods that they save him, no words came out of his mouth. He must have looked pitiful in their godly eyes. The only thing he could do was struggle and kick and make his final moments as difficult as he could for the demons, but his body was slow and numb, as if they had casted a curse on him.

And here they were. Holding him, looking at him. He couldn't see anything more than blurry creatures, but they were unmistakeably here. They spoke, in their indecipherable language, probably making threats and taunts, toying with him before they ate his soul or something. Such were what the scriptures said about the demons. In a last desperate attempt to avoid a vain death, he cursed them, he yelled, let out his rage, his hatred, his bitterness and frustration, all sorts of feelings he had no idea he was still capable of. In place of his curse, he could only hear an abominable screech.

A cry.

He didn't remember when he fell unconscious. It seemed he was still alive, but he hadn't regained control of his body yet. He had to think about his predicament, about what all of this meant, but he couldn't. He was tired. Whenever he was awake, he tried to think of an escape plan, but he'd end up falling asleep. And whenever he slept, he'd dream, dream of the past, of himself, of a world he thought he had forgotten. The headaches kept occurring, just like when he was still bathing in the warmth.

Before he knew it, colours and shapes were his new environment. The demons making sounds were now a part of his everyday life. Whatever a day meant in this nightmare.

It took days, months perhaps, for him to really understand. To understand what time was, what the sounds were, what the colours and shapes meant. It wasn't a sudden realisation, the same way that his memory didn't come back all at once. But there was a moment when it made sense – or rather, it was the only explanation.

He, chosen of the gods, fulfiller of the Duty, had spent his whole life sharpening his senses, his mind and his body, and was now finding himself in the body of a infant.

Through eyes that didn't feel like his own, his sight had developed to the point where he could now see the people around him and stop thinking of them as demons. He could see their perfectly human, non-demonic facial features. A phenomenal progress. In a growing body that didn't feel like his own, he was learning to move again. Turning his head at first, then moving his arms and legs. Walking wasn't on the agenda yet, and he soon discovered that crying and getting carried was currently his fastest means of transportation. Not that he had anywhere to go. And, surrounded by people he didn't know, in a place he had no recollection of, where everyone spoke a language that definitely wasn't his own, he had to live the uninteresting life of an infant.

Yet among this confusing madness, this absurdity, satisfaction and eagerness was all he felt. All of this could only mean one thing. When the gods call, the heroes answer. His rebirth – because that was what it was, there was no doubt anymore – was certainly proof that the gods had plans for him.

I wonder if the same thing happened to the others... Well, it would not come as a surprise if I was the only one. I was the best, after all.

The reason he was reborn made him curious, of course. Sure, the world would never be at peace, there would always be issues and conflicts that required some diplomacy or head-bashing, that was why heroes existed in the first place. Why him, though? What would warrant his reincarnation? He wasn't even sure it was right, to be reborn like that. It went against the nature of the world. There was no way to know if it really happened on purpose, or if it was a mere accident. What he was sure of, however, was that the bitterness he felt when he died was now gone.

That was the reason, in the end. After a lifetime of devotion and abnegation, how could one accept death so easily? He let a childish chuckle escape. Living is such a thrill.