“But I only have ten silver.” The hulking Fighter, Awoken by the Golden Prophecy, glared at the simple shopkeeper.

“The backpack is ten silver.” Mr. Igma was as implacable as eternity.

“But then how can I buy other things?”

“Have more money.”

“But I need supplies.”

“I can sell you supplies,” Mr. Igma said.

“But I can’t buy more supplies if I spend it all on the backpack!” the Chosen One growled.

“Yes, you can. It’s easy.” Mr. Igma noted the look of hope on the young Saviour’s face. “Just have more money.”

“I haven't got any more money!” the Hero of All Time yelled, throwing his hands up in the air.

“I fail to see how that is my problem,” Mr. Igma sniffed at him.

“It will be your problem when I don’t have supplies to go save the world! You know, the thing you live on? The whole point of me Awakening is to fight Evil! Do you want Evil to win?” the Hero shouted.

“Of course not,” Mr. Igma said. “You’re the Chosen One. I believe you will save the world.”

“So give me what I need!”

“Just as I believe you will find a way to make more money,” Mr. Igma said. “And when you do save the world, I will be very rich. So really, my charging you is a testament to my faith in you.”

The Hero gave out a strangled yell, and stormed out of the shop. Without missing a beat, Mr. Igma smoothly turned to Qube, who was huddled in the corner.

“And what can I do for you today, Miss?” he asked.

---

“I did warn you,” Qube said glumly a little while later, “he’s impossible to talk your way around.”

“Did you see how much he was charging for healing potions?” the Chosen One stormed. “Three silver! Three! And I only have ten silver! And they only heal half a heart!” Qube looked at him in concern. Half a heart? You’d need some pretty intense healing to grow back half your heart. She didn’t think any potion Mr. Igma sold was that strong.

“It’s a good thing I’ve got you with me,” he said, still stomping, “otherwise I’d be completely [fiddled]. I don’t know how the other roles would cope.”

Qube flushed quite pink with pleasure at being praised by the Prophetic Hero. She still didn’t know why sometimes he sounded like he was in a bathtub, but she understood his sentiment.

“Well. I suppose it’s time to go farming,” he sighed.

“You want to go farming?” Qube asked, blinking in confusion.

“I mean killing low level monsters in the woods, doing fetch quests, stuff like that,” he said. “You know, get stronger before we have to leave.”

“There aren’t any monsters in the woods,” she said. “That’s the point of them protecting us. To keep the monsters away. But Alderman did say that we could ask the villagers for any supplies we might need.”

The Chosen One, who had started to look sulky, brightened up at that. “Oh, social stuff! Yeah, that would be good. Maybe I could get enough social skills to barter with that pain in the —”

“Hello young man. Oh my, how you’ve grown.” Mrs Smith was standing in the middle of the street, directly in front of them. Qube hadn’t even seen her appear. “I swear, kids these days grow up so fast.” She paused for a moment to consider them, her stiff, iron grey curls not moving as she tilted her head to the side. “Lawks,” she said, finally.

The Chosen One positively beamed.

“Hello, my good woman!” he said cheerfully. “How may I assist you?”

“Well isn’t it funny, you knowing that I need just a mite of help,” Mrs Smith said, giving him what Qube recognised as a well rehearsed Understanding Smile. “You see, that naughty girl has run off with my ruby red cooking pot, and I can’t leave the dessert I’m cooking to go fetch it. You’ll find it in the warehouse near the fishing pier. Here’s the key to it.”

Mrs Smith held out her arm, despite still being a good six feet away from the Hero and Qube. Her fist was clenched like she was holding a key, then opened, as if dropping it into the Chosen One’s hand.

“Thank you,” the Hero said, running off immediately.

Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

“If you hurry, you might be able to get a slice of my famous — “ Mrs Smith trailed off as the Hero turned a corner. She looked at Qube, who was still waiting for her to actually give them the key.

But instead Mrs Smith just turned and walked into her house, carefully shutting the door behind her. After a moment Qube saw her appear in her living room window, watching from behind the curtain. It was, she thought, extraordinarily creepy.

She was about to go knock on her door and ask (politely) for her to give them the key to the warehouse when the Chosen One came jogging back down the street.

“Wrong way,” he said, “come on!”

“But we —”

“[Follow!]” he barked and she found herself jogging after him before she even realised what she was doing. She couldn’t wait until they got to the warehouse and he realised he forgot to get the key. He was going to look like such an idiot.

---

He had the key. Not just to the warehouse, but to every other place they got sent to by the villagers. They’d given him chores to do all over the village, and each time rewarded him with a vital piece of equipment or supplies. One of them had even given him a backpack, much to his joy. He’d then somehow shoved everything in there, including an entire sleeping roll and tent.

When Qube asked how he’d gotten the keys, she’d gotten two responses. The first was from the Prophecy, which gave her such a strong reaction that she felt like she’d been kicked in the head by a horse. The second was from the hero himself, who just said something about insects or bugs. It was hard for her to concentrate through the pain, but the gist of it seemed to be some kind of bug magic. It made sense, bugs did get everywhere. She hadn’t understood anything about the “glitches” he kept mentioning, but didn’t want to irritate the Prophecy by asking any more questions.

She figured keys were somehow vital to the Golden Prophecy. And these glitches. Probably powerful magics, or somehow connected to the Great Evil. Either way, she trusted that all would reveal itself in time.

Or she would go insane. Both seemed pretty likely at this point. Especially because the Champion kept insisting she [Heal] him for the tiniest injury.

“I scraped my leg on this box. Heal me.”

“I stubbed my toe. Heal me.”

“I got a fishing hook stuck in my hand. Heal me.”

Why was he being such a baby?! Surely the one who was supposed to battle a great evil shouldn’t be complaining about a splinter? Instead he would just whinge until she [Heal]ed him, and half the time she would see him carefully eyeing her afterwards.

It was almost like he was trying to train her healing magic. If only magic were that easy! The only way to get stronger was to learn new spells. The same mage doing the same spell was always just as strong as any other mage doing the same spell (unless the other mage was wearing magic enhancing jewelry or enchanted robes or something). [Lesser Healing] was [Lesser Healing], no matter who was casting it.

---

Several hours later it was still a beautiful sunny morning. They had scoured every inch of the village, looking for things to do and supplies for the journey. At one point The Chosen One had stumbled across a glowing golden coin inside a bird’s nest, which he had gotten very excited over. Apparently it was a ‘collectible’. Some kind of currency, perhaps? Qube was more interested in what made it glow, but the glow faded as soon as it was touched.

Given the golden glow, she figured it was probably related to the Golden Prophecy. Speaking of which…

“I guess we should probably go talk to that old man,” the Chosen One said, scratching his cheek. “Unless there’s anything else you can think of? Is there anyone we haven't spoken to?”

“No,” Qube said, “no more talking to people.”

They had spoken to everyone multiple times. Any time they’d said anything remotely like a request the Chosen One had gotten excited, demanding they give him things to do. Eventually everyone had taken to hiding in their houses and locking the front doors. Even the kids in class had taken to pretending to be too absorbed in their studies to talk to him anymore. It didn’t help that he kept demanding items every time he did something as simple as bring in their laundry, either.

“Fine,” the Chosen One sighed. “Let’s get this party started.”

An odd way to talk about receiving the Sacred Weapon to Defend Destiny, but then Qube was starting to suspect that The Saviour of All was the tiniest bit strange.

“Alderman said to meet him back at his house first.” They stood in front of the Prophecy Hut, its pointy roof still slightly golden. Had it been only that morning the Prophecy had Awoken the Hero? It felt like it’d been weeks. She was utterly exhausted.

The Chosen One looked through the keyhole.

“He’s not in there,” he said, face squished against the door.

“Yes,” she said patiently, “we need to go to his house first.”

“Yeah I just wanna check out the place before he arrives and things kick into gear,” the Chosen One said, yanking at the door handle. It didn’t budge. This, despite the fact that Qube knew the door had been unlocked that morning. In fact, as far as she knew, it had never been locked before. “Oh come on!” he exclaimed as he kicked it. It didn’t move.

“Fine,” he said grumpily, “Stupid events.” They took the ten steps to Alderman’s house next door, where the Chosen One kicked open his front door.

“Hey we’re here,” he declared. “Sacred Weapon please.”

“Hero! Welcome! You have all the supplies you need for your — oh he’s gone,” Alderman said as the Hero turned and instantly walked back to the Prophecy Hut. This time the hut’s door opened immediately.

More key based magic, Qube assumed as she scuttled behind him, only to run directly into his back as he suddenly stopped in front of the podium that held the Golden Prophecy. She looked over his shoulder and gasped. The Golden Prophecy had changed! It had finally revealed its true form!

“From humble village a Fighter awakes.

Then Evil destroys and his heart breaks.

His childhood companion, his guiding light,

He sets off to make the world right.

He shall find the forest’s heart.

And steal the fire’s guarded start.

He shall make the water cry

Then fall into unbroken sky

And fight the darkness deep inside

And turn away from brightness’ pride.

Then find in time’s endless halls

The echoes of his lost ones’ calls.

To slay what once was so adored

So what was lost can be restored.”

The placeholders had been replaced! Qube’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears as she finally saw the Golden Prophecy, the text that had dictated her entire life, unveiled before her.

It was glorious. It was shining. It was… currently being shoved in the Hero’s backpack.

“Chosen One!” Alderman puffed, having caught up to them. “What… what are you doing?”

“Can’t be bothered to write it down,” the Chosen One said, “and it has clues about future fights, so I’m taking it.” He crammed the sacred scroll carelessly into his backpack full of jam, pies and swords. “Anyway, where’s the Sacred Weapon?”

“It’s… it’s underneath the podium, your Heroicness.” Alderman said faintly. The Fighter shoved aside the wooden column that had once held the most important document in the entire world. Underneath was a small hollow, with a tiny pedestal holding a slim blade that seemed to emanate golden goodness.

“Yup. That’s a sword all right,” he said.

“It is the Hero’s Sword! The Sacred Sword!” Alderman said, with as much ceremony as he could muster. “Forged from a fallen star, it —”

“So I just need to take this and I’m ready to leave the village?” the Chosen One cut him off ruthlessly.

“...Yes.” Alderman sighed, giving up.

The Chosen One was frowning at the Hero’s Sword. It was a thing of beauty, shining steel and blue hilt, with three tiny indentations on the grip that spoke of mysteries. But the Chosen One seemed to behold something beyond it. His face twisted into a grimace, as if he were staring into a monsterous void, and saw it seething with evil. Perhaps, Qube mused, he was seeing all the creatures he would be forced to slay with such a powerful tool.

Instead she found he was now looking at her. Not breaking eye contact he rummaged around in his backpack, finally pulling the Golden Prophecy out. By some strange pocket magic it had managed to avoid being covered in jam. He unrolled it and stared at it, then back at Qube.

“Mr. Igma, he’s never going to give me a discount on those healing potions, is he?” he asked. Alderman choked back a laugh. “I’ll take that as a no.”

“Hey,” he said, seriously to Qube, his Prophecy Approved Companion, “are you my ‘childhood companion’?”

Qube closed her eyes.

“Yes,” she said eventually. “We have been best friends since birth.”

“Then we need to go for a walk.”