The morning sun beat down on Cassian as he knelt in the dirt, struggling to keep the tomato vines upright. His large, calloused hands fumbled with the stakes and twine, the simple task beyond his capabilities. Once his hands could wield a sword with grace and precision, now they shook trying to tie a simple knot, a knot that he only saw as a blurry outline.

Cassian, once known to never surrender no matter the odds, rocked back on his heels in retreat. His forehead glistened with sweat, broad shoulders and muscular frame dwarfed the tiny tomato plant in front of him. Though his close-cropped hair had turned silver and wrinkles creased his forehead, power still emanated from him like a palpable force. Yet here he was, the great hero who had saved humanity, defeated by tomatoes.

"Blasted things," Cassian grumbled. This wasn't the first time he'd been outmatched in his garden, It wasn't even the first time that day. He had already lost a batch of tomatillos, which he was surprised to learn weren't just tomatoes with a fancy name. The less said about his eggplants the better. Some wicked force seemed to be attacking every type of squash he tried to plant, and for all his might Cassian was powerless against it. He nervously eyed the unscathed artichokes, fearing that they too would soon fall prey to the mysterious attacker.

Cassian wiped sweat from his brow. After fighting off monsters, commanding troops, and cheating death countless times, he was yet again bested by a simple vegetable garden. He threw down the twine in defeat, and his old bones creaked as he stood, surveying the chaotic mess before him - nothing like the tranquil farm life he had envisioned when dreaming of retirement.

As Cassian trudged back to his cottage, dirt clinging to his worn boots and smears of soil streaking his forearms,mingling with the sweat that dampened his clothes. Once inside, Cassian kicked off his muddy boots with a weary grunt. The cottage was small and cozy with a scent of aged wood mingling with the subtle hint of herbs and earth that clung to Cassian's skin. Dust particles danced in the slivers of sunlight that filtered through the cracks in the aging wooden beams above. It was a humble abode for a man who had once been hailed as humanity's savior.

Inside, relics of his past adventures mingled seamlessly with the trappings of everyday life. The sun's tear, a powerful mana stone he had ripped from the skull of an elder dragon, was being used as a paperweight. The lower half of the Shield of Aendrimor, glowing with protective runes, was caked in dirt from when he had tried to use it as a shovel. The runes hadn't liked that much, and there was a small crater near his figs to remind him to not make that mistake again.

He made his way down the narrow hall, the floorboards creaking beneath his weight, until he reached the washroom at the end.

Cassian turned the rusty faucet handle, unleashing a gush of cool water into the ceramic basin. He cupped his hands beneath the stream, splashing the refreshing liquid over his dirt-smudged face. Rivulets ran down his weathered cheeks, carrying away the soil and sweat of his morning toil. He gingerly peeled off his dirt-caked shirt, the soreness in his shoulders and back protesting with each movement.

Though his body still appeared strong and muscular, it was covered in scars that told the tales of fierce battles. An especially nasty one snaked down from his shoulder across his chest - a parting gift from the demon lord Malphas. Though the wound had healed over decades ago, it would still ache on cold nights. Cassian grimaced as he rolled his shoulder, trying to work out the stiffness. He idly wondered if Malphas would have lost against the tomatoes.

Cassian emerged from the shower, droplets of water cascading down his toned physique. He grabbed a towel from the wall, its golden threads now faded and worn. Uncaring of the regal embroidery decorating its edges, he briskly dried himself off before carelessly tossing it onto a heap of identical towels.

The floorboards creaked yet again under his weight as he made his way to the worn armchair by the window. The large man sank deeply into the chair's cushions, the frame of the thing flexing beneath his weight. He leaned back, trusting the thing to hold, and closed his eyes, letting the warmth of the midday sun wash over his face.

He knew this was it, this was the peak. He was freshly showered after a hard day's work, feet propped up in a comfortable chair, and listening to the gentle breeze rustle through the trees outside. It should have been paradise, but all he could think about were the dozens of dull aches and pains in his body, only to be outdone by the few sharp ones.

Cassian had done everything he could to distract himself. He glanced over at the abandoned projects littering the cottage - books half-written, or half read, all discarded. There was a pile of unused canvases, an unfinished contraption of gears and metal - attempts to find meaning in this new era that didn't seem to need him anymore, to keep himself occupied. None of it worked.

Cassian let out a long sigh, his eyes still closed as he sank deeper into the faded cushion. He tried to focus on the warmth of the sun's rays, letting his mind drift to better times. Times when he was surrounded by comrades, brothers and sisters in arms, all united by a common cause. They had laughed together, fought together, and some had even died together. He missed that camaraderie, that sense of purpose. For the first time in decades, Cassian felt truly alone.

A sudden knock at the door jolted him from his reverie. Cassian's eyes snapped open and his body tensed. He already knew who it was - that persistent historian who had been hounding him for weeks. How she had managed to track him down to this hidden corner of the world, he still did not know. The knock came again, more insistent this time. He could hear her muffled cries about knowing he was in there and that he could hear her.

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Cassian sighed as the knocking continued, the historian's muffled voice drifting through the door. "Mr. Thorne, I know you're in there. Please, I just need a moment of your time."

"All right, all right, I'm coming," he called out gruffly. With a grumble from himself and protests from his chair, Cassian hauled himself to his feet.

He shuffled down the creaky hallway, joints protesting with each step. Truth be told he appreciated her tenacity, that fire to get things done, he just wished it were aimed at anything other than himself, that she would just leave him be.

As Cassian swung open the door, he was met with a young woman holding a notepad. He put on his best 'grumpy old man' face, hoping to deter her. But she just smiled, determined to get what she wanted.

"Mr. Thorne," she greeted him in a cheerful tone, using the name he had insisted on during her first visit. "I was hoping we could finally sit down and talk about recording your experiences."

"Straight to it eh?" He scolded her for the lack of small talk. It was just common courtesy to ask about the weather or family before jumping into business.

"Last time you said you wouldn't waste your time on small talk," she reminded him, "and slammed the door."

Cassian couldn't deny it. Although he didn't remember that specific incident, it sounded like something he would do.

Sighing, he leaned against the doorframe. "Look Miss..." he pretended to struggle with her name.

"Farrow, Miss Lyra Farrow," she supplied eagerly.

"Right, Miss Farrow. As I've told you before, I have no interest in giving interviews, writing memoirs, or setting the record straight. My story has been told countless times already, there's no point in repeating it." He dismissed her with a wave of his hand.

He moved to close the door, but she wedged her foot in the gap. "Please, Mr. Thorne," she pleaded, "even just bits and pieces would be valuable. Our society has finally reached a point of stability where we can start rebuilding, and it's crucial that we understand how we managed to survive this disaster so that we can be ready for any future challenges."

That was the root of it all, wasn't it? What brought him to this tangled situation in the beginning, how they would always call him back in every so often when a challenge too great for the next generation arose. It had been a while since they last called upon him, but he was always ready, knowing that eventually he would have to go out one final time. If he chose not to, someone else would suffer the consequences. Now this woman at his door was saying If he didn't speak up now, someone else might be silenced later.

With a sigh, Cassian waved his hand and gestured for Miss Farrow to enter. He stepped aside from the doorway, allowing her to pass through. It seemed like today was turning into a series of losses for him, first the garden and now this encounter.

Lyra stepped eagerly through the doorway, pausing for a moment as her eyes adjusted to the dim interior. She found herself in a cozy sitting room, simple and rustic, with worn furniture and shelves crammed full of strange artifacts and curious objects.

Her historian's eye recognized relics from before the the gates opened - books, technology, artworks. There were strange devices and weapons mounted on the walls, fantastical objects that her research suggested came from Cassian's many adventures.

She paused to examine a detailed map etched onto a metal plate, charting the world as it once was. Her fingers hovered over a country that had been called Canada, one of the many that no longer existed, swallowed by rising seas or buried under ash and dust. She wasn't quite sure where on the map now the country would be, the world had changed too much.

The researcher eagerly asked, "Would you consider donating some of these artifacts to the university? We could gain valuable insights from their quality and condition."

Cassian dismissed her with a wave of his hand. They already had plenty of artifacts from the pre-gate era and the current influx was overwhelming enough. It would take centuries for researchers to make sense of it all; they certainly didn't need what he had.

"If you must have my belongings," Cassian sighed, leading the researcher to a chair. He placed a few meager-looking carrots and potatoes on the table in front of Lyra. "These just came out of the garden this morning."

"Oh, um, thank you," Lyra hesitantly picked up a carrot, her gaze darting between Cassian and the unappealing vegetables. A smirk tugged at Cassian's lips as he observed her determination. She was tougher than she looked if she was willing to eat his subpar crops for the sake of an interview.

Cassian took a seat across from Lyra, studying her intently. She met his gaze confidently, determined to get what she came for. The man let out a sigh, his voice tinged with exhaustion.

"I'll be honest," he said, "I'm too old to bother lying anymore. It's not worth the effort to keep everything straight when it's hard enough just trying to remember what actually happened."

She noted something down in her notepad, what she could possibly be writing already he hadn't the faintest idea, but he didn't question it. Academics could get cagy about their notebooks.

As he leaned back in his chair and gazed out the window, Cassian gathered his thoughts. "The story really starts ten years before you think it does," he began.

"Ten years before the Hell Gate?" Lyra asked.

He paused, his gaze turning to the pitiful garden outside - food that even if he harvested would be no different than the carrots and potatoes sitting uneaten on the table next to him. "I was a different man back then," he admitted. "Cocky, arrogant, cowardly...and yes, even thieving." He noticed Lyra's shock at that last word and wondered how she would handle the rest of his story.

"I never would have thought I'd end up here," he said in no more than a whisper.

"Alone, in the middle of nowhere?" Lyra offered.

Cassian shook his head. "No, alive."

"No, alive. In those days before the Hell Gate closed, we were all convinced the world was ending and there was no escape. The harder we fought against it, the sooner death came for us. So like everyone else, I acted like I had nothing left to live for."

He paused, lost in memories of that chaotic time. Lyra's pen hovered expectantly over her notebook. She had come seeking the real story behind the legendary hero, no matter how ugly it proved to be.

Cassian leaned forward, his voice low. "What I have to share is nothing like the fanciful tales you've heard growing up. Those stories were what people needed to hear, something to believe in to make it through another day. Stories we made up. What I remember, and this is in no way the true account of what happened, won't be what you expect. So here's your last chance to eat some of my fine food, talk about the weather for a bit, and then leave, forgetting all about this."

She didn't so much as blink.

He settled back in his chair, gazing distantly out the window once more as he prepared to delve into memories long buried.

"It started in the kingdom of Eldara, in a coastal village called Blackwater..."