Chapter 19: The Hero’s First Day

War, and then miracles.

Ash and dust scattered into the air alongside acrid smoke. Throughout nearly ten years of war, the Empire had lost so much. This place, which had become the new center of the conflict after the collapse of the third defensive line, was a full week’s hard ride from the capital.

Ilya lit a thin cigarette and took a long, deep drag.

“Too many people have died.”

The cigarette, lit from the same fire used to burn piles of corpses contaminated by demonic energy, tasted bitter. A mere brush with that energy caused black, burn-like inflammations to spread from the wound across the entire body. Once the rot covered a person, they could no longer be called human.

Those things—dripping black fluid, their outer skin entirely sloughed off—well, it was impossible to call them allies anymore. Having lost both form and reason, they attacked any life form indiscriminately.

They wanted to cremate them individually to return at least their ashes to their families, but because the only way to stop them was to crush their heads, intact corpses were a rarity. Even trying to identify them through the unique resonance of their mana was impossible; the demonic corruption devoured the mana and took its place.

Even if a face remained, it was usually melted into a black, unrecognizable mess. The identification tags tucked into their combat boots had long since rusted away under the influence of the miasma, losing their purpose.

They were all people who had joined the war praying for a miracle.

The once-prosperous Empire had withered during the long struggle. People who had lived their entire lives in peace and security now faced poverty, hunger, and cold, causing public sentiment to turn sour and vicious. As defense lines crumbled and territories fell, survivors crowded into the remaining provinces. Rivers ran foul with rot, and in the fields where life once breathed, only crows now circled in search of prey.

Original residents grew wary of refugees. Water and food were desperately scarce, and plagues arrived constantly via the tainted land and water. The war was eating away not just at bodies, but at spirits. It had become a world where excluding and hating one another was only natural. Perhaps, this was simply human nature revealed.

Ilya stood smoking until the flames died down and everything was reduced to ash. Claire offered a silent prayer, hoping only that they would return to the Goddess’s embrace.

Then, the young Hero arrived.

News of the oracle and the Hero’s birth had been known for years. Everyone had resented the Emperor for not sending him sooner. While the continent was ravaged by war, the Imperial Palace always seemed to overflow with plenty. People wondered if the Hero had simply become a creature of the greedy Emperor—perhaps he was a man who loathed the idea of sacrifice or dreaded the battlefield.

Only a few soldiers and Zeimer had met the Hero personally. The soldiers described him as small, young, and quiet. Zeimer simply called him a soft, useless, stupid brat, warning everyone not to expect anything from him.

Knowing Zeimer’s distrust of the Goddess reached the heavens, some wondered if his words were fueled by spite, yet Zeimer wasn’t usually one to let personal bias cloud his judgment of capability. Everyone wondered: Does the Goddess truly believe an ignorant child can end this war?

The moment they first saw the Hero, however, everyone shared the same thought:

“Finally, salvation has come.”

The surroundings fell silent. It felt as if even the wind had stopped. The foul stench and the gloomy, ferocious atmosphere seemed to be instantly tinted with the soft warmth of spring.

Felix, the Supreme Commander of the war, immediately guided the Hero to the barracks. Anyone could see the boy was haggard, as if he had ridden without rest. Perhaps Zeimer was right in one sense—to ride such a vast distance without a single day’s break was the act of a “stupid brat” who didn’t know how to pace himself.

The terrible smell of burning corpses wafted through the air, and wild animals tainted by demonic energy gathered nearby, lured by the scent. They were repelled upon hitting the divine barriers, but their presence remained a threat.

Ilya watched them apathetically. Claire was using his sword to stomp out remaining embers and sort through bone fragments. Somewhere in that pile of bone was Grand Duke Gladio, the former Knight Commander and Claire’s mentor. He had fought on the front lines, desperate to hold the third defense line for even a second longer.

Despite being one of the Empire’s greatest swordsmen, she too had succumbed to the swarming attacks of demonic spirits and turned into a monster.

“Claire, the Hero is finally here.”

“Yeah.”

“The fact that he’s here now… the high command must think the monsters are about to reach the capital.”

“Right. It makes no sense to send him only now otherwise.”

“He looks young.”

Ilya sat heavily beside Claire, donning thick cloth gloves to sift through the ashes. He could feel the heat, not yet cooled, through the fabric. This was a task they did themselves rather than assigning to common soldiers, both for morale and as a final gesture of respect to those whose names would never grace a history book.

On the Hero’s back was strapped Piedm, the holy sword of the Goddess. It seemed the Temple had finally released it.

Claire moved the bone fragments—already beginning to dissolve—into a jar. He offered a solemn prayer and sealed the lid tightly. Those blackened, decaying shards would surely haunt his dreams tonight.

As Ilya and Claire headed toward the barracks with the jars, they stopped when they saw the Hero emerging from Felix’s tent.

“The war has delayed our greetings. Hello, Hero. I am Ilya Pegasion of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.”

“Hello. I am Claire Silentium, Commander of the 1st Knights.”

The Hero’s eyes widened slightly in surprise. His somewhat dazed, hollow gaze was quite different from their first impression. It was almost enough to make one doubt if he really was the Hero.

“Hello. I am… Ian, the Hero. I have no surname.”

Sensing the gathering, Zeimer approached from somewhere.

“The stupid Hero is finally here.”

The Hero blinked, unfazed. He seemed entirely indifferent to the insult.

“Hello, Archmage.”

The Hero bowed his head politely. Zeimer let out a dry, incredulous laugh. Still a total airhead, this one.

“I smell death.”

The Hero turned back to Claire and Ilya, either ignoring or failing to hear Zeimer’s muttering. His voice, though he had just arrived at the front, was flat and sounded worn down to the bone.

Today had been a day of battle. The monsters that pushed forward relentlessly could not be handled without sacrifice. Those born of demonic energy inhabiting natural bodies were manageable; the real danger were the “Demonic Spirits”—beings formed when the energy corrupted pure mana.

Mana, the fundamental substance of the world, was always present in the atmosphere. It was absorbed by organic matter, bounced back, or drifted in the air. Mana that drifted for a long time eventually increased in density until it was reborn as small spirits.

When these spirits began to be tainted by demonic energy, the tide of the war shifted drastically, as if a calamity had descended. The war, which they thought involved only culling mindless wild beasts, had spiraled into a gargantuan disaster with no end in sight.

Spirits possessed accumulated mana, power, and ancient wisdom. When they turned into Demonic Spirits, they were reborn as lethal entities. Ultimately, it was these spirits that claimed the most Imperial lives.

Hearing Ian’s words, Claire looked down at his hands. How many had he killed today? He had likely executed more infected soldiers than he had slain monsters.

Even in the heat of battle, he had been forced to rush to the other side when he saw Grand Duke Gladio beginning to turn. They had made a promise when the war began.

Claire was the only swordsman capable of killing the Grand Duke. She had wanted to die as a knight until the very end—not as a pile of ash created by magic, but by a blade in fair combat, even if it was a dishonorable end.

Though every hand was needed elsewhere, Claire had deployed a wide mana shield as a temporary measure and sprinted toward her.

Before Zeimer could snap his fingers to crush her with mana, Claire succeeded in beheading the Grand Duke. In that final split second, her mentor’s eyes had surprisingly retained a spark of her old self. Claire pushed himself harder, knowing he had to remember that gaze, no matter how painful.

The battles were always desperate. Ian looked up at Claire with clear, steady eyes.

Claire led Ian to where the jars were stacked—a makeshift barracks barely covered by tattered cloth. It was an unfitting first stop for a Hero.

“These are remains. Occupied by demonic energy, they will soon rot into a black, viscous ash. Once the wounded are treated, priests will purify them. It is the last thing we can do for them.”

The Hero stepped inside. He offered a brief silent prayer before unhesitatingly opening a jar that had begun to emit a foul odor. Inside, bone fragments—half-melted and tangled together—floated in a viscous sludge. High-density demonic energy and putrid gases drifted out.

Ian watched the escaping miasma silently. Ilya watched him anxiously, while Claire struggled to maintain a calm facade.

Ian reached his hand into the air, as if trying to catch the demonic energy. A violet divine light sparkled from his fingertips, instantly filling the tattered tent with crisp, refreshing air. Then, he turned his gaze back to the jar.

“May I touch it?”

He asked for permission, but his hand was already descending into the jar. One by one, the Hero opened all the unpurified jars and prayed for their souls. When the priests purified them, the remains simply turned into white ash-water, but under the Hero’s touch, they transformed into a transparent liquid with a faint violet glow, like holy water.

It took a group of priests half a day of agonizing effort to purify a single jar. But the Hero, true to his title, purified over ten jars in just thirty minutes.

“Everyone has returned to the Goddess’s embrace.”

The Hero’s eyes shimmered as he looked into the distance. Whether they sparkled with divine power or tears, no one could tell.

The Hero’s first day on the battlefield was a day of atonement.