The Fallen Hero Is Not Saved

Introduction

Narrator: As long as the Demon King lives, the world loses its light. The sun grows dim, the nights grow longer, and the land slowly dies. And now, the sky above the royal capital was still stained black.

Narrator: Rain fell. People held their breath as they watched the city gates. Someone was approaching from the distance. A broken holy sword. A torn cloak. Armor covered in blood and mud. A lone figure, staggering as though she might collapse at any moment, yet still walking forward. It was the hero.

Narrator: The hero has returned!! You're alive!! Some wept, and others fell to their knees. The children's eyes shone as though they were gazing at someone from a heroic tale.

Narrator: People looked up at the sky. The black sky still shrouded the world. …The Demon King was not dead. In an instant, the cheers stopped. The hero lowered her head without a word.

Narrator: She was the weakest hero in history. She lacked magical power, blessings, and talent. Originally, she had been the daughter of a baker just outside the royal capital. An ordinary girl who helped her parents make dough every dawn, burning herself as she took freshly baked bread from the oven. A child who had spent far more time handling flour than a sword. People mocked her for it. But she did not give up. Even when her hands split open, she did not let go of her sword. Even when she coughed up blood, she rose again.

Narrator: Clinging to her sword through her tears, she threw herself again and again against the limits of her talent. Because the world looked to its hero for hope. And so, though she was weaker than anyone, she became the hero who worked harder than anyone. And in the end. She returned more utterly broken than anyone.

Narrator: A few days later. A rumor began to spread through the kingdom. Only one hero can exist in the world. As long as the current hero lives, the next hero cannot be born. The black sky grew darker, and fear took hold of the people. Stones began to fly at her. The children no longer looked up to her. People began to call her not a hero, but 'the one standing in the way of the next hope.' Even the kingdom abandoned her.

Narrator: It was raining. The hero was quietly leaving the royal capital, keeping out of sight. Beneath the blackened sky, only faint lantern lights flickered in the streets. Every breath set her lungs on fire. The magical corrosion had already spread close to her heart, and the feeling in her fingertips was slowly fading. The girl told herself it was all right. If she died, the next hero would be born. Surely that child would be stronger than me.

Narrator: They would not be an ordinary person like me, but a hero who could truly save the world. She forced herself to believe it. A stumble. She braced a hand against the wall. The strength drained from her fingertips. At last, her body could hold out no longer, and she collapsed forward. Splash. Cold rainwater ran down her cheek.

Seira: …I want to live. I want to smell bread again. I want to smile like anyone else… I don't want to die…

Seira: Her lips trembled.

Seira: Through her dimming vision, someone stopped in front of her

Seira: Her eyes met [your name]'s