1,000,000 Karma: My Reward Is a Quiet Life-Chapter 36: Hero’s End

In the eyes of the once beloved hero, the cave around him was the fields stretching beyond that small, precious town. The elf was a hostile spirit, made of twigs and leaves; a heinous monster that needed to be slain.

"Ruuuagh!" Thros let out, rushing forward, holding nothing in his grip but empty space.

Wind fired from the nimble elf; its sharpness grazed the top of the incoming warrior’s head, shredding the hood. What was veiled by the tattered cloth was a head of silver hair and a face scarred, but not wrinkled.

For the elf, it only occurred in his mind just then how old the tales of the gallant Thros were; decades, even nearing a century, yet the grayed man still possessed youth.

’For all these years, you’ve been isolating yourself...You’ve lost your mind, but there’s still a part of you–somewhere in there, the hero Thros is still there–that’s why you’ve been keeping yourself hidden!’ Otto connected, feeling a sharp tinge in his heart.

With quick pulls of the string, the projectiles of condensed wind fired, though only chased at the agile march of the warrior. It was like the delusional hero possessed a sixth sense; leaping, ducking, and weaving by the hissing gale.

’Can’t let him get close...!’ The thought was at the forefront of the archer’s mind.

He pulled the bowstring back all the way–the air gathered, spinning into a strengthened coalescence. With a sharp inhale, the hermit warrior arrived with his imposing form, holding his hands up together as if preparing to bring down a blade.

Past his lips, the breath left, and in tandem, the wind–

"Hrrhh!--"

A gasp was forced out of the berserker’s mouth as the hasty gale pushed him back harshly. It gave him the space he wanted, though the elf watched the man land on his feet with only light bruising and small cuts.

"—That won’t stop me, fiend!" Thros claimed, rushing forward with utter confidence.

Within a moment, their breaths were exchanged; the warrior’s clasped hands were swinging towards his head. There was merely a fraction of a second, only that much leeway for the bowstring to release—THWOOM.

It cast the berserker back, but as quickly as he was repelled, like a moth to a flame, Thros returned. Again, he intercepted the blind rush with another burst of wind, and again, the berserker’s pace resumed.

Absolutely, it was clear: in a battle of attrition, he was going to lose. With each strike of the repulsive air, the effect it had appeared to diminish. The slight faltering, delayed breaths, or bruising–it lessened.

’Why was it more effective before? I can’t even pierce his skin now,’ Otto observed.

While his mind raced, the fists of the persistent warrior closed in. He slid over the gravel as the air hissed by his ears, nearly avoiding death. With wild thumps, his heart rang, guiding him to draw his bow as quickly as possible and fire again–

Thros’ armed raised almost as if entirely predicting the archer’s counter, taking the blunt of the wild air. It only pushed the fallen hero back a couple meters, though in that moment, the young elf found his error.

’That’s it–such an obvious mistake...!’ Otto thought with utter clarity, exhaling in relief.

Sweat dribbled at his chin, his verdant eyes locked onto the one whose triumphs have been sung by bards. He sprinted with light feet, circling around while his enemy gave chase directly. The structure of the cave was inhabited by multiple, parted rocks serving as ledges, which he hopped to-and-from.

Right behind him, the hurried steps of the man might as well be by the thunderous stomps of a giant. He heard each of them, taking in a calming breath until his lungs were all he heard.

’I’ve been in a panic—because of how quick he is, I’ve been firing off wind as quickly as I can. Those first shots...they were effective because I was able to focus and sharpen them, imagining them in the shape of an arrow,’ the elf realized, taking a quick pivot.

Feigning as a fleeing hare, he swiftly turned, facing the berserker as he drew his bow once more. The living, breathing tall tale consumed his vision; he took in a breath, letting the air flow through each passage of his internal self.

To use even a second in the face of what may as well be a rampaging beast required him to steel his mind. The thought of death was set aside, only intense concentration. Everything else was placed elsewhere; the sharp stone beneath his knelt knee stabbing in, his bruised ribs aching with his exaggerated inhale, and his own doubt.

The wind swirled, gathering into a condensed point no larger than that of a coin, yet he focused it further, remembering the shape of an arrow down to the coarseness of its shaft. With heavy theatrics, the hero stomped his foot into the stone no more than inches from the elf, his hands raised as if prepared to cleave him in half with nothing but an imaginary sword, yet it was more real than iron.

Taught as an iron vice, the bowstring felt a moment from snapping; the wind breathed past his hair. It was a sign as any to him as he let the tip of his index finger slip away, unleashing it all–

The sound mimicked thunder, overlapped with a lightning bolt; while it was loud and jarring to one’s ears, it reached a point that it momentarily deafened all that heard it. The unseen arrow left no trail, only the result of its firing:

Standing there, the once great hero remained on his feet with an expression free of contempt, only an idle acceptance. Through the broad chest, a perfect hole was left, clear enough that the impaled wall behind was visible.

"...Haah..." Otto slowly breathed out as sweat fell from his chin.

Thros wobbled before wearing a refined smile, "Well done, young man."

It was only when the legend collapsed that the young elf finally unfroze, quickly moving over beside the once imposing figure. Despite the lethal wound, Thros laid there with a calm smile, looking towards something only a man in his position could see.

"As I fade...It would seem my mind has patched itself together, even if just for these last moments," Thros remarked with fleeting breaths. "I remember it all, though. Everything I did under that curse of madness, all the pain, the horrors I’ve inflicted." 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝙚𝙬𝓮𝙗𝒏𝙤𝒗𝙚𝙡.𝒄𝒐𝓶

"--" Otto sat there quietly, only listening.

"I’ve saved thousands, yet...taking even a single innocent life, it outweighs that all," Thros reprimanded himself, staring off. "I never did it for fame or tales, but I always thought...when I die, it would be nice to know I’ve left a legend. My legacy is tarnished."

"That’s not true," Otto intervened, leaning over as he spoke earnestly. "I look up to you–a lot of people do! I’ve heard of your tales in my travels, I’ve listened to bards sing!"

"That’s a kind lie, but my time was long ago," the dying hero smiled with a certain tinge of sadness to his lips.

"It’s true! Like when you defeated the twelve-headed serpent! Its venom was said to turn men into puddles, but it only made you drunk!" Otto recalled.

Somehow a laugh was drawn from the transient man who laid in a pool of his own crimson substance, "Hah! I remember that day...how long ago was it now? I don’t remember. Everything is...foggy."

By the way the gallant man’s words trailed, Otto could tell "that" time was coming. While a part of him felt undeserving to be in the legend’s presence at the end, there was nobody else–and someone had to observe it.

["I was in a long, long dream. I dreamt longer than I lived. Was it years? Decades? I wandered in that mist, looking for the way out."]

//Through hollow woods where not even the life of insects persisted, he had walked. Never more than but a few strides could he ever see around him, for the eternal fog obscured his way. Every now and then, screams echoed and guilt followed, though he never understood it. It was the ultimate loneliness, he imagined, sometimes praying that he’d encounter even an ant; anything else that bore life.

Yet, he found himself the only being in that lonely fog, ever walking, until he awoke to his end.//