The alley stank of rot and spilled ale. Rubbish piled high against damp stone walls, the scent of decay hanging in the air like a curse. Beyond the narrow passageway, life carried on—boots striking cobblestones, merchants barking their prices, laughter, and drunken songs of soldiers long past their shift.
But here, in the filth, sat a man.
His hair, long and unkempt, curtained his face in greasy strands. Dirt smeared his clothes, torn at the seams, and in his hand sloshed a bottle of cheap booze that had lost its fire long ago. He stared at the ground where a shattered mirror lay, catching faint reflections of torchlight from the bustling street beyond.
A jagged piece of glass showed him his own eye—bloodshot, hollow, empty.
Something twisted in him. His chest heaved, a tremor shaking his fingers. With a grunt, he lashed out, kicking the shards into splinters, the bottle clattering after them. Then, with stiff limbs and a sway in his step, he pulled himself to his feet.
He walked.
The streets opened before him, alive with the press of bodies. Humans hurried with baskets of fruit and cloth, dwarves shouted from forges that burned late into the night, elves moved with graceful precision through the crowd, while hulking orcs carried crates on their broad shoulders. A city of many races, bound together by ages of shared history, the air alive with voices and motion.
The man's steps dragged, his gaze unfocused, until a boy's shrill cry cut through the din.
"Extra! Extra! The Demon King's army marches on another city!"
The boy waved a crumpled newspaper, darting between carriages and wagons. His voice cracked, but the words carried. A ripple passed through the crowd as townsfolk snatched copies from his hands. Fear darkened their faces as they read.
Murmurs swelled like an undertow.
"Didn't the kingdom announce a hero?"
"Where is he now?"
"They said he was chosen by the gods…"
"Why hasn't he stopped them yet?"
The man heard it all, every whispered word pressing into him like knives. The title—Hero—hung in the air, burning against the night, and the weight of it dragged at his shoulders.
He pulled his hair further across his face, willing himself invisible, and pressed deeper into the crowd. But his unsteady step betrayed him. His shoulder struck another man passing by, and the impact sent him sprawling to the ground.
The bottle clattered away. His hair fell back. His face was bare to the world.
Sunken cheeks. Eyes dulled by time and drink. A jaw once proud, now rough with neglect.
"C'mon, man, watch where you—" the stranger began angrily, then froze. His words faltered.
He looked closer.
On the tavern wall nearby, an old poster still clung to the stone, edges curling with age. The image was faded, but clear enough: a young man, strong and noble, sword raised high as though to part the heavens themselves. Beneath, in bold letters:
HERO.
The passerby's eyes darted between the poster and the fallen man before him. His voice cracked.
"W-wait… aren't you… the Hero?"
The words struck like a bell.
The crowd went still. One by one, heads turned, conversations died, and the murmur rose again—no longer doubtful, but full of shock.
"It's him…"
"The Hero?"
"After all this time…"
Every gaze fell upon him—human, elf, dwarf, orc—all staring with disbelief, awe, and something deeper.
The man—the Hero—swallowed hard, his hands trembling as he struggled to rise. The weight of their eyes pressed upon him heavier than any armor he had ever borne.
And for the first time in years, his name filled the streets.
Hero.