Countless heroic tales say the same thing.
That if you have the will, the courage, and the strength to protect them, you can become a hero.
A "hero," they say. This was a world where heroes could not exist.
In reality, the children here never spoke of heroic legends. It was a world where people lived only to be grateful for surviving another day, for scraping together a meager living while avoiding the constant shadow of death.
I lay flat on the ground, staring up at the vast expanse of the sky.
The sky was stained a dismal hue, looking so bleak it seemed ready to exhale a ragged, dying breath at any moment. Even that sight was mostly obscured by drifting smoke.
I still don't know what sin I committed to be dropped into a hellhole like this.
I've never killed anyone, nor have I stolen from others. It's a bit embarrassing to say it myself, but I've lived a life where I've done more good than evil.
The question "Why?" rises up my throat, only to be swallowed back down. Now that I'm already here, there's no point in hating or blaming anyone; it won't change my reality.
I held up a translucent black stone. As the light hit it, a faint glow of orange and black shimmered over me.
A shard of Originium.
Normally, people would loathe and shrink away from such a thing, but I was fiddling with it, tossing it in one hand like a ball.
I wondered why this was considered so important—important enough to beat a child just to snatch it away.
It's dangerous, yet more than anything else, it's a source of absolute power. A versatile, deadly stone.
After lost in thought for a while, I finally stood up. I still had things to do if I wanted to survive through the day.
I shoved the black stone, emitting its ominous light, deep into my pocket.