What does it mean to be a hero, exactly?

 

Not in the personal, small scale, local context of heroism, as would be attributed to a father, by a wide-eyed child. Not as would be associated with a brave person, running into danger to save others in spite of the risk to their own lives.

 

No, a ‘hero’, as in a hero — a true hero. True heroes, or ‘summoned heroes’ are rare souls that are called every few generations in order to bring about the end of some great crisis that looms heavy over the world. Sometimes the crisis is a rampage of monsters, a wild-hunt that is led by witches on the prowl; other times it is a great destruction, led by a terrible beast known as a Demon-King; and other times it is something wildly different. Each crisis is, in and of itself, unique. All of them have only the similarity that they will lead to, intended or not, the end of the world if they are not stopped.

 

And while oftentimes humanity is left to its own devices in its attempts to end these crises, other times it is said that the heavens themselves intervene. They choose a soul, sometimes plucking it from a place distant and far away — other worlds — and bring it here to this one.

 

So what exactly does that mean?

 

It means that a person who has nothing at all to do with a situation is foisted with the responsibility of saving an entire world to which they maybe even don’t belong. It means risking life, limb, soul, and heart in the pursuit of this quest. Why do they do this?

 

The reasons are many.

 

Some do it out of the goodness of their souls. Some do it because, during their journeys, they find people who they connect with, whom they learn to cherish and desire to protect. Some do it because they seek power and glory. The reasons for a person doing what they do, in any context, are too complicated to really be able to be listed in their entirety.

 

So this person arrives, they receive a task, they figure out a reason why they would want to do this task, and then, for better or worse, they do it. The world is saved. The great evil is vanquished, everybody claps once, and you get some money and a few free drinks, and… that’s it.

 

It’s not that this person would want more as a reward; being a hero is a deeper problem than that.

 

An artist will never know when their great masterpiece will be created. It could be today, tomorrow, or a year from now. There is always a continual glimpse of prospects for the future.

 

But what happens when you achieve your greatest possible goal, when you surmount the tallest mountain in the world and are left standing on the other side, wanting not another reward but another god-damned mountain to climb because now you are without purpose? What thrill is life exactly supposed to offer you at that point?

 

There’s nothing that can compare to the great hunt. No wild dragon, no ancient mythical beast, no rampaging army of an enemy nation could ever compare to the raw power, the primality, and the pureness of hunting the Demon-Queen.

 

The arena rumbles, the seats shaking from the movement of the colosseum as it rearranges itself, shaking from the roar of the crowd. The dungeon is packed to the brim today, far fuller than it ever was. The seating area is beyond full, with people standing everywhere there isn’t a seat, pressing past one another by the thousands to be in on the show.

 

To say that today has been an anticipated spectacle is an understatement. Messengers were sent all around the region in swarms of hundreds, which was a real problem. It took a while to convince the guards of the many cities, castles, and villages that they weren’t being raided by an undead horde and were instead being cordially invited to what promises to be one of the greatest shows of the century. Although, despite the act that the skeletons wore clothes this time instead of being naked, as it were, the Holy-Church did not appreciate their presence in the bishop’s private chambers.

 

It was a bit of a diplomatic incident there for a few days.

 

 

 

 

The champions of the arena stream in through the open gates to an applause so loud that the stones of the deep-world rumble and the distinctness of their voices becomes entirely lost in the loud, singular drone. Every single gladiator that Munera has on stock is on their way out to the arena and spreading out in many directions as they’ve formed little teams of their own in preparation for the event.

 

From the main entrance, a skeleton blows a horn, declaring the entrance of another, much larger group of skeletons with even more trumpets. They all begin blowing their instruments at once as a light glows behind them in the gateway.

 

A dozen vestal priestesses of the Holy-Church, the surprisingly willing sponsors of this event, march beneath the banner of their faith. Champions of the order, paladins of secret, ancient ranks, press forward in accompaniment of them, marching on either side of a long, golden container that is lined with jewels and ornaments enough to catch a king’s envy. Inside the casket that they carry are the bones of the long dead hero, Pravyen.

 

— He doesn’t actually know that he’s in today’s fight. But Munera assumes that heroes are quick on the uptake. It’ll probably be fine.

 

The dungeon-core looks over to the private seating arrangements, in which ranking members of the Holy-Church are sitting, watching the spectacle closely.

 

They carry the casket to the altar in the center of the arena, setting it down there. The holy people undergo some rituals and some-such that Munera doesn’t really pay much attention to as it looks at the feverish crowd instead. There’s a fire in their eyes that it likes.

 

Even the champions, many of whom are still rather ungrateful for… you know… being alive and all, seem unusually keen today.

 

— Now that Munera stops and thinks about it, not a single one of them has ever said ‘thank you’ to it for returning them from the dead, which is really shameless when you think about it. It supposes humans and their ilk are just like that.

 

Oh well.

 

It looks back at the hero’s body. The people of the church have finished their sacraments. They return down the steps of the pedestal and through the monumented archways that Munera designed to look appropriately fitting.

 

The skeletons blare their trumpets again as the members of the church leave. The gate closes, sealing in all of the contestants for today’s game.

 

Ah! It’s so exciting! Watching everyone fight these last few weeks has been so exciting! But this is something new, something… bigger.

 

There’s so much energy, so much fire, and so much excitement in the eyes of everyone here! It’s intoxicating, the stars themselves must be envious of the sights held down here below the world, hidden from their prying gazes.

 

This is the kind of stuff it was looking for.

 

Munera looks at the corpse on the altar, pressing its energies into the ancient bones, which are absolutely flooding the arena with ambient magic just because of their presence here. There’s such an overabundance of it, flowing in all directions, that the ground seems to be covered with a fresh fog. Crackles and sparks fill the air, as mild ignitions begin to take place as it presses its own energy toward the bones, its unseen tendrils worming through the gaps in the magical pressure until it gently finds itself touching an old, dusted skull.

 

The bones rattle, the temple shaking as something snaps in the delicate threads that hold souls and the spirit-world itself together, Munera’s power of true-resurrection fully destroying the fabric of the natural cycle of death and rebirth as it drags the soul that it needs back into this old body, from wherever it is now.

 

The gladiators ready themselves on the edge of the arena, standing at the edges of the walls in their groups, just waiting for the signal.

 

Flesh regrows on the corpse, and sinew, bindings, and meat pull the bones together that leak from the fresh marrow that begins to drip out of their cracked exteriors, which then mend closed.

 

Yes… yes! It’s working!

 

A horn blows. The signal is given. The gladiators begin their charge as the arena itself just barely sustains itself under the pressure of the many feverishly intense souls inside of it today.

 

Meat regenerates, skin regenerates, and eyes regenerate.

 

The body is almost fully restored! It’s a success! A hero! A true hero! What a show this is going to be!

 

— Breasts regenerate.

 

…Huh?

 

The legs on the body crack, the shins and the feet twisting and gnarling like the roots of an old forest as they form an unnatural tip. The arms bend and stretch out, breaking again and again as the fingers warp into sharp, elongated clawed things. The flesh of the torso wraps itself around the bones and grows flush with glowingly smooth, off-gray skin that verges toward an unseen shade of green.

 

The cheers around the arena change, turning into confused muttering and speculation, the sound broken only by a single skeleton who didn’t get the message that it should stop playing the trumpet now. It stands there at the gate, honking away, as the resurrected woman sits upright and opens her poisonously green eyes for the first time in a century.

 

The Demon-Queen.

 

…Oops…

 

Munera realizes its mistake. It presented the Holy-Church with the wrong bones by accident. It meant to give them the hero’s bones, but it gave them the other ones it bought yesterday from some very interesting people by mistake. You think they at least would have noticed that they were the wrong ones?

 

Oh well, it doesn’t feel like it should take the whole blame for this incident, then. It’s fine. This can be fixed.

 

A second has passed. A hundred clueless champions approach in a rush, all eager to strike while their opponent is unsuspecting and unaware of their surroundings. It’s a brutally simple plan to beat a more powerful opponent — strike fast and first.

 

In an instant, as nearly a hundred pairs of boots reach the steps of the altar, something drastically changes within the dungeon that Munera can’t quite understand as it watches it happen.

 

That being the dungeon isn’t quite the same without a ceiling.

 

The dungeon-core stares up at the massive chunks of rock blasting away toward the sky. A mountain’s worth of scorched layers of stone and debris are sent hurtling toward the heavens above by a wave of incomprehensible energy. The night sky, as black as it usually is, has become tinged with an aurora that weaves through the air like a serpent, wrapping itself around the world. The stars shine through its glow, having found a way to watch the games in the end.

 

After all of this time, only another second has passed.

 

The arena explodes with venom and screams as one-hundred bodies are skewered in an instant, the contestants melting, breaking down, and screaming as their bodies begin to transform into strange, insectoid monstrosities. Two sharp legs step down onto the stones of the altar.

 

Munera turns its gaze, looking over at the guests from the Holy-Church.

 

…They do seem to be very excited, but not in a good way…

 

A lone trumpet continues to toot off in the distance, somehow overpowering the collective screams of the world.