The Hero

Chapter 17

Battles were always two forces pushing against another until simply one was run over or gave up. Either by tactical maneuvers or sheer brute strength. Then again, there were also slaughters. In battles, soldiers run forth and do what they were told to do: die. Fight and die for the sake of glory and any other motivations they may possess. In slaughters, soldiers run forth and also die. Yet, they die for no reason. Their cause is worthless, for they accomplish nothing in the end.

The Champion scanned the room around him and saw exactly that: a slaughter at his own hands. It was the sheer decisive ability of Good used properly against Evil. Whatever few bandits remained standing—who were continuously backing away from him—would soon join the rest on the floor. Corpses everywhere. A bloody massacre.

No survivors, or this will all be for naught!

Flashing a grin, the Champion plunged his right gauntlet into the ground and pushed himself forward with immense strength. Sword raised above him, he landed on a few unlucky bandits to tear apart their heads. Those nearby were immediately devoured by his thirsty gauntlet that was soaked in blood of the enemy it had just eaten moments ago. By now, it was its own thing with its own mind.

Uncontrollable, unstoppable, yet it was still a potent ally. He didn't mind it at all.

While he was finishing off the bandits trapped against the wall, the rest scrambled and ran. His right gauntlet desperately tried to lunge at them, but it could only stretch so far.

More, more! Finish them!

The Champion darted his gaze to where the bandits were running and prepared for a grand chase of massive thrill; however, before he could pounce or even begin to move, a certain sound echoed in the large room. Distracted, he cocked his helmet to where it was coming from: the top of the stairs. The sound was faint and barely detectable. Though, after listening intently, he could make out a word:

Oderian.

Dumbfounded on why anybody would say that—or even know about it—he looked at the bloody mess around him. He wasn't sure of what to do or think. All the while, his prey ran from his clutches, and he wouldn't be able to kill them.

After them! After—

"Shimmer?" the Champion murmured, slowly trudging toward the stairs, where plenty of bandits lay at the base. "Could it be her?"

With the voice now silent, the Champion recklessly stepped into whatever bodies blocked his path until reaching his destination. One glance upward spelled out the sheer taunting nature of the staircase. It led to the unknown, a place he had no idea what could be there. A place he truly feared with all his heart, but fear had no place inside of him. Not now, not ever.

He climbed up the staircase, a trail of blood—black and red—forming behind him. His right gauntlet clawed onto the railing in a way that it dented the gold material. Through it all, his gaze never left what was straight ahead of him. The voice increased each time in a way that made him more curious, even anxious. Something was building inside of him he didn't really understand, yet it was rather the fact he had no care in the world for it.

At the top, a wide hallway stretched out before him in an almost endless manner. The voice bounced all the way over to him, this time loud and sweetly beckoning him:

Oderian.

The Champion followed the source as if it had a strong aroma belonging to that of a flower. He could not stop picturing an open field under the ruling of the sun and a clear, blue sky. Door after door, he waited for the right one. The relentless, strong scent was growing more and more powerful. It was impossible to resist by now.