The Hero

Chapter 20

The Champion placed his gauntlets on the doors. Blood from all those he had slain glued the two together, but when he pushed them open, he was able to pull his gauntlets away with immense force. He didn't even bother taking a step forward, for he could see his opposition clearly.

"You've come at quite the dark hour," the man on the throne declared. He had his hands placed on the throne's arms, still in his royal garbs. The darkness was enough to keep him hidden, but there were still faint streaks of moonlight to illuminate parts of him as well as making his golden rings gleam.

"Grivdon," the Champion identified him, then shook his head. "I've begun to like you. A true shame all of you are traitors at the end of the day."

"You know, Champ, you're not meant for the throne."

The Champion stopped in his tracks, only managing to take a few steps or so into the room.

"No, you're definitely not," Grivdon continued. "You're not here to stabilize a kingdom or attend to domestic problems, even foreign." He pointed at himself. "I am. I am destined to be the king. Not you, not anybody else. When the former king died," he chuckled, "which by the way, I know you were responsible for that. How obvious could it be?"

As Grivdon laughed, the Champion clenched his gauntlet. Now surely, he would have to kill this fool. His secret couldn't be exposed. There was no way—

"You're the brawn of this kingdom, Champ," Grivdon interrupted his thoughts. "You kill people. You deal with whatever stands in my path. While I'm reconstructing this kingdom at the very core and developing a flourishing economy, you are there to make sure it happens. No opposition, no traitors, no one at all that would dare even speak against my plans."

"You call me stupid, then?" the Champion asked, then grimaced as he let his sword slide down to his side. "You have the sheer courage to say right to my face that I'm brainless? Is that it?"

"Brawn is perfectly fine, if there's a proper brain to guide them," Grivdon remarked. Of course, cowards weaved around the point. It was still null. He would still die.

"Get. Off. My. Throne," the Champion spelled out, stopping twenty or so feet away from where Grivdon was comfortably seated.

The man's hesitation was clear from the long, awkward moment of silence that ensued. Finally, he shrugged.

"It's mine; I'm so terribly sorry," he replied, like it couldn't be helped. Like he was the rightful king. Like the Champion was just filth on the floor to be stepped on and ignored.

But he wasn't. He wouldn't be ignored. If anybody looked away from him, whistling and uncaring for his presence, he would make amends: snap their face into focus and make them stare into his visor. For them to see his true self. And then, they would die.

"I wish not to stain my throne, so stand down and I'll make it swift," the Champion requested, though he never made his kills quick. He made them befitting of what traitors deserved: so long and slow that they writhe on the ground helplessly. They watch as the pain becomes so unbearable, so utterly decimating to their soul and mind alike, until they flop on the ground. Dead. Useless. Forgotten.

"I would prefer to die here, I'm afraid," Grivdon remarked carelessly. Despite knowing he was a goner, he remained frozen on the throne.

My throne is mine only.

The Champion plunged his sword into the ground as he stalked over to the throne, his gauntlets clenched and ready.

This kingdom will transcend to pure perfection at my will and resolve.