The Lonely Hero

In a forgotten corner of the world, nestled in the shadow of jagged mountains, a lone village clung to existence. This was the birthplace of Eryon, a boy who had lived his entire life as an outsider. His parents had died when he was but five, leaving him with nothing but an empty home and a heart that had never learned how to connect with others.

The villagers spoke of Eryon’s peculiar silence, not with malice, but with curiosity. To them, he was quiet and withdrawn, a boy with a sadness in his eyes. Yet, no one dared to intrude on his solitude. Offers of companionship were met with averted gazes and mumbled replies, leaving the villagers unsure how to reach him. To Eryon, every kind word felt like pity, every glance like judgment. His isolation was not born of cruelty but of walls he’d built himself.

One fateful evening, a blight swept through the land, bringing the demon king, Maltheron, to power. His dark magic poisoned rivers, blackened fields, and unleashed horrors upon the realm. When the demon king abducted the princess—the last hope of a unified resistance—no champion rose to the challenge. No one but Eryon.

Driven by a sense of duty he didn’t fully understand, Eryon left the village with nothing but a rusty sword and a heart pounding with dread.

Eryon’s adventure was unlike the stories of heroic epics. He avoided towns and settlements, unable to bear the thought of asking for help. The mere prospect of speaking to strangers left his stomach in knots and his chest tight.

He saw bustling marketplaces from afar, heard the laughter of adventurers in taverns, and passed homes where warm fires glowed through windows. But to Eryon, every smile, every conversation, was a reminder of his inability to belong. He convinced himself that no one would understand, that any attempt at connection would end in failure. The loneliness wasn’t inflicted upon him; he carried it within, feeding it with every step.

Instead, he scavenged and hunted, stitching crude armor from animal hides and fashioning weapons from branches and stones. The nights were the hardest. He slept fitfully beneath the stars, haunted by dreams of the village and a gnawing loneliness that made the wilderness feel endless.

He encountered people in need—farmers besieged by bandits, travelers caught in magical storms—but each time, his feet froze, and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Guilt followed him like a shadow. He told himself they would be better off without him, that his help would only make things worse.

After months of solitude and hardship, Eryon reached the demon king’s fortress—a monolithic structure of obsidian and fire. Inside, he found the throne room where Maltheron awaited, shrouded in an aura of darkness that seemed to pulse with malevolence.

The princess, bound and weary, watched from a corner. Her eyes pleaded for rescue, but Eryon couldn’t meet them. His heart raced, and his hands trembled as he faced the demon king.

But instead of attacking, Maltheron paused. His piercing eyes softened as he observed Eryon.

Eryon hesitated, but in the void of his heart, he found no alternative. For the first time, someone understood him—not in a superficial, fleeting way, but wholly.

He dropped his sword.

Together, the hero and the demon king unleashed devastation. Kingdoms fell, and humanity was wiped from existence. The princess perished with the rest, her pleas unheard by a hero who had given up on saving anyone but himself.

In the years that followed, Eryon and Maltheron lived as the last beings in a silent world. They shared stories, laughed, and mourned their pasts together. For the first time, neither felt alone.

When their time came, they died side by side, leaving behind a barren planet.

Thus ended the tale of the lonely hero, the demon king, and humanity itself—a bittersweet tragedy of connection found too late.