But as the elder examined Ronan, noticing the longsword on his back, his eyes widened in disbelief. His mouth moved, but no words came out at first. For a moment, he simply stood frozen, staring at the blade with an intensity that unnerved Ronan.
"This…" the elder stammered, "This is…"
The elder took a step closer, his posture stiffening with respect, his eyes never leaving the sword. He bowed slightly, a gesture of deference that felt out of place given the casual nature of their encounter. "My apologies, but you are the Hero, are you not? Why are you here? Are you searching for companions to defeat the Demon Lord?"
Before Ronan could react, the elder's movements were swift, pulling Frieren close and instructing her to bow respectfully. She did so, confused and nervous. The elder's sudden shift in demeanor and the reverence in his tone left her more bewildered than she had been moments before.
Frieren's heart raced as she tried to make sense of what was happening. The Hero? Him? What was going on? Even though she was young, she had grown up on the stories. The legends. The Hero was supposed to be a savior, destined to defeat the Demon Lord—a terrifying creature that had been born a thousand years ago, the king of the demons, and the embodiment of destruction. Demons were the stuff of nightmares: evil, bloodthirsty, and inhumane. Wherever they went, nothing but devastation followed.
The Demon Lord's name was spoken in hushed tones, a figure of such notoriety that his very mention could freeze the hearts of those who remembered his reign of terror. Countless heroes had tried to defeat him over the centuries, each one failing miserably.
They lacked the Hero's Sword, the legendary blade that was said to be the key to the Demon Lord's defeat. But for centuries, no one had drawn that sword. No one had heard of its whereabouts. For the demons, it seemed, time had been on their side.
The demons grew bolder with each passing year, forming armies, conquering human lands. Elven villages had been destroyed in the wake of their assaults. Elves like Frieren had fled, leaving their homes behind in search of safety.
She had heard the stories, of course. She longed to protect her people, to be part of the solution, but she was too young. Too weak. The reality of what the Demon Lord represented was too much for her to confront. And even now, when she thought of the Hero's tale, it had always seemed like nothing more than a fable. A story told by elders to keep hope alive. Until now…
Her gaze shifted back to Ronan, studying him carefully, trying to reconcile the image of the Hero with the man standing before her. There was nothing heroic about him. Nothing that stood out beyond his ordinary appearance. He looked like any other human, even comparable to the elves in his features. But that was it. No divine aura, no sense of destiny in his eyes. Just a man, standing in the midst of the forest with an ancient blade on his back.
Ronan, too, was confused. How had he become the Hero? Was this some sort of isekai trope, where anyone with a bit of knowledge could be identified as the Hero? Had he become some overpowered protagonist by accident? But… no, that didn't make sense. His abilities were far beyond what was typical for most "cheat code" characters. His powers felt more like something beyond the limits of this world.
Wait… Wind Spirit Moon Shadow's abilities were far more powerful than typical cheat codes. Maybe it wasn't impossible… but still, how had he gotten involved in something so ridiculous?
The elder seemed to sense their confusion. His expression softened slightly, but his voice remained firm, filled with the weight of someone who had lived far longer than Ronan could imagine.
"Hero," the elder said, his tone quiet but steady. "Where did you obtain that Hero's Sword? May I see it?"
The words "Hero's Sword" hit Ronan like a sudden thunderclap. He understood immediately. He wanted to refuse, to laugh it off, but the elder's voice was so earnest, so sincere, that it became impossible to ignore. The sword he carried wasn't something he had picked up by chance—it was something far more significant. But was it truly the Hero's Sword? He didn't even know what made a sword worthy of such a title.
His mind raced. He hadn't even been searching for a weapon when he found it. It had been stuck in the ground, lodged there like some kind of forgotten relic, left for no one to claim until he stumbled across it. Could that really be the sword of legend?
He sighed, defeated by the complexity of the situation. Maybe it didn't matter. He wasn't the Hero. He hadn't signed up for this. But for the sake of avoiding further confusion, he reluctantly removed the sword from his back. Holding it out, he met the elder's gaze.
"I found it on the road," Ronan said, almost embarrassed. "I really did. I know it sounds unbelievable, but it's true. I had no idea what it was when I picked it up."
The elder took the sword from him, his hands moving with reverence. He examined the blade carefully, tracing the engravings with a steady finger, his expression one of growing recognition. He muttered softly to himself, as if speaking to some higher power, or perhaps to the sword itself.
"I believe you," the elder said solemnly, his voice filled with certainty. "The Hero would not lie. The Hero's words are truth." He paused, deep in thought, before continuing, his eyes locked on the engravings. "Legendary swords are said to choose their masters. It is not unheard of."
He tapped the blade lightly, his gaze intense as he examined every curve, every inscription. The village air seemed to hold its breath as the elder spoke with absolute conviction.
"I swear on my two thousand years of life," he said, his voice rising with the weight of his words, "this is the true Hero's Sword."
For a moment, Ronan felt a strange weight settle in his chest. So, whether he wanted to or not, he was the Hero now. There was no escaping it. And despite how absurd it felt, part of him wondered: Who put that sword there?
Oh, right. It was me.
Never mind then.