Arthur's POV
I am a mana puppet.
One day, I opened my eyes, and something was different. A spark. A sense of self. Awareness of who I am and what I am. I was given the ability to think, to feel, and to choose. And along with that awareness came a purpose.
To be a hero.
I carry within me a set of memories—those of the First Hero, bestowed upon me by my creator. They are not my own, yet they define me. They tell me why I stand here, in the heart of a battlefield, surrounded by the horde of orcs.
My silver-and-gold armor gleams with light. My greatsword cleaves through ranks of enemies as my wings shield me from their blows and propel me forward when I need to move faster than their eyes can follow.
"Hold the line!" a knight shouted behind me. "The Hero fights with us!"
I pour ten percent of my mana into my blade. The weapon hums, vibrating with energy. With a single swing, I release it—
Healing Slash.
A crescent of blinding light tears through the battlefield. Every orc in its path is cut down, screaming in pain as their bodies burn with purifying flame. But the human soldiers it touches are bathed in warmth, their wounds closing, their strength restored.
Gasps ripple through the knight army.
"It's the Hero's Slash!"
"He really is the Hero!"
They whisper in awe, repeating the same words I find in the First Hero's memories. The truth, however, is different: it is not some divine miracle, but simply a healing spell woven into the strike, a technique that harms creatures of darkness while mending those of light.
Without armor, my strength would be that of a Stage Four cultivator. But with my greatsword, my wings, and the full set of enhancements my creator has given me, I stand on par with a Stage Five at their peak. To the knights, I am salvation. To the orcs, I am terror incarnate.
Their commander charges forward, a massive shield in his grasp. He bellows in defiance and blocks my path. I flood mana into my sword and swing. His shield splits like parchment, and so does he.
The knights cheer. Their morale surges. The orcs falter.
But then the battlefield trembles. A shadow barrels toward me. I twist aside just in time as a hammer the size of a tree slams into the earth, shattering it. Dust and stone explode into the air.
The Orc King stands before me, fury twisting his features, froth spilling from his tusked mouth.
"You dare?" he roars, swinging the hammer again.
I glide aside with a flap of my wings, then counter. My blade arcs through his wrists, severing his hands. His hammer crashes to the ground. Yet even as he howls, his flesh writhes, bone and sinew knitting back together.
Before the regeneration can complete, I raise my palm to his head and condense every spark of fire mana I can muster into a sphere no larger than my fist.
Fireball.
It detonates point-blank. His skull vanishes in a bloom of searing flame. His body collapses in silence.
The knights erupt in cheers. "The Orc King is dead!"
I look around. The tide has turned. The knights press forward with renewed courage, and the orcs, shaken by the fall of their king, begin to scatter. They no longer need me.
Spreading my wings, I rise into the sky, leaving the battlefield behind. My flight carries me back toward the secluded home I rent, thirty minutes away.
I know what will happen next.
Word of me will spread. They will call me the Hero. They will believe.
And that is enough.