In the face of absolute annihilation, the mind does not always race. Sometimes, it becomes perfectly still. For Korgon, the Goron champion, the final moments before his self-detonation were a pocket of impossible, profound silence. The roaring fires of his own life force, preparing to burst forth, illuminated not the battlefield before him, but the long, winding tunnels of his own memory. To understand the nature of his sacrifice, one must first understand the nature of his crime.
Among the Goron people of Death Mountain, strength is not considered a virtue. Virtue is a choice, a path one can choose not to walk. To a Goron, strength is a fact of existence, as undeniable as the stone they eat and the fire they are born from. Their society is a meritocracy of power, a geological truth made manifest. Pressure creates strength. Hardship forges the will. The strongest Goron leads, not by right of birth, but by right of being.
Korgon was born with the potential for immense strength. His very stones were of a dense, obsidian-laced basalt, a sign of a pure and powerful bloodline. The elders prophesied that he would be a champion, a patriarch who would one day lead the tribe with a will as unbreakable as the mountain itself. His father, a stern and respected elder, saw this potential as both a gift and a immense responsibility. He began Korgon's training early, a relentless regimen of brawling, mining, and enduring the deep heat of the volcano's heart.
The boy excelled in all physical aspects. He was stronger, tougher, and more resilient than any of his peers. But he was born with a flaw. A deep, and to the Goron psyche, a dangerous imperfection.
He was born with a heart that was too soft.
The first sign of this flaw appeared during his Rite of Passage. At the age of twenty, a mere child by Goron standards, he was tasked with clearing a new mining tunnel of a nest of young, juvenile Dodongos. These lizard-like creatures were a nuisance, their fire-breathing capabilities a danger to the miners. The task was simple: extermination. It was a test of a young Goron's ruthlessness, his ability to apply force without hesitation.
Korgon entered the cavern, his small hammer held ready. He dispatched the first few creatures with an efficient, brutal ease. But in the back of the nest, he found the last one. It was a runt, small and weak, its scales dull, its fire-breathing a pathetic, smoky cough. It cowered before him, its large, black eyes filled not with aggression, but with a simple, animal terror.
And Korgon hesitated.
For a fraction of a second, he felt an alien emotion well up inside him: pity. He saw not a pest to be exterminated, but a frightened creature, the last of its kind. His hammer remained raised, his will faltering. His father, who was observing from the tunnel entrance, saw the hesitation. With a roar of pure disappointment, he strode forward and brought his own, massive hammer down, ending the creature's life in an instant.
He turned to his son, his face a mask of stone. "A Goron does not pity," he had rumbled, the words echoing in Korgon's memory for a century. "The weak are a flaw in the mountain's design. To hesitate is to allow that flaw to spread. You endure. You act. You are a Goron."
The psychological impact of this event on the young Korgon cannot be overstated. He had failed the most fundamental test of his people's philosophy. He had shown mercy where none was required. He had proven his heart was soft. From that day on, he dedicated himself to proving his father wrong. He built a persona, a shell of unbreakable, brutish aggression to encase the flaw within him. He became the loudest brawler, the most aggressive champion, the first to charge and the last to retreat. He became the "brute" the world would later know, a character he played with such conviction that he almost forgot it was a role.
He became a champion. His strength was legendary. But the flaw remained.
The final transgression occurred during the Great Goron Gauntlet, the decennial tournament to determine the tribe's foremost champions. Korgon had reached the final match, facing a rival named Borok, a Goron known for his cruelty and arrogance. The fight was a brutal display of Korgon's power. He systematically dismantled his opponent, his blows echoing through the city. He broke Borok's guard, shattered his hammer, and finally, pinned him to the ground, his fist raised for the final, finishing blow that would secure his victory and his honor.
Borok, defeated and humiliated, did not yield. He simply glared up with hateful, terrified eyes. The crowd, his father among them, roared for the finish. Prove your strength! Prove your will!
But Korgon, looking into his rival's pathetic, frightened eyes, saw not a warrior. He saw the cowering, runt Dodongo from his childhood. The pity, the cursed softness he had tried to hammer out of his own soul for decades, returned with a vengeance.
He hesitated.
His fist remained raised. He could not bring it down.
That hesitation was his undoing. It was a silence that spoke louder than any blow. The elders, his father included, saw it. They saw the flaw, still there, a soft spot in the heart of their greatest champion. He had won the battle, but he had failed the test.
He was not formally cast out. A punishment so direct would have been an honor of sorts. Instead, he was met with something far worse: silence. His victory was recorded, but not celebrated. His rivals no longer challenged him out of fear, but his peers no longer sought his company out of respect. He had become an object of shame.
Unable to endure the silent judgment, he chose his own fate. He was a flawed stone. And so, he removed himself from the mountain. He went into a self-imposed exile, determined to find a land harsh enough, a fire hot enough, to finally, truly, hammer the softness from his heart. He walked away from his home, a champion in name, but an outcast in his soul, and began his long, lonely journey towards the sun-scorched south.