Once, there was a world teetering on the edge of ruin. A kingdom choking beneath the ash of a demon lord's conquest. Villages burned, monsters roamed, and prophecies screamed into the void, unanswered.
And then…
...someone tripped into the wrong dimension, holding a phone and a half-eaten rice ball.
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It's funny how legends start.
You hear them at festivals, on street corners, whispered by old men in pubs who claim they were right there when it happened.
The truth? Messier. Funnier. Louder.
And, occasionally, on fire.
---
After the Demon Lord fell—no, exploded—the world didn't end. It just kind of… sighed.
The sky above the demon lands cleared first. The miasma peeled away like a rotted curtain, and for the first time in centuries, the sun touched black soil. Twisted rivers slowly became drinkable. The screaming trees (yes, those were real) stopped screaming.
The demon hives fell silent. Some collapsed entirely. Others were dismantled—by their own inhabitants.
Because it turned out, not every demon wanted to be part of an eternal war. Some just wanted working plumbing.
Within the year, the demons had entered negotiations with the other nations. The other races—human, elven, dwarven, beastfolk—didn't trust them, not at first. But peace has a funny way of becoming contagious when no one's actively being lit on fire.
A treaty was signed. There were awkward handshakes. One of the goblin diplomats bit a page of the agreement, presumably to test for poison. The others just went with it.
They called it the Accord of Ruin's End.
And for the first time in generations, the world breathed without flinching.
There were parades.
So many parades.
They happened in every major city and at least seven minor towns that swore they were important enough to qualify. Bards composed epics. Most of them had titles like "Dawnpiercer's Triumph" or "The Shield of Chaos and the Lich of Shadows". Half were inaccurate. All were very catchy.
Statues were built.
Ren Arashi, resplendent in bronze, stood atop a marble pedestal in the capital, cape forever wind-blown, rapier pointed skyward. His statue cost half the royal budget.
Aria's likeness stood beside his. One statue only—due to budget constraints and the sculptors' unanimous refusal to cast nineteen identical women. The plaque simply read, "Aria: The Voice of Heroes."
Kuroblade Nightshade's statue was placed near the library of arcane studies. It featured him in mid-cape flare, with three ominous ravens frozen in perpetual orbit. No one really knows what he looked like, but the statue has glowing red eyes, and that seemed to satisfy everyone.
Kaname's statue was... modest.
Tucked behind a bakery in the Dwarven neutral zone, standing awkwardly, holding a large, over-decorated shield with a cat on it. The plaque reads:
> "Kaname Hitoshi – Somehow."
It's the most visited statue in the city.
Mostly because kids think it's funny.
The heroes were gone—vanished shortly after the battle. No one saw where. No one knew how. Just... gone.
But their allies stayed.
Iria returned to her homeland, but didn't stay. She was offered a command post, a marriage proposal, a title, and a dozen ceremonial swords. She refused all of them. Instead, she rides the roads alone, still polishing Edelbrecht daily, still offering her blade where it's needed. Villagers whisper of the Knight of the Shining Line who appears when hope falters.
Velis returned to the Arcane Academy. She declined the position of Grand Magister and instead founded her own department: Improvisational Thaumaturgy. Half the faculty resigned. The other half signed up for her first class after she banished a rampaging elemental using only foot-inked sigils and an apologetic duck.
Silas opened a tavern. Or maybe it was a guild. Or a gambling hall. It doesn't have a name. It doesn't need one. People who need it tend to find it. The drinks are strong. The cards are cursed. The knives are free.
Lyra never stopped yelling. She runs a small clinic now, nestled near a forest glade. She treats everything from sword wounds to idiot syndrome. Her potions are unlabelled. Her patients are loyal. Every now and then, someone leaves a cat-shaped rock on her porch. She pretends not to care.
They all moved on.
They all lived.
And the heroes? Well...
It was the color that hit first.
Not the soft pastels of morning, or the burnt orange of sunset. No. This was pure, radiant, heavenly white—so bright it hurt.
A confetti popper went off.
Then another.
Then a third, which promptly exploded.
"W-Welcome back!!"
The goddess stumbled into view—divine robe trailing behind her, wreath of stars tilted sideways on her head. She tripped on nothing. Caught herself. Beamed.
"I did it! I mean—you did it! We did it! Oh stars, I forgot the cupcakes—!"
She disappeared behind a glittering door. A moment later, she reappeared with a tray of pastries and a flaming punch bowl.
Ren stood at the edge of the room, arms crossed, glaring like someone had just interrupted his birthday and canceled his parade.
"I was about to be crowned," he muttered.
"You already got a statue," Kaname said, settling into one of the divine folding chairs. "Let it go."
Kuroblade sat on the floor in the farthest corner, cloak wrapped around himself like a defensive blanket. He squinted around.
"Why is it so white in here?" he asked, genuinely pained.
The goddess blinked. "Would you prefer... moodier? I could—oh! Yukio, help me with the banner—"
Kuroblade's entire soul shuddered, his face turning crimson. "Don't call me that in front of the others!"
Ren snorted.
Kaname just took a slow bite of his cupcake and let the nonsense wash over him.
It was quiet. Not silent—Ren was already arguing about the punch, and the goddess had set off another confetti spell—but peaceful. Nothing was trying to kill them. No one was being dragged into a dungeon. The floor didn't explode. The air didn't hum with doom.
Kaname closed his eyes for a moment.
The goddess dropped into the seat beside him, bouncing slightly.
"I was so nervous. This was my first summoning. First world. First apocalypse. I was sure someone would explode in Act Two. But you…" She looked at him, wide-eyed. "You actually did it."
He shrugged. "I had help."
She smiled. "Still. You're not exactly what I expected in a hero."
Kaname sipped from a cup of something suspiciously divine.
"Yeah," he said. "That sounds about right."
And somewhere—back in that world of castles and ruins, monsters and miracles—a child lifts a wooden sword and shouts:
"I'm the Meow-Bearer! Defender of the Relic!"
The other children laugh.
And the world keeps turning.