The future had never been a mystery to him. For the Hero of the South, the future was not a foggy haze or a set of probabilities, as the court mages loved to philosophize. No. For him, time was like a long, perfectly straight road paved with cobblestones. He saw every stone. Every crack. Every turn that inevitably led to the cliff.
He knew when it would rain. He knew what harvest the peasants would gather in three years. And, most importantly and most heavily, he knew the date and place of his death.
This knowledge was not a gift, but shackles. What is the point of choice if you already see the result? What is the taste of victory if it is written in the script long before you draw your sword from its sheath?
The Hero of the South stood on the fortress wall of the city of Baal, gazing north. The wind ruffled the hem of his travel cloak, playing with the two long blades on his back.
"Soon," he said quietly, addressing the void.
His gaze, capable of piercing the fabric of time, slid along the horizon line. There, far in the north, on the Plateau, they were waiting for him. The Seven Sages of Destruction. And the All-Seeing Schlacht. His fate was sealed: he would engage them all in battle. He would kill three Sages. He would take Schlacht with him. And he would perish to buy time. Time for the true heroes—those who would come after—to finish what was started.
He had accepted this. He had resigned himself.
Not long ago, he met that strange elf, Frieren. The conversation with her was short, but important. He told her what he had to say: soon she would meet a human who would change her life. The Hero Himmel. The gears of fate turned with frightening precision, every cog falling into the right groove.
"It is time," he turned away from the parapet.
Below, in the inner courtyard of the fortress, life was bustling. Soldiers sharpened swords, merchants argued over tariffs, refugees huddled against the barracks walls. The Hero of the South descended the stone stairs, and people parted before him. They looked at him with reverence, whispering prayers. They saw salvation in him.
"If only you knew," he thought with bitter tenderness. "I am not a savior. I am merely a dam holding back the flood for a couple of years. But for the sake of your smiles... that is enough."
He headed toward the main gates. He needed to leave quietly, without pomp. His path lay to the north, a one-way trip.
However, as he approached the massive leaves, bound in black iron, he noticed something strange. The guard—usually disciplined and calm—was in a panic.
"Hold the gates!" the sergeant screamed, spraying spittle. "Do not open! They have no documents! This could be a demon sabotage!"
"But there are humans!" argued a young recruit, pale as a sheet. "Women, children! They say they came from Taul!"
The Hero of the South stopped.
Taul.
A picture instantly flashed before his inner eye. A memory from the future he had seen long ago.
The village of Taul. Flaming skeletons of houses. Mangled bodies on the square. Demons feasting on the ruins. No one survived. When the scouts from Baal reach it, they will find only ash and bones.
It was inevitable. It was a fact.
"Taul is destroyed," he said quietly, but his voice cut through the noise of the crowd.
He approached the guards. The soldiers, recognizing the tall figure with two swords, instantly parted, snapping to attention.
"L-Lord Hero!" the sergeant stammered. "We... we have an emergency here! Some madmen are banging on the gates, claiming to be survivors from Taul! But that's impossible! Sentries reported a magical surge! It's surely a demon illusion! A trap!"
"A trap..." the Hero echoed.
He walked up to the massive gates. Muffled voices came from outside. The creak of wheels. The cry of a child.
The sounds were too real for an illusion. Demons could mimic voices, but they could not mimic exhaustion.
The Hero of the South pressed his eye to the viewing slit. He needed to see. To confirm that his gift wasn't misfiring.
He looked outside.
And the world tilted.
On the bridge stood carts. Dirty, overloaded with belongings. People sat on them—haggard, in dusty clothes, with eyes full of fear and hope. He recognized faces he had seen dead in his visions.
They were alive.
Cold sweat broke out on the back of humanity's greatest seer. For the first time in decades, the fabric of time, which he considered immutable, came apart at the seams. An event that had to happen had been erased.
Who? Who could change the inevitable?
His gaze shifted to the head of the procession.
There stood a youth. Tall, with disheveled blond hair, in strange clothes the Hero had never seen in these lands. The youth stood relaxed, looking at the gates not with pleading, but with the annoyance of a man whose key had broken in his own door.
Next to him limped a knight. The Hero of the South recognized him—Hans, the captain of the Taul guard. He, too, should have been dead.
The Hero of the South narrowed his eyes, activating his gift to full power. He wanted to read the fate of this strange guy. To see his past, his future, the threads that brought him here.
He looked.
And recoiled from the viewing slit.
"It cannot be..." he exhaled.
Where any person—peasant, king, or mage—had a complex pattern of probabilities and coming events woven around them, this youth had... emptiness.
Absolute. Black. Silence.
He didn't see what this guy would do in a second. He didn't see how he would die. He didn't see who he would become. It was as if someone had spilled a blot of ink in the middle of a detailed painting. A blind spot in the ocean of time.
"Hey, inside there!" the youth's voice came from outside, muffled by the wood, but full of brazen confidence. "You have three seconds to open this wicket."
"Izayoi, stop!" Hans's panicked whisper was heard. "You can't threaten an Imperial garrison! They'll shoot us!"
"One." The youth began the countdown.
"Archers!" the sergeant squealed, losing his composure. "To the wall! Aim for the blond! It's a provocation!"
Soldiers on the walls bustled, drawing bowstrings. The situation was heating up with every second. The air rang with tension.
The Hero of the South stood with his back pressed against the cold stones of the gate. His heart beat steadily, but his mind worked feverishly.
All his life he had walked on rails. He knew every turn. And here, right before the end, when he had already resigned himself to the finale, Something appeared before him that was not in the script. A man without a fate. A variable that even the All-Seeing Schlacht had not accounted for.
"Two." The voice outside became bored.
There was a sound of impact—the youth lazily kicked the gate, testing its strength. The iron-bound oak beam barring the leaves from the inside creaked pitifully. Dust rained down from the arch ceiling.
The sergeant turned pale.
"Fire on my comm..."
"Belay that!"
The Hero of the South's voice thundered over the square, freezing everyone in place. Archers on the walls lowered their bows. The sergeant choked on his command.
The Hero slowly peeled himself off the wall. He didn't know who stood behind the gates. A demon? A god? Or just a joke of the universe?
But he knew one thing: he could not let this "blind spot" leave or die under arrows. He needed to see it up close. He needed to understand why the future had suddenly become... unknown.
He stepped toward the huge bar, which usually took two burly soldiers to lift.
"Lord Hero?" whispered the sergeant. "What are you..."
"I am opening it," he answered calmly, placing a hand on the cold wood. "Before we have to pick up these gates in splinters."
A voice sounded from outside, already carrying the swing for a strike:
"Thr..."
The Hero of the South heaved the bar upward with effort. Heavy metal clanged. The leaves, freed from the lock, began to part slowly, with a groan.
A strip of light widened, cutting through the gloom of the archway. And in that light, in the opening of the gates, stood Izayoi Sakamaki—leg raised, ready to demolish the obstacle, and with an expression of mild surprise on his face.
Their gazes met. The eyes of one who knew everything. And the eyes of one whose future was written by no one.