They are cheering.
The name of a hero is shouted from one end of the city to the other, echoing among the half-collapsed buildings. Flags are raised, tears of joy fall, and the world—once again—chooses who is worthy of remembrance.
I stand a few steps behind him.
My hands are still trembling. Blood—whether mine or the monster's—drips to the ground, seeping slowly, as if even the earth hesitates to remember my existence.
"Thank you, Hero Ardent!"
The cheers are not for me.
Of course they aren't.
I try to remember the last time someone called my name with conviction. Not with doubt, not with a confused expression as if their tongue refused to utter it.
I couldn't find it.
A child runs past me, almost bumping into my shoulder. He stops, glances for a moment, then his eyes go blank.
"Oh... sorry," he says softly, then leaves.
He doesn't even know who he just brushed against.
I smile faintly. It's usual.
In this world, power is born from memory. The more people know your name, the stronger you become. Legends are built from stories retold, exaggerated, twisted, and then passed down.
And me?
I am the gap between those stories.
I fought when the gate opened. I was the first to see the monster emerge from the cracked sky. I held back its attack long enough for the "heroes" to arrive.
But tomorrow, all of that will be someone else's story.
I walk away from the crowd. Each step feels light, not from relief—but as if the world does not care enough to give me weight.
In the quiet corner of an alley, I lean against the wall and take a deep breath.
"This world is funny," I murmur. "The one remembered is not the one who sacrificed the most, but the one whose story is easiest to hear."
Then, my vision blurs.
Not from injury.
Not from fatigue.
But because something... has appeared.