Ch.4 The Village and the Hero II

The village of Nihar lay on the uneasy border between the Maya Kingdom and the Ketu Empire, a human habitation in the semi-desert wastelands of Kahaar.

Nihar village was named after the long dead Nihar, who decided this desolate patch of earth would be worth inhabiting. A century has passed. The village remains.

From miles away, the village announced its existence. Wooden barriers, obscene patches of green which stood out in the arid region.

With a population of a thousand, most habitants eked out their survival by cultivating barley, wheat, and cotton. A handful of craftsmen wove textiles and shaped clay.

For years, Kahaar had thrived, not through any power of its own, but by clinging like a parasite to the trade route that connected the two nations.

Merchants, caravans, and wanderers flowed through its streets, giving it the illusion of prosperity.

Yet, prosperity built on dependency was no true prosperity at all.

Power is not having, but controlling the source. Those who own the well do not thirst. Those who merely drink from it are already dead, whether they know it or not.

And so, when a new trade route was opened elsewhere, bypassing the village entirely, Kahaar found itself in decline.

The flow of travellers slowed. Tents vanished. Streets emptied. But this was not the villager’s only concern. Something worse crept closer, far more concerning. Another problem.

The new trade route was created for many reasons, Chausar was one of them.

The Chausar bandits were too another parasite of the old trade route. Born and bred in the harsh borderlands of the Maya Kingdom and the Ketu Empire, they were wolves in human form, merciless, cruel, and cunning.

They had long feasted upon the wealth of passing caravans, striking like wolves and vanishing just as swiftly.

Both kingdoms had tried to exterminate them, but what were soldiers before ghosts of the land?

The bandits knew every crevice, every shadow. They were born and bred here.

Against them, military campaigns were nothing more than blunted swords swinging at mist. No matter how many armies marched, how many soldiers scorched the land. None were able to even find them.

With the trade route gone, the Chausar turned their sight upon Nihar. At first, their hunger was small. A missing goat, a stolen cow. Petty crimes easily dismissed. But hunger, once acknowledged, only grew.

Soon, villagers found themselves at knifepoint, robbed of what little they had left. Fear spread like a plague.

The people of Nihar, once resigned to hardship, now cowered behind their doors, praying that the bandits would find better prey elsewhere.

Yet, prayers were merely whispers in the face of power. The strong took, and the weak suffered. That was the way of the world.

For most, this realization meant submission. But for Malti, submission was a luxury she could not afford.

She was the sole provider for her sickly mother. The villagers whispered caution to her, but words did not fill empty stomachs. She had cattle to tend, food to gather, a life to maintain. Fear could wait. Survival could not.

Yet, Malti was no fool. A fool believes in the kindness of men. A greater fool believes in their mercy.

Mercy is a privilege, not a principle. It is granted when it costs nothing. But when hunger gnaws and desperation grows, mercy is the first thing to be abandoned.

And so, Malti understood. She did not wait for kindness, nor did she expect fairness. A blade in hand was worth more than a hundred prayers.

Two pairs of knives were always strapped to her legs.

She knew that mercy was a lie men told themselves when they had power to spare. Should the day come when she was forced to fight, she would strike without hesitation.

Today had been a quiet day.

The sun, an unrelenting overseer, now hung low in the sky, casting amber hues across the barren plains. Her cattle chewed lazily on what little grass the land provided.

Her sharp sight scanned the horizon. Nothing.

A breath left her lips, quiet relief tinged with ever-present wariness. “Looks like I’m saved today, too,” she murmured.

A temporary reprieve, nothing more.

But nightfall was approaching, and the night did not belong to the weak. Gathering her cattle, she spoke, “Tch tch chh come on, come here shh shsh let’s get back before dark.”

She turned toward the village. The cattle followed. And behind her, in the unseen distance, the ever-hungry world watched and waited.

*

Nihar had seen many travellers in its time. Merchants, wanderers, mercenaries, all passed through. But today’s visitors were different.

The villagers, wary but curious, gathered in hushed. The newcomers' attire was unlike anything they had seen before.

One was dressed in a complete black hide, neither metal nor leather. A long battle worn cloak drapes over segmented armour that hugged his form.

The second one wore a garment of bright. No seams, no stitching, impossibly smooth. Lighter than any tunic yet lacking the coarse weave of commoner’s garb. To them it looked like a treasure beyond value. In reality it was just a blue t-shirt.

But it was the third who stood out the most.

White, seamless, unnaturally rigid. The garment held its shape without bindings. A row of tiny stone-like discs ran down its centre, securing the cloth together. Too light for wool, too fine for linen, it clung to him unnaturally. A simple white shirt.

The villagers whispered among themselves.

“What kind of attire is that?” one murmured, voice laced with suspicion.

“I don’t think it’s an armour… It looks too soft. Maybe they’re sorcerers from another land.”

A more observant villager squinted. “No, look at how they walk. The one in armour is escort. The other two… they are the ones of importance.”

A village girl, eyes shimmering with naive admiration, sighed. “The man in white... he looks unreal. I've never seen anyone like him.”

The travellers, however, cared little for these murmurs.

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They asked about the land, its rulers, its cities, its landmarks. To the villagers, it seemed strange, how had they come this far without such vital knowledge?

Ronny adjusted his blue shirt, his voice carrying a dull amusement. “Just as Lord Croxeus said. This world really does have magic.”

Tiya had remained behind at the castle. A necessary choice. They needed someone to maintain their foothold, to watch and wait.

Lord Croxeus had set them forth. Granting them gold, inscribing magic upon them so they could comprehend the language of this world. He also gave them an oridex to locate back to the castle and send a distress call if needed.

Despite all this, he had left without a word. His destination was unknown and so was his purpose.

But the proof of his magic was undeniable. They had seen it firsthand.

Villagers casually manipulating objects, creating water, drying clothes with mere gestures. The sight was enough to ignite both awe and caution.

Ard, rolling up his sleeves, scoffed. “Magic or not, there’s a system behind everything. Magic is just science we don’t understand yet. And this village… a pit of unknowing fools. No libraries, no records. Just this ragged excuse of a map and vague directions to a city. Useless.”

His frustration was palpable, grinded by the relentless hunger for understanding. This new world was a puzzle, and he was left with useless fragments. Imperfect. Incomplete. Unacceptable.

Yet dwelling here any longer would be meaningless. They had to move.

Rict Rex remained silent.

Lack of knowledge? Expected. This world was primitive, steeped in medieval stagnation. He had adjusted his expectations accordingly.

But something else gnawed at him. The villagers had spoken of bandits. Predators who preyed upon the weak. His instincts screamed for action.

And yet, he hesitated.

Why?

He had fought battles, endured suffering, walked the edge of death countless times. Yet now, a weight pressed upon him, suffocating.

Doubt.

Was it the unfamiliarity of this world and its magic? The possibility of facing foes having powers he couldn’t yet comprehend. Or was it something deeper, something born from the events of the previous day?

The memory surged. Helplessness.

He had stood before the odds before. Trained, fought, sacrificed. And when it had mattered most, he had failed. His mother. His master. Gone. Irrevocable.

His fists clenched.

Am I truly a hero? Or just a coward pretending to be one?

Hesitation. It was unlike him. And yet, it refused to leave.

Meanwhile, their path was set. They would leave the village, return to the castle, and move forward. Yet fate had no regard for plans.

An old woman stepped into their way. Her figure was frail, bent by the weight of time and suffering. Age had stolen the strength from her limbs, leaving her trembling with every step.

Her voice, hoarse from desperation, wavered as she pleaded. She clutched at the hems of villagers’ clothes. Knelt on the dusty ground. Grasped at their feet.

“Please! My daughter....she didn’t come home last night! Someone, I beg you!”

Silence answered her.

The villagers looked away. Pity in their eyes, but none dared to move. A few shifted uncomfortably, struggling against the chains of their own helplessness.

They knew the truth.

Chausar.

The name alone cast a shadow over the village. The bandits did not merely steal wealth, they stole people. Women abducted, sold into slavery. Officially, the Maya Kingdom and the Ketu Empire outlawed such horrors.

But the truth? Slavery still thrived in the dark corners of civilization, where gold spoke louder than morality. Even in the Maya Kingdom itself, human lives were bartered away in secret.

The villagers were not cruel.

They were weak.

Resistance was a fantasy, a luxury only afforded to those who could afford to lose. And in this world, justice belonged only to the strong.

Rict Rex stood among them, silent. The moment hung in the air, suffocating.

An old wound reopened in his mind. I’ve seen this before.

His mother’s voice, pleading.

Helplessness. It had become a part of him. He had learned to suppress it, to drown it beneath duty, beneath action. But now, as he watched the old woman collapse, her frail hands outstretched in desperate grasp for salvation, something inside him fractured.

She was his mother. She was his past. The same agony, the same horror, playing out once more. And he had a choice, to turn away, or to act.

He stepped forward without a word.

Kneeling beside her, his hand found her trembling shoulder. “Tell me what happened.”

The old woman looked up. Tears streaked her weathered face. Her lips quivered between despair and the fragile whisper of hope.

“My daughter… she tends to the cattle. Every morning, the same. Yesterday, she left at dawn. But last night, she never returned. I waited. I prayed. I..”

Her voice broke. “She is all I have. Please. Help me.”

Rict Rex’s jaw tightened.

The answer had already been spoken before she even finished.

The villagers whispered amongst themselves.

“She’s gone… poor thing.”

“Chausar must’ve taken her. It’s too dangerous to interfere.”

“Even the soldiers won’t stand against them.”

Cowards? No. These people were not to blame. They were shackled by fear, victims of a system that had failed them.

The weak do not choose submission. It is chosen for them. A world ruled by strength breeds compliance, not morality.

A man drowning does not choose to breathe water. A starving dog does not choose to eat filth. These villagers, these trembling masses, they were not cowards, nor were they innocent. They were merely fodder, shaped by the very world that consumed them.

But he had not come here to survive.

He had come to fight.

Rict Rex met the old woman’s gaze. Her frail frame trembled.

“I will find her,” he said. No hesitation, no uncertainty. Only absolute conviction. “And I will bring her back.”

The old woman’s lips parted in a silent gasp, disbelief and fragile hope in her weary eyes. “You… will?”

“I promise.”

A sharp grip seized his shoulder, yanking him back. Ard stepped forward. His voice cut through the moment. “What nonsense are you spewing, Rex? This is not our world. Not our fight. We have to head back. We don’t have the luxury of playing hero here.”

Rict Rex did not turn, did not flinch. His feet were planted. “People suffer here, just as they do anywhere. This woman needs help, they all need help, and I will not stand idle while I can act.”

Ard exhaled sharply. “Your sentimentality is a weakness. Don’t you understand? This is pointless. We have greater things to accomplish, more important than throwing yourself at some hopeless cause in a world we don’t even understand.”

Rict Rex finally turned, his voice steady. “Then tell me, Ard, why did you ask Lord Croxeus to help you stop those ten gods. Was it just vengeance? Is that why you did it?”

What was the difference between heroism and self-interest? A hero who saves a thousand lives for revenge, a villain who slaughters a thousand for an ideal, both serve only themselves.

Ard’s actions were no different. Rict Rex’s were no different. A decision made in the name of righteousness was still a decision. And at its core, every decision was merely the assertion of one will over another.

Ard hesitated. A pause. A rare moment of silence from a man who always had an answer.

“Because… I wanted to save every other world. In that moment, I believed–no, I knew that saving was the only path I had left.”

He turned towards Rex, “But this… this is different. I wasn’t throwing my life away for a hopeless cause. Not like this.”

Rict Rex shook his head. “It’s only changed for you. For me, it hasn’t. Yes, I feel hopeless, Ard. I’m desperate and helping these people is the only thing I can do.”

Ard’s fingers curled into fists. A long exhale. His voice, when it came, was laced with exhaustion. “I won’t partake in your desperation, Rex. And I hope, for your sake, that one day you won’t have to feel it either.”

Their eyes met. One gaze look, dissecting; the other steady, unwavering.

“I will find her and help them,” Rict Rex said. “Then I will return.”

Silence stretched between them. Then, resignation.

“Fine, do as you will. But don’t expect me to stick around for this.” Ard turned sharply. “Ronny, we’re leaving. We’ll head back to the castle after we dig up anything useful on our own.”

Ronny hesitated. Eyes darting between them, but then he exhaled, shaking his head. “Fine.” No humour, no deflection. Just weary acceptance.

As they disappeared into the distance, Rict Rex turned back to the old woman. Her hands trembled, but her eyes held desperate gratitude.

“I’ll need to know everything,” Rict Rex said, his voice firm. “Where does your daughter usually take the cattle to graze? Are there specific areas she favours?”

The old woman nodded quickly, pointing toward the outskirts of the village. “There’s a small clearing by the rocky hills. She always takes them there. It’s… it’s not far…”

Rict Rex nodded.

His sight swept over the gathered villagers. Fear had made them silent, but silence had never saved anyone.

“What do you know of the bandits?”

A moment’s hesitation. Then, one by one, whispers broke through the prison of fear. Sightings near the cliffs. An encounter by the riverbed. Rumours of a hidden camp deep within the thickets.

Broken information.

Rict Rex listened, absorbing every word.

His path was set.