Augusta

"Clang!"

As the sword was struck from her hand, the girl's consciousness was also cast into chaos.

Heat pulsed through her limbs. Then, numbness. Nerves stretched too tight snapped one by one, plunging her into a cold, silent dark.

She no longer remembered how many times she had been knocked down. She didn't know how many more times she would have to get back up.

Fear began to take root in her chest. It wrapped around her unraveling will like a cocoon spun of silk.

She was scared. Scared she'd collapse before achieving anything. Scared she'd fall on a path with no way back.

"Accept this feeling, Augusta..."

That voice rang in her ear, cutting through the dark like a match struck in a void.

"Learn fear. Learn dread. This is your very first lesson..."

"Learn to accept your weakness. Only by knowing weakness can you understand strength."

"Only by tasting defeat can you grasp the worth of power..."

"The path of glory wasn't paved for you. But if you reach its end, no one will care whose name you bore at the start."

"The will to become a hero... That alone is enough to begin becoming one..."

"So walk the path, Augusta... You have no other choice. And you need no other choice."

"Don't chase the light like a moth. Be the blazing sun no one dares to look at."

"Now rise, Augusta."

The whisper tore through the cocoon of fear, leaving her bare again in the freezing dark.

The cold stung what little will she had left, and then—

She stood.

Her legs shook. One foot dragged behind the other. She reached for her sword. Picked it up.

And once more, she challenged the Gladiator named Cato.

From that moment forward—

She wielded her very first victory like a blade, carving out her path to glory.

Confront. Assess. Deliver the blow. Then came the verdict, the applause, and the cheers.

She ignored the burning gazes and turned to leave without a second glance.

Somewhere along the way, Augusta had lost all passion for victories that came too easily.

She wanted a whetstone. Someone who could sharpen her edge. But in all of Septimont, such opponents had grown scarce.

"Not enough... Still far from enough..."

"Two strikes to break their offense. One to crush their defense. One final blow to end it."

"An opponent of this level... I should've ended that fight in four moves..."

In the lounge, Augusta sat alone, reviewing the flaws in her performance.

"No need to rush, Augusta..."

"You already possess the mindset of the strong. That's good..."

"Searching for openings, scraping for chances—that's how the weak fight. For the strong, victory is never the goal. It's only the beginning."

As always, the whisper came.

It was like a mentor, patient yet firm. A persuasive elder who showed up to offer insight whenever she needed it the most.

"The strong...?" Augusta tightened her grip on her sword, uncertainty in her voice.

"Have I... really become one of them?"

"Without question, Augusta. You are no longer that helpless little girl."

"Drain every ounce of worth from the weak. Let the stronger ones become your fuel."

"Climb the stairs their bodies build and take the throne meant for you..."

"...!"

As if a spike of ice pierced her spine, Augusta's eyes shot open.

"What is it, Augusta?"

"Nothing... I just..." She pressed a hand to her face, brow furrowed, trying to remember.

"I just... can't remember what today's opponent even looked like..."

A few days later, Augusta received an invitation to attend the underground pits. Once, she stood there as a Gladiator. Now, they welcomed her as an esteemed guest, seated among the nobles.

"Accept it, Augusta. Broaden your horizons. Only by stepping beyond that little cage can you rise to the summit of Septimont."

She had meant to decline. But in the end, she listened to the whisper. So she sat stiffly in a plush seat she wasn't used to, replying to upper-class small talk with polite phrases that didn't sound like her. Discomfort tugged at her, so she shifted her gaze to the arena below.

That's when she noticed, behind the iron bars, far more Gladiators than any standard match required.

"Augusta, our brightest star!" said the noble beside her. "Everyone hopes a worthy challenger will rise to meet you. Alas, we've yet to find one."

"So we've prepared something special. An Agon that no one has ever seen before. No rules, no limits. A huge free-for-all to the death!"

A strange unease stirred in Augusta's chest, slipping quietly into her blood.

"Look, Augusta! All those waiting to enter. They once fell to your blade. All of them."

"Now, they've been granted a second chance. To fight again. To earn the right to challenge you once more."

"And that right… belongs only to the last one standing."

A buzzing filled her head. She heard her blood pounding against her eardrums.

"Enjoy the show, Augusta…" The whisper murmured. "Enjoy the feast prepared for you. A right that only the strong possess…"

"The right… of the strong…"

Her murmur collided with the whisper's voice, two flints striking, and something inside her caught fire.

It ignited her blood. It ignited her doubts and the questions she had long held.

"No need for all that trouble…"

Her Tacet Mark flared on the back of her hand. A streak of wind cut through the air. Her sword flew straight into her grip.

The nobles gasped as Augusta rose from her seat and leapt down into the arena.

"If you wish to challenge me, you need no right!" She drove her sword into the ground, her voice ringing across the arena.

"If you share the same dream, then point your blade at the one you most want to defeat. Right now!"

At her words, the iron gates creaked open. Gladiators stepped in, one by one, encircling her.

In that instant, memories flooded Augusta's mind. She scanned the crowd. What seemed like nearly a hundred eyes stared her down. Not a single one was unfamiliar.

She remembered their names. Their moves. Their strengths. And their weaknesses.

She waited, calm and still, for the warhorn to sound.

That day, she was the last one standing in the arena. But she took no lives.

That day, she heard the roar of a thousand voices. But the whisper… was not among them.

"Who is he?"

"Are you kidding? That's Ephor Magno! There's not a soul in Septimont who doesn't know him."

"Ephor..."

In the shadow of a street corner, Augusta took the last bite of her dry bread, her eyes fixed on the tall figure speaking in the square. He looked to be in his thirties. His features were chiseled like marble, yet softened by a warm, open smile. As his speech rose to its peak, he spread his arms wide. The crowd erupted in thunderous applause.

An undefeated champion of the public Agons. A once-in-a-generation Gladiator prodigy. He had slain seven Corrosauruses in the Sanguis Plateaus and returned alive, bathed in dragon's blood. They called him the "Dragon Slayer." At that time, tales of his deeds echoed throughout Septimont.

He listened to the people. Never turned away a plea. He ruled without greed. An Ephor chosen by the will of the masses. Many believed he would rise as the prophesied Hero of Heroes of their era.

To Augusta, that title had always felt distant and unreachable. But for the first time, she saw someone who might truly ascend to it.

A fire lit in her chest. Those feats she once thought exaggerated, those soul-stirring legends... Someone in her own lifetime had actually lived them. That meant her dream wasn't just a fantasy. It could be within her reach.

But slowly, that fire began to cool. She studied the man's face, her gaze lingering on that impeccably beautiful smile—

"Why couldn't someone that strong... save Fabianum?"

Not long after, Augusta stood face-to-face with that same man, those questions still heavy in her heart.

"Congratulations, young one. You've earned Arsinosa's blessing. You shall be crowned the new Champion."

On the medal platform, Augusta faced Magno as he prepared to pin the medal to her chest. But behind the smile he strained to maintain, she saw eyes dulled by weariness.

The hero she once imagined no longer stood there. Nor did the fire. The warrior once hailed as the Dragon Slayer was gone.

Augusta accepted the honor in silence. Then, just before stepping away, she whispered, low enough that only he could hear—

"Were those legends about you... ever true?"

He answered with the same silent smile.

Sometime later, a nameless Gladiator appeared in the underground pits. He wore a helm that concealed his face, and armor black as obsidian. He fought like a man with nothing to lose. Sought out only the strongest. No flourish. No dignity. He didn't fight for honor. He fought like he was hunting death.

"The Nameless" racked up wins at a terrifying pace, soon drawing Augusta's attention. Though she was already crowned Champion, she accepted his challenge.

The moment their blades met, she knew. Helm or not, it couldn't hide those same clouded, exhausted eyes.

She didn't know why a revered Ephor, a hero with nothing left to prove, would descend to the shadows to fight in a bloodstained cage. But in that moment, none of it mattered. All that mattered was the strong opponent before her and how to defeat him.

Steel clashed, again and again. Neither yielded an inch. To break the standoff, the Nameless's sword sparked with electricity. Arcs of crimson lightning danced along the blade. Lightning forged into a weapon. His ultimate strike, one meant to end it all.

And in that blinding flash, Augusta saw it. The legend. The warrior of the Sanguis Plateaus, lightning in hand, ripping through stormclouds and despair to bring hope to those behind him.

Her Tacet Mark flared on the back of her hand. She could never summon lightning like his. Her Forte was a whisper compared to his roar. But even so—

That faint flicker of resistance bent the lightning, just slightly.

And in that breath of an opening, Augusta struck with everything she had. One final swing.

After that day, the Nameless vanished from the pits. To the world, it was just another of Augusta's many victories. No one realized that a legend had quietly ended.

Some time later, on an otherwise ordinary day, Augusta received a letter. A handwritten invitation from the Ephor's Palace.

"Before you ask all your 'whys'... allow me one question first."

"Are you... from Fabianum?"

"Yes."

"I thought so. To think an orphan from Fabianum would become the Champion of Septimont."

"Are you surprised?"

"No. Just... regretful."

In the reception room of the Ephor's Palace, Magno's signature smile had faded. Though barely a decade older than Augusta, his expression, in contrast to her youthful fire, resembled that of a man already at death's door.

"That strike of yours," he said suddenly, recalling their duel in the underground pit, "was beautiful. I doubt even my younger self could've parried it."

"Why… even though everyone calls you a hero," Augusta asked, "can I only see resignation in you?"

"I might have lived up to being a hero, but not to being Ephor."

"As a hero, I could answer the hopes of ten... a hundred, even a thousand. But as Ephor, I could not realize a single true vision for Septimont."

"You sit at the pinnacle of power. How can you claim to be powerless?"

"I do not make excuses for myself. When I first took this role, I truly believed I could carry the weight of a thousand hopes."

"But I can lie to myself, but not to reality. Young one... I knew who you were from the very beginning. The day you were brought to Septimont, I knew you were the last survivor of Fabianum."

"Your existence was a blade hanging over me. And the day you became Champion… that blade finally fell. I could no longer hide from the mistake I made—turning a blind eye to Fabianum's fall, just to preserve my own pitiful crown."

"Are you telling me this out of guilt?"

"Maybe. Or maybe… hope." Magno rose and took out a glass from a drawer hidden beneath the desk.

"The crown gave me immense power, but it also turned me into a coward. I am no longer the hero Septimont needs." He raised the empty glass toward her. "Wear the crown, Augusta. You've defeated every opponent you can see. Now it's time to face the ones you can't."

"And you think I'm worthy just because I beat you?"

"No. Nothing so shallow." Magno shook his head. "It's because I heard your name. From the heights of Septimont to its depths, from gilded halls to humble alleyways. Regardless of wealth, strength, class, or creed, the people have been connected by just one name. And I believe, one day, that connection will become the new force that drives Septimont forward."

"I tested the weight of that name with my own sword. That... is the last thing I could offer as Ephor."

"Even if your bones are burned to ash, do not go gentle into that false night." For the briefest moment, through the rim of his glass, a flicker of fire returned to Magno's eyes.

Later that night, the cleaning servants found Magno seated upon the Ephor's throne. His face was pale, lips purple. Poison, they said. A shattered glass lay at his feet, the spilled liquid glistening as it streamed down the steps.

Some said it was the work of rivals.

Others said it was the Senate's gift. An elegant death in a glass.

But most agreed that Septimont needed a new "hero."

And just as Magno had foretold, Augusta's name began to spread across Septimont like a wind.

Spring gave way to autumn, and the Ephor's throne welcomed its new occupant.

Augusta stood where she once had only looked up. She gazed at the throne of thorns that had devoured so many heroes. She thought of Magno on that final night. And in her mind, she saw him raising his glass to the one who would one day sit here, and drinking deeply from the poison.

Augusta didn't have many complicated thoughts in her mind. She hadn't borne hatred toward anyone. She had seen darkness for herself, but she also knew what light looked like.

Her thoughts were simple—

Only one who surpasses all heroes can be called a Hero of Heroes.

And the throne's thorns were just another trial to overcome.

She took her seat and, with steady hands, placed both the shackle and the crown upon her head.

"Ephor Augusta, a message from the Senate. The Senators request an audience... to discuss urgent matters." The herald bowed before the throne.

"Very well," Augusta said, smiling.

She was eager to meet these "opponents" beyond the arena.

"Lead the way."

For Augusta, life as a Hero of Heroes was not so different from before.

When the brief celebrations ended, the mountain of paperwork still remained. However long the thrill of victory lasted, it would always be swept away by the quiet tide of daily life.

But Augusta didn't mind uneventful days like these. The Agons still roared with passion. No matter the era, Septimont remained a nation that burned with fervor.

Everything was moving toward a brighter future. Everyone was moving forward.

And yet, Augusta still had one small worry.

As Septimont's Ephor, she was more than ready to envision a shining future for her people. But as Augusta, she found herself lingering at the footnote of her own story.

From childhood to now, she had walked the path of glory. And now, she stood at its end.

She had fulfilled the ancient prophecy and become the Hero of Heroes she once looked up to.

She had met those destined to walk beside her and overcome trials she once thought impossible.

If one were to write a tale to be passed down through the ages, this might well be its conclusion. The final chapter of Hero of Heroes, Augusta.

A perfect ending. One that left no room for regret.

But life is not a play. It doesn't end just because the climax has passed.

She had to wonder, and she wanted to wonder—

When Septimont no longer needed Augusta, when this land began to give birth to new legends—

When this story truly came to an end... What could she become next?

With that question nagging at her, Augusta slipped away from the Ephor's Palace.

She didn't choose a direction. She let her instincts lead.

As she wandered, she kept thinking—

Should she pursue even greater strength? Seek out new, formidable foes? Explore lands beyond Septimont? Or perhaps, when all was settled, lay down her sword and live out a quiet, contented life?

So many possibilities. So many roads stretched out before her.

By the time Augusta came back to herself, she realized she had walked to the arena. The place that held so many of her memories.

Today was a rest day. The arena, for once, stood empty.

No, not completely empty.

As if drawn by some silent agreement, someone else had wandered in as well.

{Male=His;Female=Her} eyes met Augusta's. And they both smiled, as if sharing a secret known only to the two of them.

Just like that, all of Augusta's worries melted away.

She didn't have the answer yet. But she still had time to find it.

There was no need to rush.

"It's been a while since I've stretched properly…"

"Well, my dear friend—"

"How about a long-overdue spar?"