1. The man had no talent. He was mediocre.
Throughout his life, he possessed no extraordinary talent. The words of his master, whom he met in his boyhood, crossed his mind.
“You have no such brilliant thing as talent.”
He recalled the drunken voice of a colleague from his youth.
“We’re expendable. Nothing more than shields.”
He remembered the murmur of the strongest “hero” of humankind, whom he encountered in his old age.
“You are a half-baked person.”
Their words were all true. The man possessed no special talent, no ability to achieve his dreams.
1
This had been evident since the man’s boyhood. He frequented the swordsmanship dojo built on a plateau in his village, but he never once achieved any notable results. He never managed to defeat a swordsman with even a sliver of talent. Even against younger opponents, the same held true. He even tasted defeat at the hands of children a decade younger than him. It was then that he learned that humiliation tasted like sand.
Still, his rank wasn’t the lowest. If he had been so weak that he couldn’t win against anyone—no, even then, he surely wouldn’t have stopped his reckless pursuit. That was the strength of youth.
The feeling of admiration was fresh and full of vitality.
“I want to be strong, stronger.”
He had loved swords since he was a child. The hero in a certain heroic tale his mother read to him in bed was a “swordsman.” The image of the hero cleaving clouds with a flash of his sword, helping the weak, and bisecting a wicked empire was dazzling to his young mind.
“I want to be a hero like that, I want to be one.”
At first, it was a childish longing that everyone could have. Chasing the shadow of that dream, he swung his sword every day. In the ivy-covered ruins on the outskirts of the village, only the sound of his breathing echoed.
The reason he trained in a deserted place was that the villagers would mock him.
“It’s a waste of effort. He’d be better off learning to farm.”
Perhaps because of this, he had no memories of playing with other children his age. It didn’t matter. He knew he wasn’t a precocious genius. He unsparingly carved out time, thinking, “That’s why training is important.” He devoted himself to training, rain or shine, snow or wind, day or night. Through these days, the sword of admiration was tempered by passion, hammered by others, and polished to a shine with each taunt and ridicule. The unclouded blade became an irreplaceable driving force for the rest of his life.
No matter how much he was pointed at, he swung his sword. No matter how fruitless it was, he never tired of it.
The sensation of the blisters on his hands bursting became familiar after a year. The discomfort of sweat dripping from his body became bearable after half a year, the strain on his hands and shoulders after two years, the pain in his joints after three years, and the sensation of his nerves being sharpened became something he liked after four years…
The awareness that he was taking one step at a time towards his goal drove his mediocre body. Following his master’s advice, he was straightforward and unwavering.
The man simply swung his sword.
2
His lack of talent remained unchanged even as he entered his youth. His swordsmanship was textbook perfect, his judgment in emergencies sound. Yet, everything remained within the realm of mediocrity. His physical abilities were, of course, no match for the heroes.
However, the results of his years of effort finally bore fruit. Before he knew it, the man had become the best swordsman in the village. But it wasn’t entirely due to his hard work. The swordsmen who surpassed him had already left the village. The remaining villagers were all engaged in farming. It was only natural that the man who continued to swing his sword without interacting with people or learning to farm would become the best. He later heard that the villagers ridiculed him behind his back.
But, for better or worse…
“My hard work has paid off.”
He made that happy mistake. It was no wonder. He had spent all of his time interacting with others swinging a sword. This was the consequence of growing up without developing his thinking skills. He didn’t suspect the villagers who praised him outwardly.
So, he was content with this era. He was naive enough to believe in effort and disregard talent.
However, the cruel opportunity for a reality check came. He realized it was a sham a few years later.
Because his family was poor, he left the village and knocked on the doors of a mercenary band. There, he finally understood the absurdity of talent—through the existence of the heroes he had long admired.
His first battlefield. The wilderness he was sent to as a mercenary. A place, once a city, swept by a deadly whirlwind caused by a hero. Literally one against a thousand. If the hero drew his sword once, he would annihilate divisions and slaughter the man’s fellow mercenaries as if crushing insects. “Heroes,” they were called, these monsters.
If an ordinary person faced them, death was as good as guaranteed. In the blink of an eye, their head would fly off…
The words a fellow mercenary uttered pierced his heart.
“Ah. Indeed, we are just shields.”
Corpses piled up into mountains. Blood splattered and dripped onto the ground, forming rivers. The heroes displayed their unparalleled power, mowing everything down, and even trampling the heart of the man who barely survived. The childish perceptions he had cultivated through fairy tales and heroic epics were overturned, and the admiration he had polished in his heart was about to break before reality.
Heroes were no longer human. Not even living creatures. They were weapons too vicious to be called such, nothing but grim reapers.
“Is the difference in talent this great?”
He stood there, stunned. His worn sword fell from his blood-red hands. It was difficult to even cross swords with them properly. He experienced his first setback, overwhelmed by the absurdity.
Yet, he couldn’t give up his admiration.
“After all, I was just a frog in a well.”
He wiped away his frustration with his sweat and swung his sword frantically. He repeated the words that encouraged him.
“There’s no need to be discouraged.”
“What I first admired was much greater.”
“It wasn’t such a small wish as ‘the best swordsman in the village’.”
“I should have known.”
“I should have known.”
Life is short. Would it be enough to catch up to them? If he thought so, even the time to be pessimistic was precious. He muttered to himself, “A boy grows old quickly, but a hero is hard to make.” He tried everything, making every effort he could.
“Walking a thousand miles on foot.”
“Reaching out to the sun that illuminates all.”
He knew that a commoner’s recklessness in trying to rival a hero was a pipe dream. But he hadn’t expected to reach the realm of heroes so easily. Then, nothing should change. His actions, his goals, nothing would change.
He swung his sword as always.
To begin with, it was too late to give up now. By this time, he had lost everything but his admiration. While the man was working as a mercenary, his only home, the village, had been caught in the war. Only remnants like charcoal, ash, and burnt debris remained. His parents, of course, his master, and the villagers he knew were all gone from this world.
He had lost his dream, and even the place to return to had vanished.
The man had no education. He had neglected even helping with farm work and was not good at interacting with people. He had devoted all his time to training, and only his sword and his dream remained.
He had lost all meaning in stopping. He just began to feel fear at the thought of looking back. He thought it was a sign that somewhere in his heart, he was about to give up.
“Will I never become a hero?”
“Will all my efforts be in vain?”
To dispel such doubts, he continued to train even harder. It could be said that it was a time when his pure admiration wavered.
3
He hadn’t changed even in his old age. He whipped his aging body, ignoring the creaks and groans, and swung his sword. He still held onto his admiration for heroes. Rather, by that time, he no longer even felt doubt. Perhaps it was because he had passed the age where he could turn back. In any case, he was no longer swayed by sudden wicked thoughts. This was the only blessing of growing old.
The man had become the oldest member among the mercenaries. Fifty years had passed since he joined the mercenary business. He had almost given up at the beginning, gritted his teeth at the absolute wall of talent, and yet continued to be on the battlefield.
Every time he interacted with people, he lost them. The cunning man, mercenary-like and selfish, was reduced to dust by the aftershock of a magic spell. The kind-hearted giant exploded after being kicked by a hero. The young woman who became a mercenary was used as a shield against arrows in her first battle.
The list was endless. It was a wonder that he, a mediocre person, had managed to survive on the battlefield for fifty years. In fact, betting on when the man would die had become a regular event among the mercenaries.
“Perhaps the talent heaven has bestowed upon me is bad luck.”
He thought so half-jokingly, but it was frighteningly close to the truth. For a man aspiring to be a hero, such a nightmarish talent was truly unseemly.
Still, there was one reason he continued to stand on the battlefield. It was to gain experience that would benefit him. On the battlefield, various skilled individuals would unhesitatingly display their techniques to achieve victory. For him, the bloody battlefield was a veritable mountain of treasure.
He carefully observed, analyzed, digested, and incorporated the battles of the strong into his own body. However, this didn’t mean imitating them. He was just an ordinary person, and there were limits to what he could imitate and learn from.
In other words, this wasn’t much different from his usual sword swinging. Both were the same, nothing but a run-up to reach the distant heroes.
And the passage of time alone held great significance. Many people came to admire him, despite his lack of swordsmanship talent. His name even spread a little among the enthusiasts in the streets.
They even gave him unnecessary nicknames. “Shura” and “Berserker”—.
“What disgraceful nicknames,” he thought. It’s not like he was going out to battle for fun.
He remembered muttering to someone while sipping cheap alcohol he bought with his meager pay. Heroes are only found on the battlefield.
“Then I just have to go there.”
4
His end was abrupt. Before sunset. A battlefield dyed entirely in the colors of the setting sun. Mountains of corpses were piled up, and rivers of blood lay across the ground.
The man gripped his old sword with wrinkled hands. His long, bundled white hair swayed in the wind. His battle-scarred armor peeked out from under his faded coat. His body was covered in wounds from splattered blood, but he was poised to leap out at any moment. His eyes, filled with strong will, were fixed on only one thing.
Only the strongest hero standing there—.
“Solfort Enuma… There’s something I’ve wanted to ask you for a while now.”
“…What is it?”
The old mediocre man, Solfort Enuma, replied curtly in a hoarse voice.
The hero he faced was a young woman in her mid-teens.
Gender differences only mattered in the realm of ordinary people. Both physically and mentally, talent alone determined one’s standing. This was a cruel fact for the untalented Solfort, and the prime example of this ranking was the great hero before his eyes.
Not yet twenty years old, she was the strongest human alive.
Her long hair, shimmering gold in the setting sun, fluttered in the wind. Her blue eyes showed no sign of being moved by Solfort’s gaze. Her annoyingly well-featured face was like that of a noble lady, utterly incongruous with the carnage of the battlefield. In contrast, the density of the killing intent she emanated was extraordinary. The silver equipment she wore was a testament to the six great heroes of the continent’s largest empire—the “Six Wings.”
Her power was beyond doubt. With a single flash, she could split the earth, erase mountains, and blow away enemy forces. Once she returned to her country, she would be met with cheers from the populace and showered with praise. She was exactly what Solfort admired.
In other words, she possessed the strength befitting the protagonist of a heroic tale.
(I see, my goal was the strongest. No wonder it was so difficult to reach.)
The great hero tilted her head at his chuckle.
“Why are you so obsessed with battle? I can’t understand it. I heard you’ve been on the front lines since the previous generation. Not dying, not retiring, you’ve wandered the battlefields as a veteran soldier until now. Why are you fighting, with no fame and not much skill? What’s the core of your obsession?”
“Foolish question.”
Solfort cut her off shortly.
“Plenty of people have asked me similar things.”
And he waited for the power circulating through his body to reach its peak.
He wasn’t obsessed with battle. He was obsessed with heroes. Tasting the air of the battlefield, burning the activities of the heroes he aimed for into his eyes, struggling to survive between life and death. This was just a part of his training. It wasn’t something that should be questioned now, as far as he was concerned.
He had no obligation to answer such an irrelevant question. However, it was a question from the “strongest of mankind,” whom he aspired to be. It wouldn’t be bad to answer her, just this once. He thought so.
To put it simply, there was only one reason he stood on the battlefield.
It was the same reason he swung his sword as a boy.
“Because I haven’t even grasped a fraction of the dream I hold—!”
He unleashed his pent-up power. He kicked off with his right foot and propelled his aging body forward. All his strength was for this moment.
He closed the distance like a gust of wind.
He didn’t have the robust body to exchange blows with a hero. He didn’t have the skill to compete with a hero, either, even if he claimed he did.
That’s why the only chance he had was a single strike. There would be no opportunity after the second blow. If he hoped for that, his head and torso would be separated.
He mustered all the strength left in his old body. He staked everything on the sword he gripped. The fruits of a lifetime of training, imbued with blood and sweat—
He would show them to this hero.
In the orange-tinged battlefield, two shadows intersected—and the outcome was decided. One shadow slumped powerlessly to the ground.
The remaining one muttered, seemingly bored.
“—You are half-baked.”
※※※※※※※※※※
Thus, the life of the old, mediocre man came to an end. Looked down upon by the great hero, hailed as the strongest of mankind. Branded a “half-baked” person by the ultimate goal of his life. None of the ridicule he had received was overturned. All his efforts were in vain, his dreams remained dreams and vanished like bubbles, and he ended his life as a mere mercenary.
The ending was unrewarding.
Solfort Enuma was mediocre to the end. His longed-for swordsmanship talent was only ordinary. Even though he devoted himself to training, never neglected observation, and diligently worked on his basic strength, results never followed. In the end, he only reached a level of strength that a hero would consider “half-baked.”
He had spent his entire life and was only half-baked. Then.
Then, if he had just one more lifetime… could he become a hero?
—Let me correct myself. The life of the old mediocre man had temporarily come to an end.
※※※※※※※※※※
The battlefield at dusk, reeking of death, from which the living had retreated. The starlight and moonlight shining on the flocks overhead. Only the distant flames illuminated the death ground. The heat of the atmosphere scorched the stillness, and all the debris remained buried in the darkness. Broken swords, shattered bows, and splintered staffs. Even the hopes someone held must be crouching on the ground, exposing their corpses.
In such a silent place, where only corpses slept, a small shadow stirred—.
It was the mediocre man, Solfort Enuma. He muttered, feeling nauseated by his dull thoughts and blurred vision.
“…Alive, I am. Indeed, I am alive. So that fellow kept his promise, it seems.”
He murmured in a voice that lacked reality.
Solfort was surprised. And shaken.
But after a few seconds, he calmed down.
He suddenly remembered. A past event directly related to this bizarre situation crossed his mind. He still remembered it because the man he met then was quite eccentric.
He thought of the man who called himself “the greatest magician.”
(It must have been during my youth.)
Solfort had asked him for a favor.
—If I should perish before achieving my ambition, then please give me another chance to run, to reach my goal. I want a second chance.
At the time, it was a half-joking remark.
Because such a thing was impossible. Only a magician from a fairy tale could do that. Transferring the soul of a dead person to another body, an act akin to reincarnation. It was like sticking a toe into God’s domain. As someone who wasn’t well-versed in magic, that’s what he thought—
In the end, who was that mysterious magician? Was the title of “the greatest magician,” which he boasted about without hesitation, actually true? He had never imagined he would be plagued by such questions decades later.
But, the reality was that he was alive after death. He was once again inhaling and exhaling the stench of the battlefield.
Just in case, he looked around. Because night was approaching, darkness filled his vision. However, there was no doubt that this was the place where he had fought the great hero. His beloved sword lay beside him. It was irreplaceable.
Keeping it in sight, he tentatively touched the ground with his hand. He could feel the rough texture on his skin. There was no feeling of floating in his body, either. It didn’t seem like his body was a spirit. He was definitely flesh and blood.
What had happened? The confusion in his head wouldn’t subside.
It wouldn’t subside, but—there was no mistaking that he was alive. Thinking so, he tried to calm his mind.
“Why…”
However. There was just one thing.
There was something he couldn’t understand.
“Why am I a girl…!?”
He had felt a sense of discomfort from the moment he opened his eyelids. His startled voice was cute and high-pitched, unlike his own. His white hair, which reached his waist, was the same as before his death.
But strangely, it had a sheen.
His palms were delicate, the opposite of his calloused, scratched, and hardened hands. His snow-white hands and feet were small, and his field of vision was even lower than before.
The only clothes he wore were a loose, yellowed shirt. It was the one he wore as an old man, and the collar was caught on his left shoulder. This was no different from being naked.
When he reached into his crotch, it was confirmed. What should have been there… had completely vanished… reality.
(That fellow, I certainly didn’t specify anything other than a second chance—!)
Confusion, confusion, confusion. His thoughts completely stopped.
—Is this some kind of hallucination I’m having just before I die?
He seriously pondered this, but as a despairingly certain fact, Solfort Enuma had transformed into a little girl who might not even be ten years old. The man who had single-mindedly pursued his dream of becoming a hero throughout his life.
The mediocre man nicknamed “Shura” and “Berserker.”
His second life, aimed at becoming a hero, had ironically begun in the form of a little girl—.
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