A lone soldier stands among the dead, their bodies reduced to ash or shadows on the barren and cracked ground. Even the steel of their armaments has been melted down to slag.

  Lava erupts from geysers all around him, covering the ground and removing all that was once there. It sweeps across the battlefield like a tidal wave and moves as if it had a mind of its own, suddenly changing course to devour anything that still lives.

  His raised shield is all that protects him from the flames falling from the sky like rain. But it burns his hand as the shield grows hotter and hotter. Soon enough he'll be forced to drop it, the pain outweighing his will to live.

  Apart from the crackling of flames and the bubbling of magma, it's quiet. Even calming in a way. To be the last one among all those he once considered comrades, friends, superiors and subordinates.

  It was freeing, yet also damning. His rank meant nothing. All his accomplishments, struggles, victories, and defeats, they were all meaningless in the end.

  He wouldn't have to answer to his superior for his failure to warn the others.

  He wouldn't have to make the journey home, ashes in hand, to be the one who brought the news to the fallen’s family. Although that was if they had one or one that cared. Most were forced into this life, either by their utter failure in every other field or the pressure to enlist.

  One of that first category was his closest friend. A man of minor nobility, a small estate in a worthless mountain range. He was different from most nobles. He was kind, honest, and a gentle soul. They'd met at the training grounds, where they'd been given a few days of drills before being thrown into the carnage.

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  He was dead, somewhere among the ashes. Maybe his body was still intact. Maybe the flames had miraculously spared him. Although that hardly mattered, even if he found the body he wouldn't be able to identify it. He couldn't remember his face.

  Everything else drowned it out.

  The shield was so painful to hold now. He could feel it scorching his skin through the gloves. But he could bear it, as long as he thought of something else.

  A better time. The past. A time when he could live without worry.

  He could still remember those marble streets. They were so beautiful, polished and waxed each week. One could see their own reflection in them.

  Those ornate lanterns. Each made a talented smith, cages of various designs and shapes protecting a meager flame.

  Those smiling faces, his own. The children playing in alleys without care, merchants making small talk with their customers, women speaking in hushed whispers of the man they fancied, and men jokingly insulting their friends.

  He remembers his mother.

  A quiet and reserved woman. But to her family she had a different face. She was energetic and caring, always hugging him close in a grip that could make bears squirm. She never was the same when father died. He could tell, regardless of how well she tried to hide it. She became ill shortly after. They never did figure out what it was, only that she needed constant aid as she was bedridden from it.

  She was dead now, he's certain of it. There's not the slightest chance someone filled his place. Did she still lay in that bed, waiting for her dear son to return? Or was she already gone, the starving having broken into his home to devour her remains?

  The thought would bring tears to his eyes if they weren't so dry.

  He was meant to be better, an official. But he was too poor, too tied down, too simple minded, he lacked the conviction.

  Could this have been different? Was there a world in which he wasn't here, waiting to die on a battlefield where none would remember his name? To become one of those things his mother spoke of, those who couldn't truly die, those who were fated to roam the world as tortured spirits?

  He looks towards the only survivor, a man who persevered regardless of the challenge, the man who led them through victories, the one who would save them all, the Hero.

  The Hero battled against the scourge of man, a dragon. It has scales of magma and wings of fire. Injuries span its body from which orange blood pours from. One eye is missing, torn out in their struggle.

  But even as gouts of flame wash over the Hero, even as the dragon swipes at him with its claws, he presses forward, an unwavering beacon of hope.

  He would remember them all, the soldier was sure of it. He wouldn't fall here. He would stand against any threat, whether that be dragon or man, he would lead them to a new tomorrow.

  To a land with golden shores, with trees bearing fruit filled with nectar, a place bathed in rays of gold, a place where none would starve, for that is what it means to be a hero.

  The soldier falls to his knees…and drops his shield, trusting the one before him to lead them unto a new dawn.