I had found myself surprisingly intrigued. While the powers that Katrina and Jack had displayed - Katrina in particular - would have made them rather effective heroes, I had yet to hear notable mention of heroes.

Where had they gone?

Surely, they still existed.

In fact, there were a number of pieces that I was certain were missing; why were so many people Marked, as Victor had been? The world had clearly changed in my absence - to a frightening degree, though I was sure that some of it must have been for the better. My world had its moments, but it had often been a terrible place. Certainly near the end, it had been declining - an unfortunate reality in which I had played no small part.

I voiced my questions to Katrina, Jack, and Will; due to their knowledge of my so-called amnesia, they accepted my ignorance.

They told me a story.

In the years following my death, the world had changed drastically; new lines were drawn, both on a humanitarian and a geographic scale.

Under the heel of supervillains and superheroes alike, the powerless of the world had felt helpless. Slowly, inevitably, Rothel burned to ashes. Innocents died, cities collapsed, countries were ruined. Creatures mutated, mountains crumbled, and hope was lost.

Rothel was dying.

Finally, a new hero arrived, one who would change the world: The Great Hero Azel. I recognized her name faintly, remembering that it had been mentioned in passing by Neladrie. The almost religious way that the others spoke of her - even the habitually irreverent Jack - pointed toward her influence in the annals of humanity.

In the years that followed, the map was separated into ten different nations, with the outskirts of these nations standing as a sort of no man's land. Each nation was founded by a single Savior; one of ten different heroes that had been chosen by Azel and empowered with her own ability, Marking them forever. By undergoing specific rituals to mirror these Marks, the formerly powerless could form a connection to a single individual Savior's Mark, gaining access to the Savior's own superpower - along with the potential to gain up to four other, more limited abilities over time known as conduits - in return for small tithes of life each time they used the main power. All the while, natural superhumans - now known only as Corrupted - had begun to disappear.

I wasn’t sure why that was the case; superpowers had always been rare, but not so uncommon as they seemed to be now.

Still, at least I knew why the Guard kept calling me a Corrupted. I supposed Leo was right about me. He would get to keep his winnings - not that I agreed with the name.

It was oddly derogatory.

Regardless, it seemed that I had an answer for the lack of traditional heroes: the world had soured on the concept, connecting them to the death of my own society.

Hopefully, I would be able to change that.

With that source of curiosity settled, we moved onto other things.

Jack laughed again, to which Katrina responded with an idle swat of her boneblade. It didn’t come close, but it served its purpose as an admonishment. Or, well, it would if Jack had not been Jack.

Instead, he just kept laughing.

“So you’re really stuck like that until tomorrow?” I asked again.

She sighed, looking as annoyed as ever. “Unfortunately. [Boneshape] is a once-a-day sort of conduit. Most people just use it to change little things; you know, thicken up their bones over time, make themselves a bit sturdier. This works better for me, but it has its drawbacks. If I use it like this, I’m stuck for the whole day - and if I change back the next day, the conduit could be empty when I need it.”

She held up her hammerhand. “It’s one of the reasons I do a different type for each arm. Gives me a bit more function after I get stuck like this.”

Jack interjected. “Except she still can’t even -”

Katrina swatted at him again, landing far closer this time. He stopped talking.

Though I found the whole thing slightly amusing, I decided to change the subject.

“So what do mercenaries like you guys do, anyway? I’m not quite clear on it.”

With both Jack and Katrina still distracted, Will was the first to answer. “It can vary. Guard detail, bandit dispersal, monster hunts, special requests...if you can think of it, there’s likely a mercenary group that is willing to do it. Some of the larger groups over in the capital hire themselves out for the more major things. Katrina’s Killers mostly focuses on bandit dispersal and monster hunts. We’re good at it, too. Even have a good reputation, despite some members.” He shot a pointed look at Jack, who only rolled his eyes.

It almost seemed like a heroes-for-hire situation, sans the name. I wasn’t exactly disapproving, as we all had to make a living somehow. It did make me wonder, though…

“What major things?”

“Wars, larger-scale monster hunts, the occasional more illicit contracts; it depends on the company, really.”

“Illicit contracts?” I couldn’t help but ask.

“Sometimes companies get hired for more dubious reasons, especially here in Noumenon. The anonymous nature of Risen, in that there is little to no risk of your face being seen in many situations, means that those companies with...less than perfect scruples choose to operate on the black market.”

I nodded. Though disappointed, it was a fact of life that crime and criminals would always exist - just as heroes did, whether they went by that name or not.

Speaking of heroes and criminals, Roy should have arrived by now...

Roy, The Night Before

“Boy,” a voice slurred. “Make yourself useful for once and get me another drink.”

He simmered. He seethed. He smoldered.

Still, Roy complied, hating himself all the while - hating his weakness, hating his vulnerability, hating his lack of control.

It was a familiar show. He had seen it time after time; he had watched the actors, both father and son, run through their lines until the lines simply ran together. The script felt meaningless. Monotonous. He didn’t want to listen any longer, didn’t want to speak any longer - but it was always there, bringing him right back. He hated that, too.

“You disgust me,” the father would say. He would look upon the son with contempt, with condemnation, with scorn. “You disgusted her, too.”

The boy would deny it, of course. He would say that his mother had been sick. He would say that he had only been an infant. He would say that her suicide hadn’t been his fault.

He would say all those things, but the conviction wouldn’t be there anymore.

The actor had long become tired of his lines.

And so when the father would reply, enraged, asserting that her blood was on his hands…

He wouldn’t bother to deny it.

The show would run to its inevitable conclusion, just as it always did. The curtains would fall, ready to rise anew.

The drink clattered to the floor, loosened from Roy’s trembling grip. It tumbled and toppled, spilling itself against his father’s discarded armor of bone. The actor failed to play his part. The lines changed.

Something about that made him smile. Markus - crazy, terrifying man that he was - had the right of things. Despair had convinced Roy that there was no option but for the show to go on - that his only choice for solace was to endure until the new day. That his only option for rebellion was the quiet sort; secretly becoming the opposite of his father in every way, becoming the Thief to his Guard - however poorly they might both perform their roles.

There were other options, though, weren’t there?

He walked outside, leaving his father’s shouting behind him - leaving the show without an actor.

The choice was there, wasn’t it? He didn’t have to be his father’s opposite.

He would simply be better than his father - better at everything he held pride in. It was a vindictive sort of choice, true, but it was one that he could make. Other choices could come later.

Starlight fell from the sky, lighting the Barracks District with its dim glow. A breeze blew past, the cold air brushing against the pink-red bruise beginning to form upon his face. Though it hurt, he kept smiling.

There were many things that had hurt far worse.

Unwilling to return home, he wandered past the invisible line that divided the Barracks and Low Districts. The streets changed; the chaos grew. He had always loved the disorganized district, despite its negative traits. One could get lost in these streets, in the Low Districts’ meandering alleys and byways, with a comforting ease - comforting, for it meant that it was just as hard to be found.

He wandered for hours, basking in the freedom brought by chaos. Until he heard a woman’s scream - and Roy made another choice, only to find that he wasn’t the only one.

From his place behind the alley’s corner, he recognized the tattered clothes. He recognized the bestial tactics. He recognized little else.

Markus was covered from head to toe; in blood, in wounds, in rage. His face was split into a rictus of fury, his eyes clouded and unfocused. The alley was coated in crimson - far more than should have been possible.

The strange man darted forward, only to be startled by a last minute [Swap]. A few moments later, Markus had been split wide open by one of his opponents’ [Transfiguration]-created claws.

Roy started. His legs began to move. Cursing his stupidity, he didn’t stop them. He rounded the corner fully as Markus finally fell to his knees.

Then, Markus changed.

A thousand, thousand legs ripped from his flesh. Bugs spilled into the open air from his many exposed wounds. They poured from his gaping throat. They dripped from his open mouth.

And when that wasn’t enough, they simply cut themselves from his flesh.

The man screamed, the sound heartrending in its rage and in its grief. The bugs screamed with him, releasing a buzzing drone of their own. What came next was far worse.

Roy felt his gorge rising, but resisted his body’s insistent demands. Sweat beaded on his forehead, trailing down in thin droplets that dripped into his eyes. He kept them open, ignoring the sting.

He couldn’t close them, even had he wished to.

Screams tore through the night, breaking the silence that cloaked the world outside of the alley.

Finally, they stilled. The alley froze itself in time, a tableau vivant painted in hues of red and rose.

All was still, in the alley of crimson, save for one section of the canvas - one grieving man’s shoulders as he silently wept.

Roy turned and ran.

He didn’t go home that night.

Instead, he simply wandered in the comforting chaos of the Low District. Thinking. Remembering. Trembling.

One thousand legs and one thousand mouths, moving as one to -

He cut himself off, forcing himself to remember something else.

A grieving man, silently weeping, surrounded by filth. A reckless man, broken and battered, plummeting from a high ceiling. An insane man, vibrating with excitement, telling a worthless young thief that he could become a hero.

He never stopped trembling; it was far too early for that. Still, as starlight gave way to the radiance of dawn, he made a choice.

He could only hope that it was the correct one.

He trembled still, as he finally walked into The Pits later that day.