Tale of the Fake Hero

Chapter 1

"First rank, prepare to fire."

Was humanity’s fate always doomed to be so cruel, simply because we had nothing?

"Damn, those Uruk bastards just keep coming."

"Captain, is it Uruk pork belly for lunch again today?"

"Shut up and focus. Wait, wait, wait—Now! Fire! First rank, reload! Second and third ranks, fire!"

We were not like the Ain (Dwarves), who possessed advanced technology.

Nor were we like the Elves, who could wield all forms of magic.

And we certainly were not like the Dragons, with their overwhelming might.

"Damn it, the left flank is collapsing."

"A surprise attack? Where the hell is the reserve unit?"

"Idiots. Do you really think the reserves need to intervene?"

When humanity stood at the brink of extinction, the gods bestowed five heroes to shoulder our fate.

The ones history called the Warriors.

But the gods must have been playing a cruel joke, for no such heroes had emerged since their era ended. Not a single one.

"Ah, if the reserves aren't heading to the left flank, then…"

So humanity began to artificially create its own heroes.

Their official title: Fake Warriors—Feiquaria.

Soldiers wielding false holy swords, humanity’s strongest fighters tasked with bearing the weight of our survival.

"That means Lady Camilla is over there, doesn’t it?"

A crimson blade gleamed.

Heads of Uruk warriors, their brutish weapons swinging wildly, were severed by the dozens, soaring into the sky.

"I am Camilla Alter Aradamantel."

The blade she wielded was a tachi.

Forged from no metal of this world, its steel shimmered ominously, a weapon of pure slaughter known as a Holy Sword.

A Holy Sword could only be wielded by a Warrior, and this particular weapon was the unique form of the Supreme Holy Sword, Aradamantel.

Which meant that the swordswoman wielding it was, without a doubt, one of humanity’s strongest soldiers—a Feiquaria.

"I will slaughter you all."

The incantation to awaken the Holy Sword.

And with the crimson banquet unleashed by its blade, Uruk blood formed rivers, drenching the land.

***

"Damn, Lady Camilla. You’ve really made a mess again, huh? Look at this, it’s like you turned them into human sashimi."

"These Uruk bastards have taken butchering to an art form."

"Art, my ass."

Fighting the Uruk in battle was grueling, but dealing with the aftermath was sickening.

Villages trampled under their march were left as slaughterhouses, reeking of death.

The monstrous wolves they rode—Blashwurfs—devoured human flesh with relish.

"You’ve seen this a hundred times, and you’re still whining? You wanna get smacked?"

Overlooking the grotesque pile of corpses, Camilla reprimanded the soldiers with an eerie calm.

She stood tall, her frame sleek yet strong.

Beneath her short, snow-white hair, golden dragon-like eyes gleamed with an almost divine intensity.

White hair and dragon eyes—marks of human modification, the most recognizable traits of a Feiquaria.

The world called her Camilla Alter Aradamantel, the Substitute of the Supreme Holy Sword Aradamantel.

"What should we do?"

"What do you mean, ‘what should we do’? Do you expect me to check every mangled face for identification? Gather what we can and burn the rest. A plague would be the last thing we need."

"Understood."

As she turned to leave, a commotion erupted from the village entrance.

"Now what?"

Before her frown could deepen, two mercenaries rushed toward the disturbance, returning shortly with an unknown figure.

"This lunatic stormed into the village and started causing a ruckus. He’s completely mad."

A boy with pitch-black hair and red eyes.

Held aloft by the scruff of his neck, restrained by a mercenary nearly twice his size, he thrashed weakly, as if he hadn't eaten in days.

"Let go! Give it back! Give it back to me!"

Camilla narrowed her eyes.

She stared at the boy, not out of mere curiosity, but because…

‘Where have I seen him before? Why does he seem so familiar?’

The scattered mercenaries, having finished cleanup, gathered around, murmuring among themselves.

"Look at his cheek… isn’t that the Valkrush Clan’s mark?"

"Does that mean he's with the Uruk?"

"Who knows? No sane person would tattoo that on themselves. The captain might know."

Camilla sat on the crumbling steps of the town hall, her expression unreadable as she studied the boy.

Two of the army’s highest-ranking warriors stood beside her.

To her left was a towering beast of a man, as large as an Uruk and covered head to toe in thick fur, his head that of a white bear.

This was Eltoram, the Mercenary Captain.

Eltoram spoke first.

"You’re telling me he just started causing trouble for no reason?"

"Not exactly… He kept demanding to see Lady Camilla. We ignored him, but then he went berserk."

Eltoram’s beastly eyes narrowed, then he strode over to the boy.

Eltoram was no ordinary warrior—he was a Beastkin.

A cursed race, neither of the Abyss nor of the Light.

Beastkin were hated and persecuted across the continent, exiled to the fringes of the world—except on the battlefield.

There, they were unmatched.

With their countless battles, unyielding vitality, and near-inhuman combat instincts, they were the only ones capable of standing toe-to-toe with the Uruk.

Eltoram loomed over the boy.

"Who the hell are you to demand to see Lady Camilla?"

"I want to learn swordsmanship."

"Swordsmanship? Why?"

"Because swordsmanship is the way to kill. And if I want to kill the Uruk bastards, I have to learn it."

A strange silence fell over the crowd.

Then, suddenly, Eltoram burst into laughter, clutching his stomach.

The soldiers followed suit, doubling over in mirth.

"If the Uruk heard this, they’d piss themselves."

"They’d scream ‘Uruk Slayer’ at the top of their lungs!"

"I hope you brought diapers, kid. I’d offer you mine, but I already used it when I first saw them."

Laughter erupted, echoing across the battlefield.

The laughter faded in an instant.

Eltoram suddenly stopped laughing and thrust his face toward Kaisen, locking eyes with him.

"Don't get cocky, brat."

"……"

"Do you think Lady Camilla is some wet nurse here to coddle you? This is a battlefield. There's no place for a snot-nosed kid like you."

His voice carried a dangerous edge, but the boy did not avert his gaze.

He felt no fear.

Because he had already been numbed, broken beyond repair, trampled until nothing remained of his childhood emotions.

‘What kind of kid is this?’

Even the mighty Eltoram was caught off guard.

Most children would piss themselves and flee at the mere glare of an ordinary beastkin.

Yet this boy, facing Eltoram, a beastkin warrior stronger than most, did not flinch in the slightest.

"That brand—where did you get it? Who marked you like that?"

"You’re not going to teach me swordsmanship anyway. And I’m not going to tell you. I’ll just find someone else. Just give me my stuff back and I’ll leave."

"Your stuff?"

"Ah, that, Captain…"

The mercenary holding Kaisen grinned sheepishly, making a coin-sized gesture with his fingers—signaling he had swiped something valuable.

"Pathetic… Do as you will."

Eltoram lost interest, shaking his hands as he walked away, barking orders at a few nearby soldiers.

"You lazy bastards, get back to work!"

The moment he left, Kaisen snapped his head toward the mercenary gripping him.

"Give it back."

"Give what back? Kid, don’t worry about that dangerous thing. I’ll keep it safe for you. Just move along."

"I said, it's mine! Give it back!"

Kaisen lunged at the mercenary.

But with his frail frame, it was a futile struggle.

His opponent wasn’t some lazy conscript—he was an elite mercenary serving on the front lines with the Feiquaria Legion.

"Ha, you little brat… I tried to let this slide, but—"

The mercenary easily knocked Kaisen down and was about to kick him when—

"Enough."

A calm yet firm voice rang out.

A young man in a pristine white robe, standing to Camilla’s right, had spoken.

"What did you take from him?"

His tone was resolute yet gentle, exuding an air of authority that made it impossible to ignore.

The mercenary hesitated.

"It's nothing much—"

"Nothing much?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then it's no trouble to return it, is it? If we steal from others without cause, how are we any different from the Uruk?"

The mercenary grumbled but begrudgingly reached for his belt.

Meanwhile, the man in the white robe knelt before Kaisen, bringing himself to eye level.

"I apologize. My friend here did not act out of malice."

His light blue hair was tied neatly in a ponytail, complementing his striking blue eyes.

"Try to understand. The heat of battle can turn people into beasts. Blood does that sometimes."

A silver brooch in the shape of a wolf’s head was fastened to his robe—

A mark of honor bestowed only upon the top graduates of Winterhold, one of the Empire’s Three Grand Magic Towers.

"I am Johann Wolf Frost. You can call me Wolf."

"……"

"I’m not the most skilled, but I am a mage. Now, can you tell me your name?"

His humility was deliberate yet refined.

The name Wolf was not just a casual nickname—

It was a title reserved for Winterhold’s top graduates, a distinction among distinctions.

And Johann Wolf Frost was no ordinary mage. He was one of the Empire’s Five-Star Grand Magi, an Arquizard, among the highest-ranking scholars of magic.

"……Kaisen."

Wolf repeated the name softly before smiling.

"Kaisen! That’s a wonderful name. It’s derived from an ancient tongue, isn’t it? It means ‘fate’ or ‘connection.’ Who named you?"

"My mother."

"She must have been a very wise woman. What was she like?"

Kaisen bit his lip, hard.

"She’s dead. The Uruk killed her."

When he spat out those words, Wolf’s gaze filled with quiet sympathy.

"The same Uruk tribe that left a brand on your cheek?"

Kaisen dropped his eyes.

A bitter silence settled over the camp.

Even the hardened mercenaries, indifferent as they were, cast him a few pitying glances.

His emaciated frame told the rest of the story—

Kaisen had been surviving on scraps, wandering alone through the war-ravaged south for over a month.

"Here it is."

At last, the mercenary handed over what he had taken.

A short sword.

Kaisen’s mother’s treasured keepsake—

The one thing he had fought so desperately to retrieve because it meant more to him than life itself.

"Wait."

It happened in an instant.

No—

When had she moved?

Camilla, who had been sitting at a distance, had suddenly appeared beside the mercenary, gripping his wrist.

"L-Lady Camilla?!"

Her grip was ironclad.

The mercenary groaned in pain, and the sword slipped from his grasp.

Camilla caught it midair.

"You. Where did you get this?"

She finally looked directly at the boy she had been silently observing all this time.

"Camilla, what are you doing? What’s wrong?"

Despite Wolf’s attempt to mediate, Camilla’s sharp words did not cease, causing even the mercenaries to exchange uneasy glances.

"Where did you steal this from? Are you deaf? Do I need to clean out your ears?"

"I didn’t steal it."

"What nonsense."

"I told you, I didn’t steal it!"

"Then where did you get it? Speak!"

Camilla caught the slight tremor in Kaisen’s voice and the way his eyes reddened.

"It’s my mother’s keepsake… So give it back! That’s all I have left of her!"

For a moment, everyone froze.

"A keepsake?"

Not because of the boy’s outburst.

But because of the sheer, suffocating killing intent that erupted from Camilla, staining the very air red.

"Your mother’s…?"

She grabbed Kaisen’s chin, tilting his face back and forth as she examined him closely.

‘This can’t be.’

Her heart pounded wildly.

The reality before her eyes was something she couldn’t accept.

‘Now that I look closer… he’s the spitting image…’

The moment she unconsciously admitted it, her mind went blank, as if struck by a massive iron hammer.

How?

Her master had died in the final battle of the "Black Summer." There was no way…

"That’s it for him."

The mercenaries, oblivious to Camilla’s internal turmoil, sighed and shook their heads.

"Talking back to Lady Camilla like that."

"She doesn’t care if you’re a kid or an adult. She’s the definition of true equality."

Only Wolf, Camilla’s friend of twenty years, sensed something was off. He grabbed her wrist, prying her hand off Kaisen’s chin.

"Enough! He’s a child who lost his parents. Show some kindness. Let go of him."

Camilla blinked at Wolf before finally releasing Kaisen. As the boy gasped for breath, Wolf gently patted his back.

Then, Camilla spoke again.

"You want to learn how to cut down Uruk? So you can get revenge?"

"Yeah…!"

"Yeah? Then captivate me."

Silence.

Kaisen coughed, Wolf stiffened, and even the mercenaries were left speechless.

"Why are you just staring at me, brat? Didn’t you hear me? Captivate me. Make me want to teach you."

The mercenaries exchanged bewildered looks. Even Wolf seemed dumbfounded.

"L-Lady Camilla?"

"Did I hear that right?"

"Camilla, are you serious?"

Who was Camilla?

She had personally driven away countless disciples of the "Seven Blades of the Holy One," rejecting them with curses and insults.

And, more importantly—

"Camilla, Feiquaria cannot take male disciples. Only women can become Feiquaria."

To be a Feiquaria’s disciple meant being a chosen successor.

Holy Swords were typically inherited by disciples, making this relationship more than just that of teacher and student—it was the passing of a sacred duty.

"Who said I’m taking him as a disciple? I just want to see if the kid has potential. What’s with the fuss?"

"How can I captivate you?"

Kaisen shot back defiantly, and the mercenaries erupted in cheers.

Camilla spat on the ground.

Then, in one swift motion, she grabbed a longsword from a nearby mercenary’s belt and tossed it to Kaisen.

"Catch."

"…?"

"I hate people who just talk. If you truly want to learn the sword, then fight me. Like your life depends on it."

Kaisen blinked as Camilla provocatively twirled Laminea’s short sword in her grip.

"If you manage to land a single hit on me—no, even if you graze me—I’ll return this sword and teach you."

"…!"

"But if I win, I keep this. Because a keepsake is wasted on someone who’s about to die. If you want to quit, do it now. I’ll let you leave with the sword."

The mercenaries shook their heads, chuckling at the absurdity of it all.

"Lady Camilla, just say you don’t want to teach him."

"Kid, take the sword and walk away while you can."

Kaisen quickly assessed the situation.

It was clear this was highly unusual behavior for Camilla. If he had any chance, he had to seize it before she changed her mind.

That’s why, in the next moment, he said—

"You promised."

The mercenaries gaped. Even Camilla’s eyebrow twitched slightly.

All eyes were now on Kaisen.

Even Wolf couldn’t believe what he was seeing—

Kaisen had grabbed the longsword from the ground and pointed it directly at Camilla.

"If I win, you’ll teach me how to wield a sword."