I killed a Hero

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DATE:19th of July, the 70th year after the Coronation

LOCATION: Concord Metropolis

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The air was thick with the smell of pine and damp earth, the kind of scent that seemed to cling to everything out here in the wilderness. It was almost suffocating, as if the forest itself was alive, breathing, and watching. The truck rumbled to a stop, and the sound of the engine faded into the heavy silence of the woods. For a moment, everything seemed to hold its breath.

Mike stepped out of the truck without a word, his movements smooth and deliberate, as though the forest was an old friend he knew how to speak with. He pulled the rifle from the seat and checked it one last time, ensuring the safety was off and the ammunition was loaded. I followed suit, grabbing my own gear and slipping the Beretta into its holster, but it was clear that this hunt would be different from anything I'd done before. This was about patience. Precision. Respect. The boar wasn't going to make this easy.

Mike didn't say much, but his silence spoke volumes. His eyes scanned the clearing before flicking to me. "Stay close. Boars aren't predictable."

I nodded and fell in line behind him as he led the way into the thick underbrush. The dense trees and tangled bushes seemed to swallow us whole, the world outside the forest vanishing with every step we took. The path was almost non-existent—just faint tracks in the dirt, the occasional broken branch where something had passed through recently. Mike's boots made little sound as he moved, and I tried to follow in his footsteps, careful not to disturb the ground too much.

We moved deeper into the woods, and I found myself paying more attention to the small things—the rustle of leaves in the wind, the snap of twigs underfoot, the way the light filtered through the canopy above, casting fractured shadows on the forest floor. The sounds of the forest were almost too loud, too present. I could hear everything—the scurrying of small animals, the distant call of a bird, the deep, slow creak of a tree branch stretching in the breeze.

Mike's eyes were constantly darting around, searching for any sign of movement. Every now and then, he would stop and crouch low to examine the ground, inspecting the tracks left by the boar or the way the leaves had been disturbed. He was patient. Patient in a way that felt unnatural to me. I was used to moving quickly, making decisions on the fly, but out here, speed didn't matter. It was all about taking your time, reading the landscape, understanding the rhythms of the wilderness.

An hour passed in silence, the only sound being the wind and our footsteps as we moved deeper into the woods. Then, Mike paused suddenly, holding up a hand. I stopped immediately, my senses sharp. He was looking down at the ground, his eyes narrowed. He crouched, his hand brushing the dirt carefully.

"Fresh tracks," he murmured. His voice was quiet but intense. "We're close."

I moved closer, trying to see what he was seeing. The tracks were deep, the earth disturbed in a way that made it clear the boar had passed through not long ago. The ground was still soft where the animal had moved, and I could see small tufts of hair caught on the edges of the bushes. Mike looked up at me, a faint glint of excitement in his eyes.

"We move slow from here. We don't want to spook it."

I nodded, trying to match his careful, measured movements as we continued our pursuit. We followed the tracks for another hour, moving with the stealth of predators, every sound amplified in the stillness of the forest. The tension was palpable, an electric charge that ran through the air. I felt it in my bones—this hunt wasn't just about the boar. It was about something older, something primal.

Eventually, Mike raised a hand, signaling for me to stop. He was crouched low, his eyes fixed on something in the distance. Through the thick trees, I could just make out the silhouette of the boar, its large frame moving slowly through the underbrush. It was grazing, oblivious to our presence. Mike didn't move, didn't even breathe, his eyes locked on the animal. I mirrored his stance, my body going tense as I prepared for what was to come.

Mike didn't speak, but his hand moved to his rifle. He was calculating, waiting for the perfect shot. I could see the way his fingers gripped the rifle, his stance firm, his entire body focused on the task ahead. I could hear his breath, steady and calm, the only sound in the otherwise silent woods.

The boar's head was down, feeding, its large tusks glinting in the dappled sunlight. It was unaware of us, completely absorbed in its meal. But it wouldn't stay that way for long. Mike's gaze never wavered, his finger hovering over the trigger. Every muscle in his body was coiled, ready to act at a moment's notice.

And then, it happened.

A crack—loud, sharp—split the air, and the boar bolted into the underbrush, its hooves pounding the earth as it dashed away. Mike swore under his breath, standing up quickly and moving toward the trees. "Dammit! It saw us."

I cursed silently. The boar was fast, its instincts honed by years of survival in this harsh landscape. But Mike wasn't giving up that easily. He motioned for me to follow, and we started running, pushing through the thick brush, trying to catch up to the boar before it got too far ahead.

It wasn't easy. The forest was dense, the ground uneven, and the boar was fast—faster than I had expected. It knew how to maneuver through the trees, its movements fluid and quick. Mike and I were close behind, but the gap between us was widening. I could hear the boar snorting ahead of us, the sound of its hooves striking the ground like thunder in the distance.

We pushed harder, sweat beginning to sting my eyes as I tried to keep up. The forest blurred around me, the world narrowing to the chase. We were getting closer. I could feel it. The boar was slowing, its movements more erratic now. It was tired. And we had the advantage.

Mike's rifle was back in his hands, and he was moving quickly, silently, eyes darting to the side, scanning for any sign of the boar. He saw it first—a flash of movement ahead, a large shape breaking through the trees. He raised the rifle, his focus laser-sharp.

The shot rang out.

The boar squealed, a sharp, panicked sound, and staggered forward, its legs buckling as it crashed to the ground. It tried to push itself up, but the wound had done its work. The boar struggled for a few moments, but the fight drained from it quickly.

Mike lowered the rifle, his expression calm but with a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. "It's done."

We approached slowly, cautiously. The boar lay still now, its large body breathing heavily, its eyes wide and glassy. The tusks gleamed, its massive frame stark against the earth.

Mike knelt beside it, examining the wound. "Clean shot. Right through the heart."

I nodded, though I couldn't help but sigh when I looked at it. My father didn't hunt animals. He just bought them whole from hunters. He saw so much blood spilled in his career. How is animal blood any different from a human's?

Mike stood up, wiping his hands on his pants. "We'll haul it back to the truck. It's heavy, but we can manage."

He was right. The boar was enormous, but between the two of us, we managed to drag it toward the truck. The forest felt eerily silent now, the sounds of the hunt fading as we carried our prize back to the vehicle. The truck's engine roared to life as we loaded the boar into the bed, securing it carefully.

The drive back to the cabin was slow, the weight of the boar in the back of the truck making every bump in the road feel more pronounced. But there was a certain satisfaction in the task, a sense of accomplishment that came from bringing down something so wild, so untamed.

When we finally arrived at the cabin, it was late in the evening, the sky painted with shades of orange and purple as the sun set behind the hills. The work wasn't over yet. We had to skin the boar, prepare it for the meat, but there was no rush now. Mike seemed at peace, his earlier restlessness gone.

We set to work in silence, the evening stretching on as we broke down the animal, each motion practiced and deliberate. There was no hurry. This was the way of the woods—slow, steady, respectful.

By the time we finished, the cabin was filled with the scent of fresh meat and the warmth of the fire. Mike sat back in his chair, a contented sigh escaping him as he wiped his hands on his apron.

"We'll eat well tonight," he said, his voice softer than before.

I didn't respond. I was lost in thought, reflecting on the day's hunt. It had been hard work. It had been grueling. But there was something about it that felt... right. Like I was a part of something bigger, something that had been happening for centuries in this untamed land.

And in that moment, I understood a little more about Mike. A little more about the man who had chosen the wilderness as his refuge. It wasn't just about escaping the world. It was about finding peace, balance, and connection to something older than anything else.

I am almost starting to fool myself. As if. I don't care about him. Each time I try to make this memory of my life sound meaningful, to sound like I care, I find myself disgusted. If I lie even in my journal, then what did I live for?

No, I don't understand Mike because I never had a daughter. I simply can't see myself crying over one like him.

And the wilderness? What is the point? Hunting for the sake of hunting is criminal. It is the same thing he did back in the city. And he sees himself as "retired"? That he wants to "let go of the past"? It sure doesn't look like it. Pathetic.

Mike was in the kitchen, busying himself with the stew, the clink of pots and the scent of simmering meat filling the cabin. It was almost comforting, the mundane rhythm of it all. I leaned back in my chair, staring into the fire, letting the warmth soak into my bones. There was a strange sense of peace here, in this cabin, away from the chaos of the city. But Emily's persistent voice in the back of my head wouldn't let me rest.

I pulled out my phone from my pocket, the screen glowing in the dim light. With a quick swipe, I activated the connection to Emily, stepping out onto the small porch where Mike couldn't hear me. The wind was still, the only sound the rustle of the trees in the distance. The night was quiet, but Emily's voice cut through the silence.

"You know," she said, her tone sharp as ever, "I'm still scanning the Bar."

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "I told you, Emily. We've been there four days. Nothing's come up. If they were around, we'd have found something by now."

"I know, I know," she said, a small hint of frustration creeping into her voice. "But we shouldn't have left the bar. The lead pointed there. We should've stayed longer, kept watching. If they were there, they'd have shown themselves."

I leaned against the railing, looking out into the darkness. Her words echoed in my mind, and I couldn't shake the feeling that she was right, that maybe we had missed something by leaving.

"The bar?" I muttered under my breath. "It's just a bar, Emily. The lead wasn't solid, and we've already spent too much time chasing shadows."

"You're wrong," she replied quickly, her voice tense. "You can't just dismiss it. There was something there, I'm telling you. The masked men—whoever they are—are connected to that place. They might have been watching us, waiting for us to leave. But you walked away, and now we've lost our edge."

I glanced back through the window, seeing Mike moving around, his focus entirely on the stew. He was oblivious to the conversation happening just outside, to the growing sense of urgency that was tightening around me.

"I don't know, Emily," I said, my voice quieter now. "We're not getting anywhere, and I'm tired of chasing nothing."

I could almost hear her frown through the phone. "Maybe. But I'm telling you, we're not done with that bar. We should have stayed. We can't let it go yet. I'll keep scanning, but you need to reconsider."

I took a deep breath, the weight of her words pressing down on me. She wasn't wrong, but I wasn't sure how much longer I could stay on this wild goose chase. Still, there was something about the urgency in her voice, the conviction that we were missing something crucial.

"I'll think about it," I said reluctantly, rubbing my eyes. "But right now, I need to get some rest. It's been a long day."

Emily didn't respond immediately, and I could almost feel the reluctance in her pause. "Fine. But don't just ignore the lead. I'll keep monitoring the bar. I have access to the cameras. If anything pops up, you'll be the first to know." Was she becoming autistic? Or what was this hyperfixation about?

"Thanks," I muttered, ending the call with a quick tap of the screen. I slipped the phone back into my pocket, the weight of it still lingering in my hand. For a moment, I just stood there, staring out at the quiet forest, trying to let the stillness settle over me. But Emily's words kept swirling in my mind. I had a sinking feeling that she was right. That I had missed something, and now, it was too late to go back.

I let out a long breath and turned back toward the cabin. Mike was still busy with the stew, humming quietly to himself. The fire flickered in the hearth, and the smell of the food seemed to draw me in like a magnet. I walked inside, the warmth of the cabin hitting me as I slipped back in from the cold.

"Everything alright?" Mike asked without looking up from the pot, his voice casual, almost too casual.

I nodded, forcing a smile. "Yeah, just a little too much thinking for one day."

Mike didn't respond to that. Instead, he just smiled and gave a quick nod. "Good stew though. I think it's almost done."

I sat down at the table, trying to push the uneasy feeling from my chest. Emily's warnings were still fresh in my mind, but I knew I had to let go of it for now. The day had been long, and I needed rest if I was going to keep going tomorrow.

As the minutes ticked by, Mike plated the stew and set a bowl in front of me. The chunks of boar and potatoes looked hearty, the broth thick and flavorful. It was exactly what I needed—a simple, grounding meal. I scooped up a spoonful and took a bite, the warmth of the food spreading through me.

Mike watched me for a moment, then spoke again. "You know, you're not alone in this. I get it—feels like you're carrying the world on your shoulders sometimes. But you can't always fight everything at once."

I raised an eyebrow at him, setting my spoon down. "What are you talking about?"

"I mean, you can't just keep chasing shadows, worrying about every lead, every possibility. At some point, you have to decide what's worth fighting for and what you need to let go of. That's the hard part. The letting go." I just can't tell. Was he retarded? He became a drunk exactly because he can't let go of his daughter who he barely even stayed with.

I stared at him for a moment, unsure of how to respond.

I cleared my throat, shifting in my seat. "I know what you mean. It's just... harder than it seems."

Mike nodded, taking a bite of his stew. "It always is. But you've got to find your peace in all the noise."

I leaned back in my chair, staring into the fire again. His words rang in my mind, while I had to force myself to not laugh.

I sat back in my chair, the stew half-finished in front of me, as Mike's words hung heavy in the air. It was a side of him I had never seen—vulnerable, raw, the kind of pain that shaped a man into something unrecognizable to the world. He was no longer just the gruff, hardened hunter who took me in and cooked me a meal. There was more to him, and it was slowly unraveling before me, piece by painful piece.

I had asked about UltraMan, something that had been eating at me ever since we'd made that deal. But now, I wished I hadn't.

Mike's gaze shifted away, staring at the fire. His fingers gripped the edge of the table, knuckles tight, the firelight flickering in his eyes as he spoke.

"I didn't always hate him," Mike began, his voice heavy, like each word was a weight dragging him down. "In fact, I didn't even care about him at first. He was just another hero, doing what heroes do, you know? But everything changed that day—when he started."

The atmosphere in the room seemed to shift. The fire crackled loudly, the sound filling the space between us. I waited, not daring to interrupt, as Mike took a slow, shuddering breath.

"It was a parade, you see. A celebration, of sorts. The city was all lit up, people cheering. It was supposed to be a good day, a day to forget the usual struggles, the normal grind. But that was the day UltraMan chose to go head-to-head with the Haymaker."

His voice cracked, just for a second. That single moment of vulnerability hit me harder than anything he had said so far.

"The Haymaker," Mike continued, his eyes growing distant, "he's a monster, plain and simple. A brute, a wrecking ball, the kind of guy you wouldn't want to get within fifty feet of. But he and UltraMan—well, they started fighting right there, in the middle of everything. All the people running, screaming, just trying to get out of the way. It was chaos."

I could feel the tension building as Mike's words painted a vivid image in my mind. The violent destruction of that parade, people caught in the crossfire, the terrifying powers of both UltraMan and the Haymaker colliding like titans.

"My wife…" Mike's voice wavered, a slight tremor in the deep timbre. "She was standing there. Right in the middle of it all. I don't even know how it happened, but… the debris. It just—came down on her."

I could hear his breath catch, like the memory was still too fresh, too raw. I waited, letting the silence fill the space, giving him the time he needed.

"She was crushed," he said softly. "Half of her lower abdomen. I couldn't do anything. I tried to get to her, but the whole world was falling apart. I couldn't get through. I couldn't even get to her side before they had to pull her away. And they couldn't save her. They tried, but…" Mike's voice trailed off.

I could see the pain in his eyes, the weight of those memories too much to carry. His face was tight with sorrow, and there was something about his expression that made me realize how deeply this had scarred him. This was more than just anger; this was something rooted deep in his bones.

"We didn't have money. I was just a wood carver back then. My hands—good for carving, but not for paying hospital bills. So I did the only thing I could. I joined up as a mercenary. Got paid for the jobs I did. But it was never enough. It wasn't enough to save her."

His words cut through me, and I understood now why he had become what he was—a man hardened by loss, shaped by his inability to save the one person he loved most.

"And my daughter… she was only ten," Mike continued, his voice faltering. "I couldn't keep her with me. It wasn't safe. I sent her to a dorm to keep her out of harm's way. I didn't want her getting caught in all this madness. I thought… I thought I was doing the right thing, sending her away."

I could see the weight of that decision in his face. The guilt. The helplessness.

"Two years later," he said quietly, "I was on a deployment, and they told me that she was gone. My wife. She didn't make it. Her body couldn't hold on. It was a slow death. I couldn't even be there. I was halfway across the world, in Chou. No one told me, at first. They didn't want to disturb me, they said."

The ache in his voice was enough to make my heart tighten. The words were brutal, but it was the way he said them that made it clear this wasn't just a story—it was his life.

"I couldn't even attend her burial," he said, his words clipped, like they had been scraping against him for years. "I couldn't be there for her. The worst part is—no one came. Not her family. Not even my daughter. The priest said it was just a small service. Empty. Just the two of them."

There was a moment of stillness, like time had stopped moving in the cabin. I felt the weight of his loss, the bitterness that must have festered inside him for years. It was the pain of not being able to do anything, of being so far removed from the things that mattered.

"I didn't tell my daughter. I couldn't bring myself to," Mike said, his voice barely a whisper. "I knew the funeral would be empty. I didn't want to scar her, so I kept it from her. She didn't deserve that pain. I think I just wanted to protect her from it all."

I didn't say anything. There was nothing I could say. His words hit too close to home, the pain too real. I could understand it—maybe not in the exact same way—but I understood the rage, the sense of powerlessness.

"I kept at it," Mike went on, his voice hardening now, the anger from so many years of bitter memories surfacing. "I kept being a mercenary. Eight more years. Eight years of the same damn thing. But I never stopped looking for a way to get revenge. To find the person who ruined my life. Who took everything away from me."

I looked at him, and for the first time, I saw him as something more than just the tough man in front of me. I saw the years of regret, the rage that had festered inside him. He wasn't just a mercenary for the money. He was a man consumed by vengeance, shaped by a past he couldn't escape.

"And when I finally found a way…" Mike said, his voice low and tight with restrained fury. "When I finally had the chance to take UltraMan down—I took it. And that's why I helped you."

I didn't know what to say. The anger, the pain, the loss—it all made sense now. Mike wasn't just some killer or mercenary. He was a man trying to find redemption for a life that had been torn apart by a hero, by a man who claimed to save people but, in Mike's eyes, had destroyed everything he had ever loved.

I stared at him, feeling the weight of his confession settle between us. There was no easy way to respond to this kind of truth. He had helped me kill UltraMan not just out of convenience or for the money—but because, to him, it was the only way to reclaim something lost.

I understood now.

"You didn't deserve that," I finally said, my voice quieter now, matching the heaviness in the room.

Mike's eyes softened, just a little. "Yeah. Maybe I didn't. But that's the way it went. I had to do what I had to do."

I nodded, slowly. I didn't know what else to say. It was a serious subject, yet I felt like laughing. I was totally amused. I became a mercenary after I already murdered my parents. He became one for revenge. I just couldn't relate.

I can't imagine living your life for such a useless goal.

Killing UltraMan? The fact I did it was a fluke. You want to tell me he lived his whole life for the 0.0000001% chance I succeeded?

No. This is where is is wrong.

Surely it is sad that he lost his wife and old life.

But throwing everything away and then complaining that he can't have it back?

His biggest mistake was cutting relations with his daughter. Even if it was for her safety.

He should have quit being a mercenary after his wife died. Not find some revenge. It wasn't UltraMan's fault that Mike couldn't be there for her funeral. No, it was his own. He should have never left her side, even if she died earlier.

Because what good did it have to prolong her life? To have her stay in suffering, only seen by him once every few weeks?

For those two years she was hurt and alone. And he dares say he cared about her? He has no perspective.

And for what? To take revenge on UltraMan? He resurrected three times already. The only reason Secundo Manus has to clone him is because of that device I put into him that stopped his plausibility from making him come back to life.

If all else, UltraMan was a god. Mike really thought he could take revenge on him?

We talked a bit more and then I went to sleep. It was pretty cold here even in summer.-*-*-*-*-*