The Weight of a Single Step
If you want to become a hero, you must first start with the right mindset. That was the philosophy of a girl who had dreamed of becoming a hero since she was a child. Once she set her mind to it, it naturally manifested in her actions. Even if people around her called her rigid, she believed that a hero should never hesitate to do what they thought was right. She had lived her life thinking that even if that caused people to drift away from her, it was only natural.
That was why she was furious that those who had entered the school to train as heroes were late on their very first day. To think that people who called themselves hero-aspirants would have such a mindset. Both of the students who were late possessed exceptional abilities; they had noticed a hallucination she hadn't, dealt with it calmly, and received high praise. But because she believed that meant their mindset should be even more heroic, she had scolded the red-haired girl she encountered after finishing her meal. She had asked if she wasn't old enough to wake up without her parents waking her.
"Sorry, I won't be late starting tomorrow. And I don't have parents."
Her heart sank at the sight of the girl, who had answered with a desolate smile after hearing those words. To be able to say that she had no parents while smiling as if it were nothing—how many times must she have heard such things? Although they lived in a world where heroes existed to protect people, bullying still persisted in schools. And having no parents was a perfect excuse for being bullied. She doesn't have parents, so she's different from us. She must have heard that countless times. Every time she heard such words, she would be wounded, and there were so many scars left behind that she could laugh off even the words of someone who had hurt her without realizing it.
It was always like this. The things she did, believing they were right, ended up hurting others without her knowing. That wasn't heroic at all. That day, the guilt that surged in felt like it was constricting her heart. Perhaps that was why, even though the teacher had appointed her as the class representative, she felt no joy at all. She had always thought that a hero should lead everyone, so in her life until now, she had always taken on the role of class representative with a joyful heart, but now, she felt nothing. Only the red eyes staring at her from a distance remained etched in her vision.
The next morning, while she was cleaning the classroom, she made eye contact with the red-haired girl who opened the door. It was 7:30 AM, thirty minutes earlier than the start of school. Had she been keeping the words she said yesterday in her heart? The girl looked at her for a moment before turning away and disappearing. Something heavy seemed to be pressing down on her chest, making it hard to breathe.
That day, there was a sparring class. When the teacher called out the name of the person she had to face, her heart pounded. Scarlet Evande. As of now, she was an opponent she felt awkward even looking at, but if she were a hero, she had to do her best in any situation. She bit her lip to steady her mind, drew her sword, and used her ability to minimize air resistance. A speed-based fight, using the fact that she could move faster than others as her weapon. She had finished preparing to give it her all, but for some reason, Scarlet hadn't even drawn a weapon.
She was trying to face her with all her heart despite the difficult situation, so why? Suppressing the boiling anger, she spoke. "Are you making a fool of me? Draw your weapon."
"...I don't have a weapon."
It felt like the anger she had been holding back was rising to the top of her head. If you want to become a hero, it was natural to learn to use at least one weapon from a young age. Even if you have strong abilities, there is a difference in combat power between holding a weapon and not. Therefore, not drawing a weapon was a deception and an insult to the opponent, implying that she could win even without one. If so, she would simply make her pay the price for that arrogance with her full power. "I won't go easy on you just because you're empty-handed, so be prepared."
At her words, Scarlet slowly took a combat stance and emitted flames from her body. The difficulty of a fire-type ability user lies in their strong attack power from a distance. But her opponent was in a situation where she didn't even have a weapon to prepare for close-quarters combat. I'll end this in one blow. She put strength into her legs. 3, 2, 1. As the phrase signaling the start of the match appeared, she lunged at her opponent with all her might and thrust her sword. She had been confident that her charge, unhindered by the air, was fast enough that even most heroes would be caught off guard and unable to react, but she felt no resistance on her sword. The sword missed, leaving a gap that was just one step away—precisely because it was so narrow, it was all the more fatal. The light in the girl's eyes, the same color as the flames burning on her body, reflected her. At the gaze she met without realizing it, she felt a chill run down her spine. Those indifferent eyes were burning quietly, as if saying, I knew you would attack like that.
A kick loaded with rotational force flew at her. With a roar, the air-compression barrier she had deployed in advance vibrated. Her heart trembled at the destructive power, which exceeded that of an attack using an ordinary weapon. Arrogance? Deception? It was she who had looked down on her opponent. The opponent had been giving it her all from the beginning. She tried to attack, seizing the moment the kick was blocked by the barrier, but the opponent avoided the attack with surprisingly agile movements without a hint of panic. It was just one exchange, but she knew. A body trained to the maximum limit that a girl's physique could contain. Eyesight that seemed to predict attacks. A mentality that didn't waver even in unexpected situations. The depth of what she had built up all her life—it would be no exaggeration to call it Martial Arts.
Reprimanding herself for looking down on her even for a moment, she raised her sword again. With a heart full of apology, paying her respects, hoping this feeling would reach her. "Then, here I go."
She avoided her full-power attack by a hair's breadth once again. Her series of attacks, performed with all her might, only left scratches on her body. It was an evasion so efficient that it could be called ideal. Even though she was the one not affected by air resistance, the opponent's movements looked faster. Within her fluid movements, which seemed like dancing, the red eyes that never left her for a moment seemed to pierce through everything she had. Suddenly, shame washed over her. It was because she realized why she had no weapon. A weapon is, in the end, money. Not only the price itself, but it costs money to maintain it, and it costs money to receive education from a young age to master that weapon. That is why most of the children who enter the academy are the children of heroes or prestigious families. That is why children from ordinary families mostly give up on their dreams of becoming heroes. But she said she was an orphan. Would a child without parents have the money to buy a weapon? Would she have the money to maintain it and find a master? No way. Even so, she entered the academy without a single weapon. She had trained herself to the point of crossing the threshold of a place where even children who had been educated since childhood frequently failed, using only her own body. Without a master, without parents. How much effort must it have taken to reach that level? While being despised as a child without parents, while being frustrated by the high walls of reality. It was clear that she had endured the pain of vomiting blood and grinding her bones every day, training to a degree she couldn't even imagine. She had fallen after colliding, but she hadn't given up and had gotten back up. Again and again, and again. With the single-minded desire to become a hero.
Compared to that, what a trivial person she was. At that moment, a hotter flame than ever before burned from her fist. She felt a heat so intense that she, who had been lost in thought, inadvertently stopped the flow of her attack. She was not the type to miss the gap she had shown for a moment. A step that dug in, surely capturing the gap in her sword as she swung it down in a hurry. A fist, clenched tightly as if vowing never to succumb to this world, flew at her. That one step, that one punch—the brilliant flame burning from that fist seemed to represent her entire life, so the girl thought without realizing it. Ah, how beautiful this is.
Lunchtime after the sparring ended. She saw Scarlet talking to someone in a corner. She saw her nodding indifferently, as if it were nothing, to a question asking if she had learned martial arts since she was young, and if it must have been hard to learn that much. An impulse stirred in her heart. She caught her as she was coming out of the canteen. And she bowed her head and apologized as she pleased. Apologizing for hurting her without knowing anything, for misunderstanding her without knowing anything. An apology is a selfish act. It is an act of hurting others as one pleases, regretting it as one pleases, and trying to feel at ease by pouring out the regrets left in one's heart to feel better. Even so, because she felt she would be too ashamed of herself if she didn't apologize, she had made her a scapegoat for such a selfish act.
After pouring out the words that were inside her, she felt a little more at ease. The people she had accidentally hurt and apologized to until now had all seemed to notice that selfishness, and they would just disappear without a word after hearing the apology. So, she naturally thought she would be the same, and while she was bowing her head, waiting only to hear the sound of her footsteps as she left, she felt her touch on her hand, which had been bowed.
"Thank you for apologizing."
A word as kind as the warmth transmitted from her hand. Her eyes grew hot at the warmth of those words. Did she know how much meaning that one word had to her? She quickly left the spot because she felt like the dam that had been holding back her tears would burst if she looked at her.
That night, the girl lying in bed stretched her arms up to the sky and looked at her hands. Would she forget today's events as time passed? The girl shook her head slightly. As if feeling that the warmth of the hand she had held remained in her hand, this, too, would remain in her memory forever, as if branded. The girl placed her other hand lightly on the back of the hand she had stretched out. It was the moment when the girl, who had lived her whole life dreaming only of becoming a hero, thought for the first time that she wanted to be friends with someone.
*
And at that moment, the other girl was in despair, realizing anew that a macaron cut into twenty pieces was no different from mere crumbs.