Eyo. shout out to McMake because he's a lad and also The Hero is actually his character.

also thanks to kami for proofreads

Come join the discord because we have a ton of art (and shitpost lmao) that accompanies this story. The server is mostly just an art archive. The link is at the bottom of ch 70.

Armour: Titanium Armour (Mage)

Weapon: Infernal Rift; Stormfront Razor

Acc(11/11): Celestial cuffs, Mana Flower, Sorcerer Emblem, Celestial Emblem, Ankh Shield, Deific Amulet, FrostSpark Boots, Grand Gelatin, Amalgamated Brain, Evasion Scarf, Frozen Wings.

Health: (425/425)

He had a long, long history.

A History of strength.

A History of power.

And to this day, songs were sung of his feats. His name - 'The Titan, Braelor' was enough to rally his troops and stir them to battle. To them, he was their hope. He was their leader. It would be he that carried them to victory. The Hero was merely a pawn under his leadership, as was The Cultist, the Goblin troops, The Old One's Army, The Dwarves, The Guerilla fighters, indeed, he was head over all of the diverse peoples who have united to defeat The Tyrant.

For the sake of The Resistance, my power cannot be called into question.

And in the same way Yharim's followers worshipped The Tyrant's name, The Resistance worshipped Braelor... for he was Yharim's counterpart. He was The Commander of The Resistance. It was his strength that tied this organization together, for besides Yharim, nobody could yet match him. It was his banner that flew contrary to Yharim's blazing insignia, and his defeat was the defeat of The Resistance.

So, when this month-old whelp, The Cultist's little sapling, decided to puff himself up and cause a fuss in his throne room, Braelor had roused himself to accept the challenge. Frankly, he had expected this 'battle' to be nothing more than a spanking. Instead, he found himself rather surprised by the tenacity of the infant Terrarian. Of course, The Resistance commander was still leagues stronger than the brat, but his intention was to scare The Hero into obedience...

It appeared things would not be so easy.

Just five minutes ago, The Hero had looked quite ready to wet himself in front of an audience. He had been standing frozen beneath Braelor's raised scythe and clearly terrified of the events that would inevitably unfold - yet the moment the scythe began its downswing, all of his fear evaporated. The moment the battle began The Hero snapped into a different mindset. It was as if he'd suddenly become a different person.

Braelor saw the change clearly (as The Hero had the audacity not to wear his helmet to this meeting). One moment, his face was pure, frozen terror - the next, something suddenly jolted him to action. The Hero's eyes went wide and his face went tense. His steps became light; his figure crackled with energy. The Hero was smart, he would be aware of the incredibly hopeless confrontation he'd just hurled himself into...

Yet there was no despair in him.

Not resignation, not even reluctance. He was simply, purely focused.

The blow came down, heavy and wickedly sharp, whistling through the air with an almost impossible speed. Many mighty men had fallen beneath this very scythe. Imperial generals. Monsters. Dragons. This blade has drank its fill of strong blood. Its strikes were quick, sharp and accurate - separating marrow from bone, and tendon from ligament. The Hero could not hope to dodge it, he-

*CLANG*

Braelor blinked.

He heard the noise before he realized what had happened... but even as he watched his blade crunch into the marble floor with an awful screech, he could still scarcely believe what he saw.

...

For The Hero, finding himself far too slow to dodge the blow, slapped away the heavy blade with with a raw, physical strength that seemed to defy physics entirely. Was not The Hero half his height? Wasn't he ten times heavier than the whelp? The Hero's strength should be nothing in comparison to Braelor's, yet with a movement that seemed to ignore the concept of weight, he swung that delicate scarlet wand to deftly parry a direct impact from a blade twice his height. The wand shattered, leaving only the hilt, but The Hero himself remained unscathed.

...

There was a long moment of stunned silence in The Court. The loud clang seemed to hang in the air, causing a low stir in the crowd. Were they in awe? Some were. Others grinned, relishing in The Hero's strength as if he were not attempting to escape their grasps at this very moment. The more intelligent ones wore sober faces. They understood the ramifications of this fight.

For truly The Hero was a creature born for battle. He would not flee. He would not stand down. To him, fighting was instinct. It was more natural than breathing. Originally, Braelor had not intended to actually kill the infant hero... but it appeared he had no choice. How could one intimidate a being who knew no fear? How would one control an invincible soldier? In fact, it was a blessing that The Hero had decided rebel so early. Had he grown stronger under The Resistance's tutelage, then perhaps his strength would exceed Braelor's, and then they would not be able to recoup their losses.

Ah, then we would truly be lost...

Alas, The Hero had overestimated himself. He had challenged Braelor to a public match whilst not understanding the strength of his opponent. He could not win... however, it seemed he was going to fight regardless. What a terrible situation. What was The Hero saying by doing this? Would he rather die than serve The Resistance?

No. Braelor narrowed his eyes. He must not allow such a thing to happen. The spectators of this match were the commanders and allies who were essential actors in The Resistance force. If they came away from this believing that The Hero was no longer under Resistance control, then surely the effect would be devastating for their effort writ large.

For these men, women, goblins and dwarves had appeared here because The Resistance boasted an unkillable Hero. Indeed, The Resistance had promised victory, and now their Hero - their victory- was attempting to cut and run. This simply would not be tolerated. Braelor needed to quash The Hero's little rebellion with extreme prejudice. If he could not force The Hero to yield, then he would kill him... and when he rose to life, he'd have him killed again - and again - and again until he became compliant. If he had no fear, then Braelor would teach him fear. If his pride got in the way, then Braelor would break his pride. Braelor would have him tortured. Braelor would have him cursed. Braelor would have him humiliated. Braelor would have him mutilated beyond recognition - if that's what it took to make him obedient.

Such tactics were not beneath him... anything was permissible for the sake of destroying The Tyrant.

And so, The Resistance commander struck without reservation. With his full herculean strength, he lashed out at The Hero with the full intention of bisecting him. The Scythe came down once more, and this time it was parried by the Wand's hilt. Once, twice, then it too turned to fine dust. The throne room was filled with a cacophany of clanging. The noise of bated breath and the swishing of the blade until finally The Hero was defenseless. There was no longer any method by which he could attack or defend. Was he so hellbent on dying? Why would he still would not retreat? His situation was hopeless. Surely he was intelligent enough to understand that.

The Resistance Commander lowered his blade and pinned The Hero with a glare. He opened his mouth to speak.

"Hero... it seems you've been outmatched. Will you continue with this chara-"

*Ching*

A knife bounced off Braelor's knee armour; a small electric jolt accompanied the sound. The Audience scoffed, some in disbelief, some in amusement. Braelor felt his fist trembling in rage. A snarled formed beneath his helmet. How Impundent! Would The Hero give up his only weapon in an effort to attack him! Look at him now! Look how pathetic this all was, yet he could not accept defeat graciously! Enough!

With a quick motion, The Resistance commander lunged at his opponent and stabbed. The blade pierced the small body and - like a hook - lifted it up to hang in full view of all who wished to see. The Hero's blood dyed the blade scarlet. He struggled there for a long moment, flailing and scrabbling futilely against the cold steel that most certainly had divided his sternum in two. Finally, his body had enough. His mouth went agape to belch forth a death rattle - the only sound he had made throughout the entire fight.

Then he began to... collapse in on himself.

He began to disintegrate.

Beginning from his fatal wound, he began to dissolve into nothing. His chest vanished, then the pelvis, and the legs and the arms. Bloodstained armour fell to the floor in a heap, each article landing with loud, sharp thuds. The head was last. It stared at him with wide eyes, and its gaze was not one of a defeated foe.

The eyes glared at him until their lights went out and they too crumbled to dust.

"Oh Dear..."

The Dryad was not one prone to shock. After all, she had lived, a very, very long time. Almost everything that happened, had most certainly happened before - for that was the way of this world. On and on and on, one kingdom rose, another fell, creatures were born, creatures died... but always constant was the spirit of nature. The canvas upon which these great stories were painted.

But occasionally, very occasionally, circumstances arranged themselves to be so incredibly dire, it was difficult to believe they had come together per random chance. Perhaps it was the hand of destiny which brought her here... placed her in this position to do what only she was equipped to accomplish? She would never know. All she was sure of was that the human laying unconscious on the table before her had come under a terrible curse - and if she didn't want to see the work of her entire race undone - she mustn't allow him to die.

Hm... eldritch magic? And a powerful spell as well...

He was a young human - a male, certainly less than half a century old. His hair was oak coloured and his skin a sickly pale. The Dryad wasn't an expert on human physiology, but she was certain most living beings should be breathing. He wasn't - yet she still felt the stirrings of a spirit tenuously clinging to life from within the almost-dead body. She lifted a 'hand' and pressed her 'fingertips' against the young man's chest... there was no heartbeat, but regardless she felt a druidic power humming thick and potent in his stagnant blood. It was a remnant of The Dryad's blessing! And what more? Behind the blessing lurked something more sinister - one of the many horrid entities that were birthed when The Moon Lord died.

Tch... that cursed container of souls... how wretched...

The Dryad 'looked' down upon the man's small body and identified the large vein in the neck. She lifted a tendril-like finger and grew a sharp rose thorn from its tip. The bearded man - whom she was forced to strap down against one of the bookcases (After letting her into the house, he reacted to her appearance with a great deal of terror. She wasn't exactly sure why) began thrashing and squirming with gusto. She shifted the vines under her control to bind him more tightly. This operation would be quite delicate.

For the power of the Dryads ran contrary to that of The Dreaming God. It was the terrestrial against the extraterrestrial; the natural against the unnatural. These forces were entirely opposed to each other, their very essences rejected each other like oil and water. Where The Dryad's blessing existed, the spells of the old gods could not. Where the old god's hexes took root, the druidic magic was overcome and flushed away.

It was by this property that The Moon Lord's cancerous viscera was held at bay. In order to prevent that parasitic monstrosity from spreading further, a border must be established, A border that would run strong with the magic of The Dryad's. It was then that the Dryads counseled with one another. Some wished to plant the spell in the stones, some in plants of the field and some in trees... yet each of them were well painfully aware that these mediums were transitory - easily destroyed. Should a forest fire break out and burn the trees, what then of the blessing?! Would it not escape into nothingness and doom the continent to that fleshy hell? What of the stones? They could not preserve themselves. Should they be broken, then what of the blessing? Alas, their only option was to choose living beings...

Beings who would flee danger to preserve themselves, who would propagate, generating offspring which would carry the blessings in their blood. Initially, they had considered rabbits... but there was the fear Humans would drive them extinct. Next, they considered something fiercer - the bears of the woods. Yet the same fears arose, as humans were able to easily slaughter every bear that lived if they felt so inclined. In fact, there were even reports of men and women partaking in the slaying of dangerous creatures for sport!

Truly... they are the peak of the base creatures...

Hence it was decided and one hundred years ago, The Dryads had congregated to bless a small village on the Crimson Border. Potent magic was injected into their blood in a very physical sense. The magic could not be used, of course. It was inert, providing no personal benefit to the vessel whatsoever - aside from keeping The Crimson inside its borders and the Moon Lord's terrible derivative dormant. In fact, many had no idea they had been 'blessed' in this matter at all. Indeed, it was quite amusing watching the throng of men and women all congregating together and finding they each had thorn pricks at their throats. The event was strangely followed by about a month of salt throwing and unhealthy garlic consumption.

Humans are a bit strange... but they have historically been quite good at surviving.

And so, with such a resilient 'medium' to hold The Blessing, The remaining Dryads rested easily. The blessing was built to grow more potent as the generations passed... and Humans bred almost as much as rabbits. As the 'blessed' population spread, growing in number and size, it was almost impossible to imagine all of them could be stamped out in one fell swoop... but even so, it appeared the impossible had just happened.

Because this young man was likely the very last scrap of The Dryad's blessing that remained. His blood was quite potent, yes - it was likely his parents had both carried the blessing, and their parents, and theirs... but he alone was not enough to halt The Crimson's spread. The terrible parasite had begun its slow but inevitable march across the land. The Eye had been killed, yes - but those intestinal perforators had been unleashed of their chains and the Great Brain has once again become active.

Who could have done this?!

Yet it wasn't all for naught.

Because this little human, by the strength of his blood, prevented The Container of Souls from running rampant through the earth. What a horrible sort of system the Dreaming God had. It separated body from mind from soul such that each was destroyed and warped equally and utterly. The bodies became horrid creatures... The 'mind' compiled all the thoughts, memories and knowledge of the many hundreds of thousands of souls who had been consumed by The Crimson over the years, and The Wall - which held a mass of rioling souls - festered in the deepest depths of the underworld.

It was there that The Dryads had locked that fearful amalgamation. They knew this entity was by far the most dangerous of all of The Moon Lord's pieces, for the souls were wrathful. Surely they would run amok, seeding Crimson - yes- but also strife and destruction wheresoever they went. Those vengeful spirits had suffered so long under the Moon Lord's warped custody that they could no longer be called earthly, and when they were set free - what sort of calamity would they bring?

The Dryad was unsure. All she knew was she mustn't allow it to happen.

And so, she must revive this young human by all means... Should he die, then surely The Wall would burst out of its binds! What a precious life his was... far more valuable than the all the kings of the earth. The powerful rotting magic that had been cast upon him was locked in combat against the Dryadic power in his blood - holding the poor boy in statis. Had he not been a 'blessed one' then surely he would have disintegrated before such a wicked spell. Alas! Where did this magic come from? It wasn't the sort that she'd seen since those disgusting fish-men were purged in brimstone hellfire.

... humph.

These thoughts were for another time. First, she must accomplish what destiny had placed her here to do. She pulled from deep within herself, drawing from a fount of earthy magic. If she administered the magic too quickly, then it was likely the opposing forces in his body would go wild and combust. If she didn't want to be cleaning viscera off of herself, then she had best proceed with care. The Dryad focused, generating a sheen of insectoid eyes across her 'face' and the palms of her 'hands'.

And with an inhuman delicacy, she pierced 'The Blessed One's' jugular.

The Merchant: So, I just stumble upon this little housing community that got bombed or something. I decide to take refuge in one of the houses, and a lady's voice calls out asking me to let her in. I do - and immediately get tied up to to watch a giant living tree stump drink the blood of this unconscious dude.

The Bartender: ... let me get my strongest liquor. It sounds like you need it.

GIVE SKITS IVE RUN DRY

So massive infodump by The Dryad - who still looks all woody and scary. She can pretty much shapeshift so eh. So I have actually noted that The blessing was in the blood in a previous note - very briefly - but I really want to hammer it in here. The Dryad is like why tf did all of you die in one shot and nobody survive? its because of the LC. Also recall that The LC was shocked that there was another Terrarian, because he claimed to have calculated very precisely how many souls it would take to summon a single terrarian. He didn't account for the power of the Dryad's blessing - is was enough to make The Slayer.

This is also the reason 'The Wall' has tried to Kill The Guide on multiple occasions - and why killing him will cause The Wall to be released.

Now I encourage you to remember what The Guide's two main goals are... and you can figure out the rest yourself. (evil laugh)

I'm so cruel