Fighting wasn’t my forte. Until I was eighteen, I’d never even had to lift a sword. After all, before all the Chosen One business, I was simply a shop assistant at a rather small bookstore in town. Then, I happened to open the wrong book, and the next second some shady folk in velvet robes were inviting me into their cult dedicated to destroying the “Dark Lord.” Yet, despite appearing wise, they weren’t particularly bright, and my deceptions always fooled them. Whether I pretended to have learnt some ancient magical technique through acting and practical effects; bribed the local bandits to leave; or simply lied that the “ancient evil monster” had died, they never doubted my word. In fact, they even thought I was a prodigy, and there was no doubt I was the chosen one. And, because they didn’t doubt it, nobody doubted it. Like wildfire, news of my exploits crossed the land and soon everyone from the far south to the far north knew my name. By spreading a few lies, I was welcomed to every inn, restaurant, castle, and exclusive club. However, it wasn’t easy: Everyone wanted me to do this and that for them and not doing such things would put my reputation at stake. Therefore, I had to lie some more. I mean, some of my actions were strokes of genius: For example, I managed to remove a troll from one man’s land by using a lure to relocate it to another man's land. The farmer who now had to deal with the troll was so poor he wouldn’t even think of hiring me, so the problem was solved.

Yet, the Dark Lord's power was growing and, much to my dismay, it was decided I would be sent to fight him earlier than expected in order to thwart his plans before he started them. So, within two years of opening that blasted book, I was knocking on the daunting doors of Castle Doom, clutching the “Sword of Destiny” (which I had never used) in my sweaty hands. Then, I was being led through weaving corridors and up spiralling gothic staircases by a grand escort of goblins, trolls and orcs before arriving in the infamous “Egregious Hall.” There, it was extraordinarily spooky, as if I was walking into a living horror trope: The architecture was all built from some sort of black stone, the ceiling was vaulted with pointed arches, golden chandeliers emphasized the creature’s wealth, great cobwebs stretched from the floor to the highest points of the ceiling and malnourished prisoners hung in cages attached to chains coming from the mouths of gargoyles lining the upper perimeter of the hall. Finally, on a throne built from bones was the man himself: The Dark Lord. He stood, revealing his seven-foot figure which, even when covered by a black monk-Esque, robes, still appeared broad and strong. In his hand, he wielded his great blade (“Bone Saw”) , with its serrated blade and strange black metal that sent shivers up my spine. It was then that I realised the dire predicament I was in: I was going to die, or, at best, become the latest edition to the creature's decorations.

He walked towards me, the shadow of his figure ominously tall due to the arrangement of candles in the hall. I stepped back, holding my sword a little higher. Yet, I knew it was hopeless. And then it struck me: It was supposed to be hopeless. I had been sent here to die. That was the only possible explanation. The velvet-cloaked cult must have realised I was a con, sent me to my death, and were probably trying to find a new Chosen One once I died. It was no wonder they sent me here early; They needed more time. I dropped my sword.

“I surrender,” I whimpered, and the Dark Lord stopped dead in his tracks.

“You surrender?” He asked in his hoard, creepy voice.

“Yep, you’re going to kill me anyway, but I’d rather die quickly than in some drawn-out battle.”

The creature scoffed and approached me, looping around me slowly.

“You think I will kill you quickly, Chosen One,” he whispered in my ear.

“Yes, I’ll even pay you,” I responded rather bluntly, as I fumbled in the pocket of my robe, reaching for “coins.”

He paused and that was enough, for I was not reaching for coins.

After all, since the beginning, I was a coward, and cowards don’t fight fairly, put themself in danger, or care about honour. No, since the beginning, I had lied, cheated, and never once fought, so why would I do such a thing with the big man himself?

From my pocket, I drew a poisoned dagger, a blade which swiftly pierced the “Dark Lord’s” robes and dug into his pale, sickly flesh. Suddenly, he lurched backwards and crumpled to the ground. The monsters in the hall surrounding us began to hollow and curse, yet that did not stop their master’s body from turning purple as his skin flaked away in a gust of grey flecks.

I stood back and smiled at my work.

“Maybe I am the Chosen One.”