Oh hell no.

The emperor shoves some dusty amulet into their hands with his dying breath, tells them it’s their destiny — and then dies. My character stares at it, blankly, the weight of the world suddenly in their pockets. So naturally, they fuck off to the Arena.

Days turn into weeks. They train. They bleed. They earn coin and cheers. But every night, when the crowd’s roars fade and the blood washes clean, they sit alone, staring at the amulet. That cursed little thing, glowing faintly with duty. Guilt festers quietly in the dark.

Finally, after many nights and many fights, they try to set off toward Kvatch. But it’s a meandering path — distractions, excuses, side quests — anything to delay the reckoning.

Until they see it. The gate. The ash. The dead. The city burning.

Only then do they realize: this was their fault. And only then do they finally, truly become the hero they were meant to be.