In the land of freedom, in the land of peace
There was a man who farmed the land,
Tilled the soil, had it all planned.

The day his crops were at full bloom
He took them to the market to be sold.
It was raining hard, the bell tolled.

As the sky erupted, a great fiend came from the dark clouds.
As the people ran, the farmer stayed.
From his sack, he produced a blade.

He drew it with confidence.
Fire in his eyes, he stared at the fiend.
The fiend stared back and fate intervened.

With hate in its heart, the fiend blew flames at the farmer.
The farmer thought of his life and his kin.
The flames singed the farmer and burned his skin.

The fiend laughed and the farmer fell.
His flesh was hot and his mind was cold.
But then destiny began to unfold.

The farmer rose to his feet and produced armor from his sack.
The helmet, determination. The body armor, skill.
But the fiend glared at it’s soon to be kill.

The farmer, now hero, jumped up from the ash.
With rage in his mind, he thrust his blade.
And on the ground, the fiend’s head laid.

The villagers rejoiced their hero, but the farmer wanted no thanks.
They named him hero and crowned him with glory.
But ‘tis not the end of his story.

For the fiend rose and two heads sprouted from the body.
The hero jumped headfirst into the serpentine mass.
The fiend lashed its tails and the hero’s blade flashed.

The sky lit up with the clash of power.
Both forms stood, both fought their best.
But only one would withstand the test.

The fiend screeched and pieced all around.
But the hero rose and pulled his blade from the fiend’s heads.
Both of the brains were struck dead.

The hero removed his armor and the villagers cheered.
And forever the hero was known as a fearless paladin.
But did the hero want that after all the din.

After the climatic battle, the hero returned to the fields.
There he farmed the land and tilled the soil.
Truly is his legend spoiled?

The farmer, known hero.
His crops never sold
His story never told.