The Quest Is Simply To NTR All The Heroes

The battlefield, once a amalgamation of claws, teeth, and snarls, had suddenly gone so silent you could almost hear everyone collectively shitting their pants.

All eyes were on the giant library-tree-thing that was now slowly, dramatically, falling over like the world's most screwed-up game of Jenga.

Hearts pounded in chests as they watched the building tilt and creak, like some slow-motion disaster movie they couldn't escape.

The impending crash was going to be so catastrophic that the village might as well slap a "Closed for Renovations—Check Back in a Decade" sign at the front gate.

And all that ancient cat history? Those precious scrolls and books? Poof—about to be flattened into historical kitty litter.

As the building tipped further, the cats and dogs had already started mentally preparing their tearful goodbyes to their culture.

But then… there it was. A small, man-shaped speck soaring through the air, defying gravity like some sort of deranged circus act.

The speck grew bigger, his voice booming through the eerie silence, and the crowd squinted, trying to make sense of it.

"What the fuck is that?" one muttered.

"Is that… a dude?"

Despite the confusion, a flicker of hope kindled in their hearts. Some of them had witnessed this crazy bastard in action earlier.

Maybe, just maybe, he was about to pull off some last-minute miracle and prevent their village from being squashed like a bug under the world's most inconveniently placed tree-house library.

The warriors' hearts pounded with hope as they stared at their so-called hero, Kaisen, who was now flying like a messed-up superhero straight toward the falling library.

Kids in the crowd, wide-eyed and clutching their stuffed animals, had their little minds blown.

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"Heroes are real!" they whispered, their innocent belief solidifying in the heat of the moment.

Even the grizzled veterans, who had been through hell and back, had their doubts creeping in but kept them buried under a thick layer of faith—or, more accurately, desperation.

Then it happened. Kaisen reached the falling building, hands outstretched like he was about to perform the world's most awkward, magic-free miracle.

His palms slapped the side of the creaking, crashing library with all the grace of a drunk trying to catch himself after tripping on a loose shoelace.

The crowd gasped, hearts skipping a beat, hope teetering on the edge.

But then… nothing.

"But why isn't it slowing down?" one young cat hissed in confusion, ears flattening.

"H-he can't save it?" another warrior stammered, eyes bulging with dread as the massive structure continued its slow-motion doom dive.

"Shut up!"

Barked a veteran, fur bristling in frustration.

"He's turned the tide of this war in our favor. Believe in him!"

His tone carried a touch of hysteria, as if sheer willpower could stop a building from smashing them all to dust.

The murmurs spread like wildfire. Warriors muttering, mothers clutching their children, old cats whispering prayers to whatever gods might be paying attention today.

Hell, even toddlers—barely old enough to figure out how to hold their bladder—squeezed their eyes shut and prayed too.

"Gods listen to kids quicker than adults, right?"

One elderly cat whispered, as if putting all their chips on the purity of these tiny prayer factories.

Kaisen was totally milking the moment.

This motherfucker wasn't even breaking a sweat, just putting on a show like a second-rate theater actor gunning for a standing ovation.

He was practically humming with mana, the raw power surging through his body to keep him hovering in midair like a damn demigod on a Sunday stroll.

If he wanted to, he could've caught the whole damn library one-handed like he was snatching a ball at a pickup game.

But nah, this drama queen had a flair for theatrics—he needed the suspense, the tension.

He wanted them all teetering on the edge of their furry little seats.

Down below, the murmurs grew louder, anxiety spreading like wildfire.

The villagers were losing their minds, thinking their savior might just bite the dust trying to stop a fucking building.

The tension was thicker than the bullshit Kaisen was spinning.

And then, just as the crowd's hopes were about to nosedive, they heard it. His voice, dripping with over-the-top anguish.

"I can't... lose here... Not now..."

Cue the waterworks. Hearts started pounding like the drop of a sick beat at a rave, eyes wide as if they'd just witnessed the second coming.

That line hit them right in the feels. They were already halfway to canonizing him as the patron saint of miraculous saves and overly dramatic entrances.

"Their lives depend on me... These noble creatures... they should not be eradicated..."

Noble creatures? Did this guy just call them noble?

The crowd's collective brains short-circuited for a moment.

Tears welled up, sniffles echoed through the crowd. These weren't warriors anymore—they were believers.

Forget everything they thought they knew about humans not giving a shit. This man, this god-sent savior, saw them as noble.

Kaisen, still up there with the library dangling like a damned chandelier, was laying it on thick.

"These warriors… bravely fighting against impossible odds… they deserve to survive…"

His voice trembled just enough to sound like he was on the verge of an Oscar-worthy breakdown. The crowd was eating it up like it was their last meal.

"I will not lose here! If I lose, who's gonna save them? Give me strength, god!"

He bellowed like he was in a cheesy religious flick. And that was it—the dam broke. Tears flooded down the faces of every furry onlooker.

It was no longer just hope, it was a full-blown emotional breakdown.

And then, the unthinkable happened—a little kid, no more than six years old, pounded his tiny fist on his chest like he was in a heart-pumping pre-game huddle.

His mother, shocked, reached out to hush him, but the kid smacked her hand away like a rebellious teenager.

"No, mommy! Big brother's fighting for us. We have to cheer him!"

Cue the old geezer next to them, who must've been half-deaf but still heard that line. His wrinkled hand came up and thumped his chest too, nodding like he had seen the light.

The mother blinked, torn between scolding her kid and joining in on this cultish chest-pounding madness.

But the collective energy was contagious. She let out a sigh, gave her savior a look of resolve, and joined the chest-thumping parade.

And just like that, the whole village turned into a scene straight out of a Lion King fever dream.

Kids, elders, warriors—hell, even the street vendors—started beating their hearts in unison, like they were about to march into battle themselves.

The ground wasn't shaking from fear anymore. Nope. It was a seismic wave of hype. The kind you get before a concert, when you know the headliner's about to drop the sickest beat of the night.