I'm back for one last entry! It was a wild ride being able to do this with Neon, and I'm glad you all have enjoyed the random snippets we wrote for this prompts challenge. This last entry isn't something Neon and I thought up, it was just a writing prompt a friend sent me once that I wrote something for. I think it'll be a great way to end this book, and to give it some closure. With that being said, I hope you all enjoy!

The full prompt was "a hero who thinks they were prophesied to save the world finds out they were meant to destroy it".

>(<>)<

The Chosen hated sunsets. He hated the way the orange sun decided to hide behind the snow-topped mountains; he hated the way the sky had to turn an immeasurable number of colors before slowly sinking into twilight's blue hues. The thing he hated most, however, was the aching sensation that accompanied each sunset. It was a constant reminder that another day had passed. Another day where he had not carried out his goal.

     He often wondered if his days were pointless. What seemed like an infinite amount of agents and servants tripped over themselves to bring 'good news'. "Our fleets are close to being done," they said. "It will only take a few more days until the armada is complete." They said that every day, and yet his armadas were no closer to being finished. It wasn't like the island didn't have the resources to build an armada.

     Sometimes he wondered if they even cared at all. Several years prior, long before the Chosen was even born, a lone prophet had come to the island, bringing with him news of a savior. 

     "A chosen," said the prophet, "a chosen firstborn who will rise to the top of the society. He will alter the world in a way no one has ever seen before. Soon your enemies will bow to you, and your world will be free of its corruption."

     Many children had been brought before the old prophet. He touched a single lock of their hair with his knobby fingers, then looked deep into their innocent eyes. Child after child he proclaimed was not the one, until the Chosen had been brought before him. The Chosen had a name, but that was insignificant compared to the destiny he was to shoulder. The prophet had taken one look at the Chosen and jumped from his chair wildly.

     "This one!" he proclaimed to a joyous set of parents, hopping back and forth with his cane. "The boy with hair the color of the setting sun, he will be the Chosen."

     And so it was. The Chosen was stripped away from his family, given a place in the highest courts, and was prepared constantly for his destiny. The prophet died only when the Chosen was six, and very quickly everyone realized they had no idea how the Chosen was going to save their kingdom.

     Over the years he was trained to be a highly skilled combatant, a clever commander, and a charismatic diplomat. Everyone he was ever surrounded by constantly hounded him with his destiny, practically shoving it down his throat every time he opened his mouth to breathe. Everyone wanted him to magically make their problems disappear. Yet, they seemed to have no idea how he would do so.

     When he was seventeen, he took matters into his own hands.

     He claimed to have had a vision. The prophet returned from the dead to tell him to build an armada. The island's king was more than happy to set his kingdom to work. The citizens were more than happy to be useful to their deliverer. And the Chosen, he was more than happy to finally put the prophecy to good use.

     He would wipe out the island's enemies and become the savior of their little world.

     Almost two years later he stood, watching the stupid sun set, wondering when these people were finally going to let him triumph. He was the savior; he was the chosen one. They were to bow to him, because if they didn't, then their world was going to fall.

     "Chosen," a voice said behind him. He turned to find a guard dipping his head in reverence. "The armada is finished."

     The Chosen frowned at first (who's to say the guard wasn't lying), but then saw the other officials waiting behind closed balcony doors. They were eagerly discussing something amongst themselves, their hands alive with enthusiasm. That's when the Chosen realized that it truly was time to strike.

     His armada was done.

     It was time to save the world.

     After sending out various commands for crews to be gathered and supplied to be shipped out, the Chosen retired for the night. In the morning, he would strike. But his dreams brought upon something even he didn't want to believe. The shining eyes of the prophet did appear to him there, their supposed scrutiny seeming more like malice.

     "Your time has finally come," said the prophet.

     The Chosen was too baffled to speak to the dream's phantom. He had lied about seeing the prophet years ago, yet here the prophet was now. What could this mean?

     "Destroy the world," said the prophet. "Destroy everything."

     The Chosen gaped at the phantom, who was now rubbing his hands together wickedly. The prophet looked like nothing more than a greedy old man, without divine power, using his influence to send an innocent country to war.

     "But the prophecy said I was to save the wor—"

     "Fool!" the prophet cackled. "I said you would alter the world! I never said you would save it."

     The Chosen stammered in surprise, attempting to pinch himself awake. However, the prophet's glaring gaze had pinned him to the unconscious world, and he could not escape.

     "There is no prophecy. There is no chosen. You are an imposter meant to drive the island to its ruin. And you have done so wonderfully. Soon, you will go to war with your enemies, and you will destroy them. They will bow to you, but your thirst for power will become so great that you will end up destroying everything."

     "Then I renounce my destiny."

     "You cannot renounce anything. The future has been written, now it is time for you to play your part." With those words the prophet started clapping. His claps were slow and loud, echoing through the Chosen's mind until that was all he could hear. He tried to cry out, tried to escape, but the sounds took him over, consuming him inside and out, until that was the only thing he remembered of the encounter.

     And when the Chosen woke up, he remembered not his dream. He still didn't remember his name, nor did he remember why he was angry. But he was angry. So, so angry.

     The guards came in to remind him of their morning mission, and he quickly dismissed them. This was his moment to shine, not theirs. He would step out into the sunrise and direct his armada. He would crush the enemies before him.

     He was the Chosen.

     And it was time for him to save the world.