[After being exiled to village]

  The village was in shambles.

  Banners fluttered in the wind, the crowds screamed in rapture, and confetti rained down upon the Prophecy Hero, Balfour Ironhide. Or at least, that's what the village chief liked to refer to him as. It was hard to tell, since all Balfour could focus on at the moment was the searing heat against his skin.

  "By the gods, why am I half-naked?!" Balfour growled to himself, his thumbs flexing on the tattered hem of his worn-out tunic, which, if anything, seemed even more like a fading memory than something he really wore.

  The village leader stood before him, beaming with a wide smile, and grasping what appeared to be an ancient scroll. His eyes gleamed with excitement as he declared, "The prophecy has come! You, Balfour Ironhide, Hero of Light, are to save our world from the coming darkness!"

  The crowd cheered. The atmosphere resounded with the sound of clapping as they looked on in awe at their great hero—well, all except the wee but vociferous minority of children who looked at his chest agog and whispered softly, "Is he? He's. so big and bare."

  Balfour gritted his teeth. He could feel sweat welling up, his skin nearly steaming from the continual observation of every villager. And yet no one seemed to see that, aside from being twice their height, he was completely shirtless and now greatly uneasy.

  "Yeah, thanks for the 'doomed to save the world' bit, chief," Balfour growled, already perspiring on his forehead. "But as for the no shirt business—can someone explain that part to me?"

  The chief, unmoved by his evident discomfort, continued, "Ah, yes, of course! It is written in the sacred scriptures that the Hero will walk this earth with no armor to cover his strength. His muscles will be his strength, his bare skin his armor!"

  Balfour blinked, the prophecy words filtering slowly into his brain. No armor? Naked skin? His muscles his shield?

  "Got to be kidding me." Balfour growled, looking at the entire village as if it was some gigantic joke he couldn't escape.

  "Alright, let me get this straight," Balfour's voice went flat. "I'm supposed to walk around. with my muscles bulging? I'm the hero and you'd have me walking around without a shirt? Just like that?"

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  The chief nodded, absolutely convinced by the prophecy. "Yes, indeed! Because the world will see your power, and your courage, by seeing you in your lowest form!"

  Balfour looked at his physique—his abs, his biceps, raw bone mass of his chest. And for the first time in a long time, he considered what was required of him.

  So you're saying. all this power," he waved his arm across his body dramatically, "must be on display for the world to admire? My abs are supposed to be. my shield?"

  The chief smiled broadly. "Right! You're a symbol of unbridled masculinity, and the prophecy requires you to be naked to cloak it!"

  The crowd erupted. Absolutely loved it.

  Balfour, in total disbelief, let out a long sigh. "This is the dumbest thing I've ever heard."

  But the villagers, blissfully unaware of the absurdity of it all, took his silence as a declaration of acceptance.

  The chief gestured, and a group of overly eager villagers, all with varying degrees of excitement, tore his shirt off—whether Balfour liked it or not.

  Fabric tearing echoed through the air as Balfour struggled to preserve his dignity.

  "Wait! What are you—" he tried to bellow, but too late. The shirt was ripped away.

  "Now, you are the real hero!" the chief declared with triumphant cry.

  Balfour stood helpless and vulnerable, surrounded by a wave of clapping villagers. His eyes scanned the horizon, with a desperate hope for some miraculous divine intervention that would sweep him off. But none such arrived. No exit was to be had from the ridiculous prophecy.

  "Someone. someone give back my shirt to me." Balfour cursed under his breath, feeling the sharp sting of humiliation mixed with a strange sense of helplessness. He couldn't wear any armor, couldn't even wear a simple shirt, and yet was somehow supposed to take this seriously.

  The village women, young and old, however, looked at him as if he were the very literal embodiment of the sun itself.

  "Oh, my, what a masculine hero you are!" one of them breathed.

  "Yes! What a beautiful specimen! I've never seen such a chest so—so well defined!" another swooned, batting her eyelashes.

  Balfour's face turned redder than a beetroot. Why was this happening to him?

  And yet, the absolute worst of all was when the chief stepped up again, bearing a ceremonial "macho crown," a crown so ridiculous-looking that it appeared to have been crafted with the use of an extravagantly huge comb and plumes.

  "Ah yes, now that you've embraced your fate, the world will know you as the Hero of Strength! The 'Macho Man of the Prophecy,' if you prefer!" the chief declared, placing the crown on Balfour's head with unbridled pride.

  "Great," Balfour growled, fighting the urge to yell. "I'm the Macho Man of the Prophecy, and I'm shirtless. What's next? Do I have to start flexing to seal the deal?"

  Before the chief could answer, a stray cow walked by, gazing at Balfour as if he were some sort of strange animal. A child pointed.

  "Mommy, is that the hero? The big, shiny man with no shirt?"

  The mother, similarly confused but amazed, nodded. "Yes, dear. That's the one. He's the one who'll save us. All thanks to his power."

  And Balfour's fear began.