Kip Flint was not a hero.
He wasn't a knight, wizard, rogue, or anything remotely cool. He was a village kid with an unfortunate haircut, a rusty frying pan for protection, and a long, well-documented history of being in the wrong place at the worst possible time.
This morning was no exception.
It began, as disasters often do, with a chicken. Not just any chicken—LordBeakman, the village mayor's prize-winning, crown-wearing poultry. Kip was supposed to be delivering eggs, but instead, Lord Beakman was currently chasing him through the town square with feathers flying and talons out for blood.
"I swear I didn't insult your mother!" Kip shouted, diving over a fruit cart as the chicken launched itself like a feathery missile.
The crowd of villagers either cheered or placed bets.
"You say this every week!" yelled Old Marla from her turnip stand.
It wasn't Kip's fault. Probably. The frying pan had slipped, and the egg basket had become a projectile, and Lord Beakman—being unusually sensitive about breakfast items—took offense.
That's when the sky cracked.
A thunderous boom split the air, and everyone froze as a swirling vortex of blue fire tore open above the hills.
Kip, covered in apples and dignity loss, blinked up at the glowing sky-rip.
"Huh," he said. "That seems... important."
Then something shot out of it—like a comet with wings—and smashed into the woods just outside the village.
Lord Beakman forgot his vendetta. Even the gamblers shut up.
Kip sat up, brushing off fruit bits. "Alright. Time to not investigate that mysterious magical explosion in the woods."
Pause.
"...I'm absolutely going to investigate that mysterious magical explosion in the woods."
He grabbed his pan, his courage (somewhere near his toes), and headed straight for the chaos.