There's a fork in the road, and the doe-eyed, spiky-haired mute pauses to think. He leans on his gigantic sword, frozen in indecision. Left, up through the craggy rocks? Or right? He has time to contemplate: No beast will attack while his feet remain firmly planted on the path. The world waits for him. If he does a jittery little dance, however, or paces back and forth, they will come. Oh, they will come. And his friends will appear from nowhere, swiftly murder the monsters, say something pithy, and leave, as they've done hundreds of times.

Neither path seems more promising than the other. There's no sign of rest along either route. No light. The hero doesn't understand why, but every time he sees a pillar of light he rushes to stand in it, to savor its glow. They make little chimes when he approaches, a song of greeting. "Hello," they seem to say. "Everything is safe now." The pillars of light wait for him everywhere: city streets, mountain passes, the depths of dungeons.

The hero would know what to do if this familiar sight lay along either path. First he would rush to embrace the light. Then he would backtrack and take the other road. Because, inevitably, there is treasure there. He would find a weapon somewhat better than the one he wielded, or a healing item to add to his enormous stockpile of goods. And, more importantly, there would be a dead end: a definitive signpost pointing in the opposite direction. The hero's curiosity would be sated, and he could proceed onwards past the saving light with confidence.

Before one can take satisfaction in the correct path—and there is always a correct path—they must first exhaust all alternatives. This is the Way.

The hero shifts his weight, looking warily at the two routes. He knows well the indicators of failure: If his friends suddenly appear all around him and begin yammering about love or insane philosophy, he has chosen incorrectly. If he arrives at a new location or battles an especially fierce monster, he has chosen incorrectly. If he witnesses a majestic scene involving airships or steam-powered trains or supersized cannons, he has failed.

The consequences are less predictable.

Sometimes the hero is able to retrace his steps once he regains control of himself, to collect the bits and scraps he left behind. The treasures are never worthwhile, but the peace of mind is priceless.

Occasionally the hero loses time, awakening inside one of the pillars of light he visited earlier. This is annoying—the one time the light fails to sooth him. The hero must once again fight the same battles, acquire the same items, and endure restaged prattling from comrades and folk he meets—who never seem to remember him, or that they've already told him where the temple is. Still, the hero knows the Way now, and the path is easier.

Once the hero made a terrible mistake, and paid for it dearly. While traveling through an ancient sewer system, he noticed a treasure chest perched just out of reach. It was tantalizing, but the hero assumed that a path would loop back to the chest at a later junction. This thought put him at ease as he traveled further and further away from it. Eventually the hero was attacked by an enormous crocodile and, with the help of his conveniently appearing friends, made quick work of it. In its death throes, however, the crocodile forced the group from the sewers and caused the exit to come crashing down. While the hero's friends rejoiced at their narrow escape, his own heart was heavy, for he knew that he would never acquire that now-inaccessible treasure.

The next thing he knew, the hero was far from heroic. He was an innocent troublemaker in his hometown once again, stripped of all his inventory and power, and reliving an idealized past where he first learned to swing a sword and kill troublesome slimes. And he watched his village get razed by the forces of evil, and his family and friends slaughtered for the second time. He began anew.

This is the Way.

Now the boy stands at a crossroads, a hero painstakingly rebuilt. The left path leads up through rocky formations, winding up the mountainside. The right path delves into a shady tree canopy. There are no clues. The hero picks up his blade and begins to walk, slowly at first but with more confidence when nothing interesting happens.

He sweeps one side of the path and then the other, idly searching for valuables and offshoot trails along the way. If only he could enjoy his travels without having his agency wrested from him at inopportune moments, unseen forces surging him onwards without his consent! That, the hero thought, would be a mighty fine adventure.

From the corner of his eye, at the very periphery of his vision, the hero now sees the sign he was looking for. A treasure chest, snuggled into a crevasse. The chest is on the other path.

But it is too late. The hero takes one step too many and instantly finds himself running up a hill to marvel at a glorious cityscape sparkling on the horizon, airships dotting the sky above. Two of the fourteen-year-old girls he calls companions flank him and begin to bicker about who the hero "like-likes" more, their saucer-eyes extra wide with fury. And as his friends escort him towards the city, willingly but against his will, the hero's longing soars back, back, back to the crossroads and the insolent, unclaimed treasure that he can't ever forget.

"I will return," thinks the hero. "I will come back to the place before the Way was lost."

But in all likelihood, the hero knew, he would be outward bound to faraway climes on an airship before he once again had any choice in the matter.