This seems like the most logical explanation for how that old hermit/sage/wizard always manages to find the chosen one. A hero so righteous, so pure and so utterly bloodthirsty that of course fate/destiny/gods selected them and only them to be the saviour of the world/cosmos/racially homogenous kingdom. And of course, despite their undeniable destiny, this hero would never go on to do great things if they didn’t receive a helpful nudge in the right direction from older and wiser heads. Sometimes prophecy just needs a helping hand to make sure it doesn’t get lost along the way.
“The prophecy is clear: only you can save us.”
The young man raises an objection. The hermit is not impressed.
“Okay but actually I hate conflict, so -”
The hermit presents the sword to another strong young hero type. It has blood on it now, and in the corner is the other young man, now deceased, perhaps next to a pile of skeletons.
“The prophecy is clear…”