Rise of the F-Rank Hero

The sound of wheels crunching against stone came from outside. Heavy hoofbeats echoed, growing louder.

Oliver turned toward the window — just in time to see a dark carriage, polished and engraved with the sigil of the Valtaine family, rolling to a stop in front of the inn.

The laughter in the room faded. A hush fell as the weight of reality returned.

The door creaked open. A liveried driver stepped in, bowing low.

"By order of Viscount Theo Valtaine," he intoned, "I have come to escort Oliver Shaw and his companions to the estate."

~~~

The Valtaine carriage gleamed like polished obsidian under the setting sun, pulled by four black steeds in ornate silver tack. The driver held the reins with military stiffness, and the sigil of the Valtaine family — a rampant lion crowned with laurels — was etched proudly onto the carriage doors.

Oliver tugged at his belt, glancing at Isolde and Nyra. "Well… looks like our ride's here."

"Not so fast."

Serena's voice cut through like a whip. She planted herself in front of him, arms crossed, eyes narrowed with the authority of a mother about to scold her son.

"You're not marching into a noble estate dressed like that."

Oliver blinked down at himself, tugging at his tunic. "Like what?"

"Like a farmhand who just wrestled a boar," Serena snapped, grabbing his sleeve as though it offended her existence.

He opened his mouth to argue, but Serena had already seized him by the wrist. "No more excuses. You're representing this inn as much as yourself. I won't let you embarrass us."

"Wha—? Represent—?!" Oliver spluttered as she dragged him toward the stairs like a delinquent child.

"And you, Isolde." Serena shot a sharp look over her shoulder. "Get changed into what we already agreed upon."

~~~~

Upstairs, Oliver found himself planted firmly on a stool while Serena bustled around him like a storm. She tugged at his shirt, inspected his boots, and muttered under her breath as though she were about to rebuild him from scratch.

"Arms up."

Oliver raised his arms reluctantly. "This feels like conscription."

Serena stripped off his worn tunic and tossed it into a corner like garbage, replacing it with a crisp white shirt that smelled faintly of lavender. She pulled a fitted vest over it, cinched his belt tighter, and adjusted the collar until he choked.

"Gods, I can't breathe," Oliver complained.

"Better than looking like a vagrant," Serena shot back, smacking the back of his head lightly. "Stand up straight. You're not slouching into a viscount's hall."

Nyra peeked around the doorway, giggling at the sight. "Big brother looks like a noble now."

"I feel like a stuffed turkey," Oliver muttered, tugging at his cuffs.

"Less whining, more standing still," Serena said, stepping back to admire her handiwork. "Hmm… not bad. Almost respectable. Almost."

"Ok let's go. Isolde must be ready by now" And without waiting for his reply she dragged him out.

But there was no sign of Isolde yet so they just waited at the counter.

Oliver was getting impatient.

But before Oliver could say anything, the door to the adjoining room upstairs — and Isolde stepped out.

Isolde descended the staircase like a vision. Midnight silk clung to her figure, the gown flowing down her legs with a shimmer of silver embroidery at the hems. A slit rode daringly up one thigh, flashing smooth dark skin with every step. Her hair, usually loose, had been gathered elegantly with a jeweled clasp, leaving her sharp, regal face fully revealed.

Oliver's eyes went wide, his mouth falling open. His brain stalled.

"…Holy shit."

Isolde stopped mid-step, her lips curling. "What was that?"

He jerked upright, waving his hands. "I-I mean—you look—amazing. Like, too amazing. I thought we were just going to a Viscount's house, not a royal ball."

Serena smirked from behind her. "What's wrong, Oliver? Too stunned to close your mouth?"

Oliver snapped his jaw shut so fast his teeth clacked. His face burned red, but his eyes still kept darting helplessly back to Isolde's long legs, the curve of her hips, the proud way she carried herself.

Isolde reached the bottom step, smirking knowingly. "I take it you approve?"

"Approve?" Oliver muttered. "I was already inferior standing next to you before. Now I feel like I'm your attendant's attendant."

Isolde placed a hand dramatically against her chest. "Oh my, my poor ego. Do you really think standing near me makes you look less?"

"Yes," Oliver said flatly, then softened with a laugh. "You're stealing the entire show."

"Don't pout," Isolde teased, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "I can't help it if I'm this beautiful."

"Unfair," Oliver muttered — but his smile betrayed him.

~~~

Outside, the driver bowed low and opened the carriage door. The interior smelled faintly of rosewood, lined with velvet seats.

Isolde entered first with her regal poise, Oliver following behind with far less grace. Serena lingered at the doorway, grinning.

Serena lingered at the doorway, grinning.

"Behave yourselves there. Don't go thrashing people over little scuffls." she said.

Isolde gave a lazy wave. "No promises."

The door closed, reins clattered, and the carriage rolled smoothly into the streets.

~~~

Inside, lantern light swayed with the motion. Isolde leaned back comfortably, one leg crossed, while Oliver sat opposite, his arms folded.

"You're awfully calm for someone heading to a noble's estate," he said.

"Why wouldn't I be? I was a princess."

"Right," Oliver muttered. "Meanwhile, I'm just some guy who used to eat cup noodles at midnight."

Isolde arched a brow. "Cup… noodles?"

"Never mind."

~~~~

The carriage rumbled through the cobblestone streets, the sounds of the town fading behind them. Isolde kept glancing out the window, wide-eyed at the sight of patrolling knights, gilded signboards, and sprawling manors on the outskirts.

"Everything feels so… different," she murmured.

"That's noble life for you," Oliver said, watching a group of servants unload barrels into a marble-fronted estate they passed. "Money buys you walls, guards, and luxuries. For common folk, it's another world entirely."

Isolde hummed softly, her tone edged with disdain. "Nobles always think themselves gods because they sit in fancy carriages and dine off gold plates. Strip that away and they bleed the same as any peasant."

Oliver shot her a look. "Coming from a former princess?"

She smiled, unashamed. "Exactly. I know the type too well."

The carriage jolted to a stop. Outside, torchlight gleamed against massive wrought-iron gates flanked by armored sentries. Beyond the bars, the Valtaine estate stretched out — a sprawling complex of marble halls, fountains, and manicured gardens lit by floating mana lamps.

At the gate an older man was already waiting in the courtyard — posture like a spear, gloved hands folded neatly before him.

Gerard Volvick. The head butler.

He stepped forward as the carriage door opened, his sharp eyes flicking between them — waiting, no doubt, for that inevitable reaction of awe.

But Oliver simply hopped down and stretched his arms like it was nothing, while Isolde emerged like she belonged there, every inch the noblewoman Gerard could never hope to match.

Their bland composure made his eyes narrow ever so slightly.

Still, he bowed with perfect professionalism. "Welcome, honored guests, to the estate of House Valtaine."

~~~

The iron gates creaked open with deliberate slowness, as if even the timing of their welcome had been rehearsed. The carriage rolled through a cobblestone courtyard lit by rows of enchanted lanterns. Beyond the gates, manicured gardens stretched on either side — trimmed hedges shaped into griffons and roses blooming unnaturally in the cold season.

Oliver gave it a glance, unimpressed. Hedge animals. Cute.

Isolde, on the other hand, stepped out of the carriage like she was walking onto her own land. Her spine straight, chin lifted, gown glimmering faintly under the lantern light — she looked like she had been born for such a setting.

Gerard, the head butler, seemed pleased by her composure, though his eyes flickered curiously at Oliver's lack of awe.

"This way," Gerard said, leading them toward the main hall.

The moment they entered, servants lined the walls in perfect formation, bowing in unison. "Welcome, honored guests."

Oliver flinched slightly at the chorus of voices. "...That was creepy."

Isolde glided past them without batting an eye, every gesture radiating practiced elegance. "Acceptable," she murmured, as if she were critiquing the performance.

Gerard's lips twitched at the word, unsure if it was meant as insult or approval.

They passed through the entryway into the grand corridor. Chandeliers of floating crystal cast rainbows along the marble floor, each tile polished so clean Oliver could see his reflection. Portraits of Valtaine ancestors lined the walls, all painted with severe expressions and heavy robes that screamed self-importance.

Oliver tilted his head at one portrait — a man with a receding hairline but an overly dramatic sword. "Huh. Guess hairlines don't run strong in this family."

A servant coughed loudly, scandalized.

Isolde didn't even turn her head. "Pay him no mind. He is like this always."

"I'm just saying," Oliver muttered.

They were led through a dining hall large enough to host an army, the table glittering with untouched silverware and crystal goblets. A harpist played softly in the corner, though there were no guests yet to hear her.

"Such display," Isolde commented, her tone neutral, though her crimson eyes flickered with amusement. "Is this for us, or is this always wasted on empty chairs?"

"The household prides itself on preparedness," Gerard replied smoothly, though his jaw was tight.

Oliver leaned toward Isolde and whispered, "Translation: they like to show off."

She smirked faintly, "It seems they are trying to intimidate us. And tell to know your place in a subtle way."

~~~~

At last, they stopped before a pair of enormous double doors engraved with runes and golden filigree. Knights in polished armor stood guard, their halberds gleaming under enchanted light.

Gerard turned, his posture precise. "Viscount Theo Valtaine awaits you beyond these doors. Please, remember that you are not only guests, but honored benefactors of this house."

Oliver adjusted his tunic, glancing sideways at Isolde. She looked as calm as a queen about to enter her throne room. He, meanwhile, just felt like a kid about to meet his girlfriend's strict father.

Still, he straightened his back and nodded. "Alright. Let's get this over with."

The knights pushed the doors open.

Light spilled from the chamber beyond.

The meeting with the Viscount was about to begin.