That not so important character turned out to be important

The group led by Smith walked through the dimly lit hallways of the mansion, their footsteps echoing softly against the stone floors. From the outside, the mansion looked like something out of a ghost story—weathered, overgrown, and forgotten. Inside, it was no less eerie, though less ominous. The air smelled of dust and old wood.

Much of the mansion seemed abandoned, rooms left in disuse with layers of dirt clinging to surfaces. The walls were bare, stripped of any decoration, and the sparse furniture that remained was either broken or covered in sheets. Only the areas that saw frequent use were clean, giving the place a patchwork feel of neglect and necessity.

The young men trailing behind the town chief exchanged uneasy glances, wanting to comment but holding their tongues. The silence was heavy, broken only by Smith's steady footsteps as he led them forward.

They finally reached a set of double doors, polished to an unexpected shine. Unlike the rest of the mansion, this entrance had a quiet grandeur that hinted at the presence of someone important. Smith pushed them open, and the group stepped inside.

The study was a stark contrast to the rest of the house. Though still minimalistic, it had a sense of purpose. Books lined shelves that were clearly well-used. A large window let in the fading evening light, casting a golden hue across the room.

In the center, Shaun sat in a high-backed chair near the window, one leg crossed over the other, a book resting lazily in his hand. He wore a simple shirt and pants, but there was an undeniable elegance in the way he carried himself. His posture was relaxed, his head tilted slightly as he read, feet propped casually on the edge of a low table.

Without looking up, he greeted them. "Welcome," he said, his voice calm but clear. "Must've been a long walk. This place doesn't exactly roll out the red carpet for guests." His lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. "Anyway, enjoy what little hospitality I can offer. It's not much, but it'll have to do."

The town chief cleared his throat, stepping forward, unsure how to respond to the casual tone. Before he could speak, Shaun closed his book with a soft thud and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"No need for pleasantries," Shaun said, waving a hand. "I know why you're here. You need space and shelter for the townsfolk. The riot, displacement, and now... desperation. " He smirked, the faintest hint of amusement flickering in his eyes. "You can use the mansion and whatever resources are here. Just don't ask me for money—I'm as short on it as the rest of you."

The head priest blinked, clearly caught off guard by Shaun's bluntness. The town chief's face twitched, unsure whether to feel offended or relieved.

"You're... allowing us to use the mansion?" the priest asked cautiously.

Shaun nodded, leaning back in his chair. "It's old, dirty, and mostly empty. Might as well put it to good use. And if you're feeling adventurous, there's a garden—or what's left of it. More like a jungle now. Maybe you'll find some herbs or something useful. Who knows?" He chuckled, the sound dry and amused.

The young man in the group, who had been quietly observing, now stared at Shaun with a mix of awe and confusion. "I thought nobles didn't care about things like this," he muttered under his breath.

Shaun's chuckle deepened. "They probably don't. But I'm a noble in name only. Don't even know how they think, nor do I care."

The town chief and the others exchanged glances, then bowed respectfully. "We're grateful, Lord Shaun," the chief said. "Your help will not be forgotten."

Shaun waved them off, clearly uninterested in formalities. "No need for gratitude. Just do what you need to do and leave me out of it." His eyes narrowed slightly. "Smith and Harold will help you. If you need anything else... don't bother me unless it's absolutely necessary."

The head priest offered a faint smile. "Understood, Lord Shaun. Thank you again."

With murmurs of thanks, the group filed out, Smith guiding them back down the hall. As the door closed behind them, Shaun sighed, picking up his book again.

"Let's see how long this goodwill lasts," he muttered, flipping to the next page. A smirk tugged at his lips. The more they overstay, the more it works in my favor.

The next morning, Shaun wandered through the mansion's halls, observing the once-empty space now teeming with life. What had become of his quiet, forgotten estate now resembled a disaster relief camp, filled with makeshift beds and clusters of people recovering from the chaos. Priests and doctors worked tirelessly to heal the injured, while volunteers distributed food and managed the restless crowd. Shaun didn't care—so long as they stayed clear of his personal quarters, they could turn the place into a circus for all he cared.

"Damn," he thought, watching the scene unfold. "I knew the town had a lot of people, but not this many. Now I'm realizing I actually live in a mansion big enough to fit this whole crowd in just the first floor and part of the second. Guess this place really is massive. Never cared before, since I never used most of it." He smirked at the irony and kept walking, his thoughts drifting back to the book he was reading—a dry, convoluted mess written by the original Shaun, detailing the bizarre rules, future, important player and events of this fantasy world he was stuck in. "At least it's useful," he mused, "if not incredibly boring."

As he strolled past the garden, a group of kids caught his eye. They were gathered around a boy, watching as he practiced sword techniques with intensity and focus. The boy, about Shaun's age, moved with a natural fluidity, his strikes precise and confident. The younger children pleaded with him to teach them, their eyes wide with admiration.

"Ah, I know this trope," Shaun thought, rolling his eyes. "The 'I lost everything, so now I'll get stronger' cliché. Classic." His gaze hardened. it's a common trope, a cliché, but it's their reality. They're just pawns in someone else's story, destined to be used and abused. They'll never have the freedom to choose their own path. They're mere NPCs, insignificant characters in a grander narrative. No one cares about their struggles, their hopes, or their dreams. They're here to suffer, to be exploited, to be forgotten. His expression, a mixture of boredom and disdain, was that of a teacher tired of dealing with unruly students.

The boy, however, misread Shaun's look entirely. To him, it felt like a challenge—a silent declaration of superiority. His pride bristled at the perceived insult. This boy, Samuel, was a traveler heading north, caught in the town's chaos by chance. Swordsmanship ran in his veins, and he was fiercely proud of his skills. He'd shut down anyone who dared to belittle him before—and he wasn't about to back down now.

"Hey, you!" Samuel called, waving the children away. "Where are you going? Not gonna join me? It's more fun than it looks."

Shaun paused but didn't respond.

"Come on," Samuel pressed, grinning. "We're the same age. Let's spar. I need a partner."

When Shaun remained silent, Samuel added with a chuckle, "Don't worry, I won't hurt you. I'll go easy."

Shaun kept walking, unimpressed.

Samuel laughed louder. "Scared, huh? Thought you were some big shot with that look you were giving."

Shaun stopped and turned, his eyes cold. "Oh, you're quite the talker, aren't you? Well, I suppose I'll indulge you, but don't go crying to anyone if your fragile ego shatters.."

Samuel grinned. "Bring it on."

They stood opposite each other, wooden swords in hand. "You first," Samuel offered, confident as ever.

Shaun smirked. "Why? You want me to end this game in a single move huh ?"

Before Samuel could reply, he launched forward, blitzing toward Shaun with impressive speed. He leapt, aiming a strike at Shaun's head. Shaun blocked effortlessly. Samuel shifted, targeting Shaun's legs with a swift swing. But Shaun moved faster—dropping low and deflecting the blow, sending Samuel sprawling backward. In one fluid motion, Shaun struck again, shattering Samuel's sword and delivering a precise hit to his neck, knocking him unconscious.

Shaun yawned. "All talk," he muttered, turning away. "Nothing more."

After the brief encounter with Samuel, Shaun continued his walk, making his way to the study on the third floor. As he ascended the grand staircase, his gaze wandered over the makeshift camp scattered throughout the mansion. Groups of survivors huddled together, their faces etched with exhaustion and grief. He observed it all with detached curiosity, indifferent to their plight but mildly entertained by the transformation of his once-empty estate.

Near the second-floor landing, something caught his eye—a frail old woman casting a faint, golden glow over an injured child. Her hands trembled slightly as she chanted, the soft light knitting wounds together. Shaun paused, tilting his head.

"So, magic does exist in this world," he mused, a smirk tugging at his lips. "I've only read about it in books, but seeing it in action... definitely leaves an impression."

Satisfied with the brief spectacle, he resumed his climb, arriving at his study. On the way, he gave a passing order to the old maid chief to prepare his meal. Settling into his usual chair, he unlocked a hidden compartment in the desk, retrieving a worn, leather-bound book—the original Shaun's journal—and his own personal notes.

He flipped through the pages, the scent of aged parchment filling the room. "Now, let's get the job done," he muttered, tapping the edge of the journal thoughtfully.

His eyes narrowed as he skimmed through the familiar scrawl. "I've got my own issues with Count Heron right now, but that doesn't mean I can completely ignore the main storyline. If I want to avoid trouble—and stay in a favorable position—I need to keep an eye on it."

Leaning back, he sighed. "Not that I have any desire to get involved. My role in this trash novel wasn't exactly a sweet one. I'd rather not follow in those footsteps. But…" His gaze darkened, a cynical grin forming. "they do say An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure."

Town Chief: "Are you sure you want to leave? You could stay a little longer, you know."

Sam: "No, I couldn't impose on you all, especially during such a difficult time. Besides, I must continue my journey north. I just wanted to express my gratitude for your hospitality."

Town Chief: "Very well, then."

As Samuel walked away, his mind raced, replaying the humiliating defeat. "Who was that guy? I've never lost. Not to mercenaries, soldiers, knights—never. Wooden sword or real, adult or kid—it didn't matter. But today, I was made to feel like a child. My skills as swordsmen, my only strength... shattered." His fists clenched. "I won't forget this. I won't be humiliated again. I won't underestimate anyone. Never again."

And with that vow, Samuel disappeared into the horizon, determined to rise stronger for their inevitable rematch.