The Reluctant Hero: Why Is Everyone After Me?

"No."

The single word came out sharper than intended, slicing through the silence of the hall.

Liliana froze where she stood. So did Elder Nimo and Elder Haro.

All three pairs of eyes turned to Luther, whose expression was calm—too calm—but the faint twitch of his jaw betrayed irritation.

Elder Haro blinked. "Pardon, Saint Luther?"

Luther exhaled through his nose, his tone flat. "I said, no."

He straightened, the air shifting around him. "As a holy saint, I'm privileged to follow commands." His gaze slid from Liliana to the elders, cold and unmoving. "But not this one."

The two elders exchanged nervous glances.

Elder Haro cleared his throat. "Saint Luther, the Crown's decree—"

"The Crown's decree," Luther cut in, his tone suddenly edged with frost, "does not extend to the Church."

A heavy pause followed.

"The Church may serve the Empire," he continued, crossing his arms, "but saints are not its dogs. The King may command knights like Lady Liliana, but I am not a knight. My duty lies with the light, not the throne."

Elder Nimo scratched the back of his neck. "W-Well, Saint Luther—"

Luther's gaze snapped to him. "Don't," he said curtly, his voice cutting the air clean. "I'm tired. I've had enough for one day."

The sword at his hip suddenly whispered in his head, its tone laced with mockery.

"You mean, you're too lazy to move your holy behind again, aren't you?"

Luther's eyebrow twitched.

'Shut up. 'I hate the author of this book,' he replied mentally, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

'There's a difference between reading about adventure and living through it. One ends with closing a book. The other ends with a burial.'

The sword chuckled darkly in his mind. "If I had known my wielder would be this depressing, I'd have stayed sealed."

He ignored it, continuing coolly, "The journey to Enferi Forest alone takes two weeks. And that's if the terrain doesn't eat you alive first." His eyes flickered toward the Elders. "I don't even know how long it'll take to clean up whatever you old men stirred up."

"Stirred up?" Elder Haro stammered. "We were merely—"

Luther glared.

The hall went dead quiet.

He sighed through his teeth. "And by the time we crawl back, the capital festival would have already begun. Does that sound efficient to you?"

Elder Haro opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Elder Nimo shifted awkwardly, sweat trailing down his temple.

Luther tilted his head slightly, a small, tired smile ghosting over his lips. "No, it doesn't. So, I'm not going."

A long silence.

He turned his back on them, his sword shifting like dark silk behind him.

Liliana took a hesitant step forward. "W—Wait—Saint Luther, please reconsider. The King's orders—"

He stopped but didn't turn.

"Then follow them," he said quietly, his tone suddenly colder. "You're a royal knight. You don't have the luxury of refusal. But I do."

The words hit like a blade, not cruelly spoken, but weighted with truth.

Liliana froze, lips parting in quiet protest that never came.

Luther continued walking, each footstep echoing faintly down the marble corridor. His shoe brushed the floor with the whisper of leather against stone.

Behind him, the elders stood frozen in silence.

Elder Haro glanced toward Liliana. "He's…not entirely wrong," he murmured. "Saints aren't bound by the Crown. The High Order governs them."

Elder Nimo gave a nervous laugh. "Still, I'd rather face demons than that glare again."

Liliana's hands clenched tightly at her sides. "Did… I do something to anger him?" she finally asked, her voice barely audible.

Elder Haro forced a grin. "No, no, of course not, Lady Liliana." He elbowed Elder Nimo quickly. "The preparations for your departure start immediately—even if Saint Luther disagrees."

Elder Nimo nodded so fast it looked painful. "Y-Yes, yes, His Holiness already approved, so it shall proceed!"

Liliana's gaze lingered on them as they stumbled away like startled deer, whispering to one another.

She sighed softly, her eyes dulling for a moment. Turning toward the long hallway ahead, she walked slowly, her footsteps echoing quietly in the nearly empty space.

Apprentices passed her left and right, whispering among themselves.

"Did you hear? The Saint just returned from Noia Town."

"They said the apprentice who went with him hasn't spoken a word since."

"Something must've gone wrong…"

Their murmurs pricked at her curiosity. Liliana's eyes sharpened, and she stopped a young boy passing by. "Excuse me. Where can I find the Saint's room?"

The boy froze, startled by her sudden presence. "Ah—down this hall, milady. You'll see a door marked with the crown insignia." Then, almost timidly, he asked, "If I may, why do you seek the Saint?"

Liliana kept her tone neutral. "I simply need to ask him something."

The boy nodded quickly, not daring to pry further, and hurried away.

She continued forward.

But as she neared the quieter end of the corridor, she stopped abruptly.

Her breath caught.

She didn't have to go far to find him.

Luther sat on the wide window ledge, framed by the dying light of dusk. His head rested against the stone frame, his shoulders slightly hunched as if the weight of the world pressed down on them.

For a long moment, she simply stood there, her hand resting lightly against the wall.

She didn't make a sound.

Because she realized—he wasn't just sitting there.

He was crying.

The faint, uneven sound of muffled sniffles reached her ears. His face was turned away, but she could see the slight tremble of his shoulders, the subtle glint of tears catching the light before falling onto the stone below.

Luther's inner voice trembled between exhaustion and quiet bitterness.

"All those lives in Noia Town… I couldn't even save them."

He drew his knees closer to his chest, his breath shaky.

"Saint Luther, the miracle worker, huh?" A dry laugh escaped him. "Some saint I am…"

The sword's voice hummed softly inside his head, uncharacteristically quiet.

"You can't save everyone, idiot."

Luther didn't reply. He just closed his eyes, pressing a hand against his chest as if trying to hold himself together.

For the first time, without the saintly glow or the sharp sarcasm, he looked exactly what he was—an eighteen-year-old boy.

One who had seen too much, too early.

Liliana stood there, her face unreadable. Her heart clenched, though she didn't move closer.

Her thoughts whispered softly, almost like a vow only she could hear:

"So this is what he carries alone…"

She turned her gaze away and quietly leaned against a nearby pillar, folding her arms loosely across her chest. She would not interrupt his grief.

She would just stand guard.

Protect him like before.

Even if he never asked for it. Even if he never noticed.

Her eyes softened slightly as the wind brushed her hair across her face, the faint scent of incense drifting from the hall's end.

That promise still stands.