The Reluctant Hero: Why Is Everyone After Me?

Birds chirped on a branch—two of them.

One held a twig proudly in its beak while the other hopped forward, watching with burning envy. In a ridiculous display of determination, the second bird lunged for the twig.

The first, sensing betrayal, pulled back at the last moment.

A comedic thunk echoed through the still morning air as the bird smacked headfirst into the tree trunk.

It slid down, dazed. The victorious bird let out what could only be described as a laugh, dropped the twig, then picked it up again—purely out of spite—before flying off in triumph.

The defeated bird, now teary-eyed, shook itself and took off in pursuit, feathers puffed like an angry cloud.

The background blurred as the birds vanished into the distance, revealing a grand scene below: a convoy preparing for departure.

The holy carriage gleamed in the morning light—black and gold with intricate dove engravings that spiraled into the shape of a crown beneath its door. Even the air around it seemed heavy with sanctity. Anyone with eyes could tell that someone of divine importance was meant to ride in it.

Knights moved in synchronized rhythm.

One hoisted a crate of fruits into the attached cart, while another secured the ropes. Two others threw a thick black blanket over the supplies to protect them from the sun. Their armor glinted as they worked, sweat trailing down their brows, their movements almost military—though there was an air of nervousness among them.

Beside the carriage stood Liliana, radiant yet stern, her long white robes with golden threads fluttering in the wind. It seems the temple had given her just for this occasion, as her ruby sword was strapped to her waist. She flipped through a thick list, her brows slightly furrowed.

"Is everything in order?" she asked without lifting her gaze.

One of the knights straightened immediately. "Yes, Lady Liliana! The supplies are loaded, and the protection wards have been recast on the wheels."

"And the medical kits?" she added, turning another page.

"They were stocked yesterday. One of the elders personally oversaw it."

Liliana nodded approvingly, making a note with her quill. "Good. The journey to Enferi Forest and then to the capital is long. I don't want surprises."

Her tone was calm, yet beneath it was tension—as if she expected something to go wrong. And, of course, fate did not disappoint.

A crash echoed from inside the temple—loud, metallic, and followed by a chorus of horrified gasps.

Liliana's quill froze mid-air. The knights turned their heads sharply toward the sound.

Another bang.

This time it was unmistakable—a bowl of water shattering against the marble floor.

The air grew still.

Inside the temple, chaos reigned.

An apprentice stumbled out of the corridor, clutching his spilled bucket of water. "He ran that way!" he shouted.

The "he" in question—Luther, the supposed Child Of Asmethan—was sprinting down the hall at full speed, robes fluttering behind him like a fleeing criminal.

"Saint Luther, stop running this instant!" roared Elder Nimo, his voice cracking halfway.

"You can't avoid your duties forever!" wheezed Elder Haro right behind him.

Luther didn't even look back. He yelled over his shoulder, "I can and I will! Nobody's dragging me into that cursed carriage!"

"Especially with her!"

The elders tried to catch up, but Luther's stamina—likely fueled by divine annoyance—was unmatched.

"By the heavens," Nimo gasped, clutching his knee. "How can he run so fast?!"

The sword hanging on Luther's back snickered. "You'd think saints would be graceful, but you look more like a headless chicken."

Luther shot it a glare mid-run. "Shut it! You're the reason I'm in this mess!"

"How's that my fault?" The sword asked, mock offense coating its tone. "You're the one who told one of the elders last night to 'try and make you go.' He's just fulfilling your request."

"That elder is insane, and I was sarcastic!" Luther snapped, narrowly avoiding a group of startled apprentices.

The sword hummed thoughtfully. "Maybe sarcasm doesn't translate well in Holiness."

"Then he needs to learn!" Luther barked.

The sword chuckled. "You're really giving 'holy terror' a new meaning, you know."

"Keep talking," Luther grumbled, "and I'll baptize you in lava."

They turned a sharp corner—only for Luther to almost crash into two priests carrying a basket of incense.

"Saint Luther!" one of them exclaimed in horror.

"Not today, brothers!" Luther said, leaping over the basket like a trained acrobat and continuing down the hall. The priests stood dumbfounded, the incense now scattered across the floor.

By now, half the temple was aware of the chase. Apprentices peered out of classrooms, whispering and giggling as the elders shouted down the hall.

"Someone block the exits!" cried Elder Haro, waving his arms dramatically.

"You mean the exits he's already passed?" Elder Nimo retorted. "Fool!"

The sword snorted with laughter. "Oh, they're adorable when they panic."

"Adorable?" Luther repeated, dodging another elder's outstretched arm. "That one just tried to baptize me with holy water!"

"Maybe it's a compliment," the sword teased. "You do look like a demon when you're angry."

"Funny," Luther said through gritted teeth, "you'll look like a paperweight in about five seconds."

"Oh, I'm terrified," the sword drawled, clearly not terrified.

Luther finally burst through a corridor that opened to a wide balcony overlooking the temple gardens. He skidded to a halt, chest heaving. Freedom was just a leap away. The morning breeze hit his face like a whisper of deliverance.

He looked down at the flower-filled courtyard below. It wasn't too far. Maybe a twisted ankle, but nothing healing magic couldn't fix.

The sword's voice was laced with sarcasm. "Brilliant idea, saint boy. Throw yourself off a balcony before your big holy trip. That'll show them."

"Shut up," Luther muttered, backing up a few steps to jump.

He bent his knees, ready to leap—when a hand suddenly grabbed the back of his robe.

"Got you."

The voice sent a chill down his spine. Slowly, very slowly, Luther turned his head.

There stood Mariana, his master—her expression so sharp it could cut through steel.

Her long hair fell over one shoulder, her eyes narrowed, and her mouth set in a calm, terrifying smile.

"Master…" Luther began carefully, "I can explain."

"I'm listening," she said in that deceptively sweet tone that made the sword whisper, "Oh, you're so dead."

Luther smiled nervously. "You see… I was just, um—stretching my legs. Long journey ahead, you know?"

"Stretching," Mariana repeated flatly.

"Yes!" Luther nodded rapidly. "Gotta keep the divine muscles in shape."

Her grip tightened.

"Ow, ow, OW—okay, okay! Maybe I was trying to… take a shortcut to the carriage."

"Through the balcony?" she asked, one brow rising.

"Gravity helps with speed?" Luther offered weakly.

Mariana sighed, the kind that promised retribution. "You're coming. Whether you like it or not."

"No, no, no—wait—Master, we can negotiate! I'll go after lunch. Or maybe next century!"

Before he could finish, Mariana hoisted him effortlessly onto her shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

The sword snickered.