The Reluctant Hero: Why Is Everyone After Me?

"Duke Aithur."

The name dropped like a guillotine blade.

Luther's entire body stiffened as the man stepped from the shadows with the kind of calm arrogance only he could pull off. It wasn't loud, it wasn't dramatic — he simply appeared, like he had been carved out of the darkness itself.

Aithur moved forward, every step deliberate and unhurried, boots whispering against the mossy forest floor. His cloak fluttered faintly behind him, catching slivers of morning sunlight.

Eldric — who had moments ago been ranting to rocks — went pale. His legs trembled as he stood and bowed stiffly, head lowered so fast it was a miracle he didn't snap something.

"Y—Your Grace," he stammered.

But Aithur didn't look at him.

Luther watched the Duke with wide, sharp eyes. How…? Aithur should have been at the capital. He should have been surrounded by servants. He should have been anywhere except deep in this corrupted forest.

His thoughts spiraled.

Did he follow me? Did he notice I was gone? Did he really come all the way out here for me—?

The sword snickered inside his cloak.

Ohohoh, somebody's in trouble.

Luther elbowed it through the fabric. "Shut it."

Aithur finally stopped in front of Eldric and tilted his head, gaze sharp as a blade.

"So this," he said mildly, "was what the noble was looking for."

He gestured lazily to the broken emerald pieces scattered across the dirt. His voice carried that cold amusement Luther had begun to recognize — the one he used when he was two seconds away from doing something violent.

"A very interesting show, truly," Aithur continued. "Watching you sneak around like a rat scuttling after scraps."

Eldric flinched and shuffled a step back. Fear, confusion, pride — all warred across his face. He tried to regain his composure, though his voice still shook.

"What… what is the Duke doing here?"

Aithur smirked, one eyebrow lifting.

"I needed some fresh air. The town and that my delicate room was far too suffocating these days." His tone was airy — but the undercurrent was dark. "So I thought I'd take a stroll. Perhaps visit the forest in the morning."

Then he clicked his tongue softly.

"And who knew," he said, "that my little walk would include a noble acting insane over a piece of stone?"

He crouched with the grace of a predator, picking up a shard of the broken emerald.

Luther noticed something the others missed: Aithur didn't even blink as he touched it. No hesitation. No wariness. Just cool, clinical examination.

He lifted the shard up to the sunlight, letting it sparkle green.

"Mm. The craftsmanship is exceptional," he murmured. "The person who made this replica put their heart and soul into making it perfect."

Luther's heart kicked hard.

Replica?

Even the sword stopped giggling. Replica? This clown— wait, what?

But Aithur simply flicked the shard away with a flick of his wrist, like one would discard rotten fruit.

It hit a tree trunk with a muted crack and fell into the underbrush.

The sword hummed in interest.

Okay but— that wasn't normal. That was suspiciously not normal.

Luther noticed too.

What is happening? Why is he so calm? Why does he sound like he knows everything already?

Eldric opened his mouth to speak — but Aithur cut him off.

"Enough with cheap stones. I have something far more delightful for you to check."

He didn't even turn around.

Just raised his hand.

Conjuring something.

Luther's blood turned to ice.

Because he recognized the shape before it fully formed.

No.

No, that wasn't—

"That's—" he choked.

The sword let out a sharp, alarmed hiss.

That's the real one. The real one. THE REAL ONE.

Aithur held it up casually like a man presenting a new ornament.

A black crystal.

But not just black — it swallowed light. Devoured it. The air around it warped faintly, like heat shimmering off desert sand.

The same black crystal that Luther had.

Luther's breath snagged.

"That shouldn't be possible," he whispered, voice trembling despite himself. "The black crystal is with me. It's literally in my robe pocket right now. There shouldn't be another."

The sword hovered anxiously near Luther's ear.

Nope. Wrong. Try again. This one is real. I can feel it. I can FEEL it.

Luther wanted to scream.

Then what the hell is in my pocket then. A FAKE?!

The crystal's aura spread like silent smoke.

Eldric's eyes snapped toward it instantly — pupils contracting into pinpoints. His breath hitched, body leaning forward like a puppet being pulled by strings.

He stepped closer.

And closer.

Drawn in.

His hand rose, trembling violently, but unable to stop reaching.

Like the crystal was calling him.

Luther took a step, ready to intervene—

But then—

SLASH

Aithur screamed.

It was raw and sharp and utterly uncharacteristic.

He staggered back, hand flying to his face.

Blood poured between his fingers.

The forest went dead silent.

"What—?!" Luther choked.

Something wasn't adding up.

The real Aithur would've dodged. Effortlessly. Without even blinking.

This man—

didn't.

Eldric stood there, dagger in hand. The same dagger he had used earlier to chip at the emerald. His breathing was ragged, shoulders shaking, eyes wide.

The sword muttered, stunned.

Okay WHAT THE HELL just happened?! I blinked for one second!

Luther forced himself to stay still.

No. Something's wrong. Something's very wrong.

Because Duke Aithur — cold, composed, dangerous Aithur — should never have allowed anyone to get close enough to scratch him, much less slice his face open.

The sword whispered, uneasy now.

He left a wide opening. That's not normal. That's not the Aithur we know. Even I could have dodged that.

"Yeah," Luther muttered under his breath. "Something is off."

His unease grew heavier when he realized Eldric wasn't panicking.

He should have been terrified — he just attacked a duke.

But instead, he pointed the dagger at Aithur, voice shaking but determined.

"You're... not the Duke!"

The forest exhaled.

Luther's heart slammed against his ribs.

Aithur straightened slowly, blood dripping down the side of his jaw. His hand dropped away, revealing the slash — a long, brutal cut across his cheek.

But there was no fury in his face.

No cold rage.

No humiliation.

Just a smile.

A sick, twisted, crazed smile that didn't belong on any sane person.

Or any human.

Luther felt his throat close.

Even the sword froze.

And Aithur — or whatever he was — tilted his head, eyes gleaming with something sharp and unhinged.

Then he answered Eldric, voice low, warm, and horrifyingly delighted.

"And what," he purred, "gave you that impression?"