The Reluctant Hero: Why Is Everyone After Me?

The mercenary leader gritted his teeth, one hand pressed against his bleeding arm as he stared up at the boy who had just walked into the middle of their fight like he owned the place. His face was bruised, armor cracked, but he still had the stubbornness of a man who refused to bow to chance.

"Kid," he rasped. "Get back! This isn't a playground. Go hide before they—"

Luther tilted his head, an amused glint flickering in his eyes. "Before they what? Swing their sticks at me until I die of boredom?"

The leader blinked. "What?"

The sword gave a tired groan. "Oh, great. Another brave idiot who thinks he's saving the world. I'm surrounded by heroes."

Luther ignored it, brushing a few strands of silver hair away from his face. "Relax, old man. You've done enough bleeding for one day. Rest."

He snapped his fingers casually.

The mercenaries—every last one of them—slumped to the ground as though someone had drained the air out of their bodies. They didn't fall in pain; they simply fell asleep, peaceful, like children after a long day.

The two surviving thugs blinked at the sudden silence.

"Wh—what the hell did you just do?" one stammered, clutching his crude, mist-covered club.

"Gave them a nap," Luther said, rolling his shoulders. "You all look like you could use one too."

Alina, who had been hovering nervously behind him, stepped forward and whispered, "Luther, what should I—?"

He pointed toward the corner where the terrified mother clutched her two children. "Them. Heal them first."

Alina nodded and ran to them, her light magic glowing softly from her palms as she knelt beside the little girl. But before she could finish, a shadow loomed behind her.

One of the thugs had slipped around, his club pulsing with a dense black mist. "You think you can ignore us, brat!?"

He swung.

Before the weapon could connect, Luther's foot met the thug's ribs with a dull crack. The man flew backward, tumbling several meters before skidding across the dirt.

"Ouch," the sword muttered lazily. "I almost felt that."

The thug groaned and forced himself up, his aura flaring darkly. Unlike his companion, he actually managed to stay standing. The black mist wrapped tighter around his arms, forming spikes.

Luther's mouth curved into a slow grin. "Finally… something interesting."

The other thugs appearing from the crowd as if waitng for the right time joined him, each one conjuring some form of weapon—clubs, blades, a spear of writhing smoke that hissed as it cut through the air. The leader barked, "Don't underestimate him! That brat's got a crystal—kill him before he uses it!"

"Oh, please," the sword sighed from Luther's hand. "If they could kill you, I'd eat my own blade."

"You don't have a stomach," Luther muttered.

"That's not the point!"

The first thug charged, swinging his mist club downward. Luther sidestepped smoothly, grabbed the man's wrist, and twisted. The mist flickered, unstable, as the weapon dissolved back into black vapor. With a single elbow to the jaw, Luther sent him sprawling again.

Two more rushed him from both sides.

He crouched low, kicked one in the gut, and used the momentum to spin—his heel connecting with the second thug's chin. The sound of impact echoed, followed by the sight of teeth flying.

"Too slow," Luther said casually, straightening his coat. "And too predictable."

"You're mocking them," the sword sang in amusement.

"Am I not supposed to?" Luther replied dryly. "They did walk in looking like a failed circus act."

"Oh." The demonic sword chuckled darkly.

The remaining thugs growled and unleashed their magic, summoning thicker, denser weapons. One created a massive axe that shimmered with corrupted energy; another conjured a spiked whip that lashed toward Luther with a sharp crack.

Luther ducked the first strike, caught the whip mid-air, and yanked—sending its wielder face-first into the dirt. He leapt backward as the axe came crashing down, narrowly missing him. The ground split from the impact, dust spraying into the air.

"Not bad," Luther said, clapping once. "If I close my eyes, I might almost think you know what you're doing."

The thug roared and swung again. Luther caught the haft of the axe with his bare hand, golden veins flashing under his skin for a brief moment. The axe trembled, the mist around it dispersing as if frightened.

"What did I say about overreliance?" Luther asked, twisting the weapon free from the thug's hands. "These crystals you people use… they're powerful, sure, but in the hands of idiots?"

He flipped the axe, resting it on his shoulder. "They're nothing but flashy toys."

Then he slammed the butt of the weapon into the man's chest.

The thug flew backward, smashing into a wooden cart and collapsing in a heap. Silence followed—broken only by the creak of the broken cart.

The last of the thugs, spiky-haired and trembling with fury, screamed and lunged with a blade made entirely of black light. Luther didn't move until the last possible second.

When he did, it was only a single step forward.

A fist connected to the thug's jaw. The weapon vanished mid-swing. He went flying, spinning twice in the air before crashing onto his unconscious comrades.

Luther dusted his hands off and muttered, "Well, that was a waste of calories."

For a heartbeat, the crowd was silent—staring at the boy who had singlehandedly floored an entire gang. Then the cheers began.

"Who is he?"

"Did you see that? He didn't even use spells!"

"He took them all down like it was nothing!"

The roaring noise swelled, echoing through the ruined street. Luther blinked, clearly startled by the sudden noise. His expression stiffened.

"Oh no," he whispered. "They're… cheering."

"Apparently," the sword snickered, "you've got admirers."

"I don't want admirers," Luther hissed, visibly shivering. "That's worse than being stabbed."

Alina, finished with the healing, returned to his side. "You did great," she said softly, her eyes glowing faintly from the magic she'd used. "Everyone's safe now."

Luther smiled weakly. "Good. Then let's get out before someone starts calling me a hero."

The mother and her two children approached, bowing deeply before him. "Thank you, kind sir. Thank you for saving us."

"Ah, please don't—" Luther began, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly.

But before he could finish, the mercenary leader—now awake and still groggy—joined in the bow. "I don't know who you are, but you have our gratitude."

Luther forced a smile. "Right… yeah… gratitude. Great."

The sword chuckled. "You look like someone just offered you a lifetime supply of slimes."

"Because it feels like it," Luther muttered.

As the mother led her children away and the mercenaries regrouped, Luther exhaled in relief. "Well, that's over. Time to move on."

He turned to Alina, who was still smiling at the children as they disappeared down the street. "We should probably catch up to the caravan before—"

He froze mid-sentence.

Alina blinked. "What's wrong?"

"…Oh no," Luther said faintly.

He spun toward the road—empty. The long trail of dust that marked the caravan's path was nowhere to be seen. Gone. They'd left him.

"Don't tell me—" He ran forward, staring down the empty road, his expression crumbling. "They actually left me!?"

The sword howled with laughter. "Oh, this is rich! The mighty saint, abandoned by a group of merchants!"

"Shut up!" Luther shouted, grabbing the sword by its rope. "We were supposed to follow them!"

"Well," the sword said smugly, "you did spend the last ten minutes showing off."

Alina tried to stifle a laugh but failed. "You… might've gotten a little distracted."

Luther turned slowly toward her, his eye twitching. "Distracted?"

The sword hummed. "You mean when he turned the entire street into a wrestling ring? Nooo, never."

Luther inhaled deeply through his nose, jaw clenched. "I swear," he muttered, voice trembling with barely-contained frustration. "If I ever meet those stupid idiots again—"

His words broke into an incoherent growl as he raked his hands through his hair.

Alina covered her mouth, trying not to giggle, while the sword continued cackling.

And as the townspeople continued to cheer behind him, Luther stood frozen in the middle of the road, staring into the distance where the caravan had vanished, utterly defeated.

He opened his mouth.

"Don't do it," the sword warned, amused.

Luther inhaled sharply.

"Don't you dare—"

"AAAAAAAAAARGH!"