The rhythm of my new life was a symphony of blissful monotony. Wake up in my perfectly disguised cottage. Enjoy a breakfast of Elara's sourdough (I'd bought a week's supply and stored it in my timeless inventory). Putter around my hidden garden. Maybe take a leisurely, deliberately slow walk into town to check the quest board for the most mind-numbingly simple tasks. It was everything I'd ever wanted. I was a ghost in the machine of my own existence.
It had been a week since the courier incident, and my strategy of calculated mediocrity was paying off. I'd taken a quest to de-moss the statue of the town founder in the central square—a task that involved scrubbing with a weak vinegar solution. I'd made it last three full days. I'd taken another quest to watch a merchant's warehouse overnight, and I'd spent the entire shift using [Mirage Crafting] to make it look like I was diligently patrolling while I was actually inside, on a comfortable illusory chair, reading a book I'd recreated from memory. I was the epitome of an F-Rank adventurer: reliable for the most boring tasks, utterly forgettable in every other respect.
Lily's gaze had lost its analytical edge when she saw me. I was just Bob, the quiet, unambitious guy who liked simple work. It was perfect.
Which, of course, meant the universe had to send a reminder that my peaceful existence was built next to a powder keg of narrative inevitability.
I was returning from a successful, two-day "forage" for wild berries (which had taken me approximately ten minutes, followed by forty-seven hours and fifty minutes of napping and home improvement), when I saw the commotion at the guild.
A crowd was gathered outside the large double doors, their murmurs a low, anxious hum. I dialed up my [Absolute Stealth] to a low setting and drifted to the periphery, becoming just another shadow.
The doors burst open, and the source of the spectacle stumbled out.
It was Leon. But the golden-haired, bright-eyed Hero was gone. This Leon was a portrait of defeat. His once-pristine leather cuirass was scuffed and torn, one of the straps hanging loose. His face was smeared with dirt and what looked like soot. A fresh, livid bruise colored his jaw, and he was favoring his right leg. But the physical damage was nothing compared to the utter devastation in his eyes. The light of destiny had been thoroughly extinguished, replaced by a hollow, thousand-yard stare.
Trailing behind him, their expressions a mixture of fury and contempt, were three individuals who screamed 'nobility' and 'entitlement' with every fiber of their being.
'Ultimate Appraisal.' The habit was hard to break.
[Appraisal Target: Lady Seraphina of House Valerius]
Age:19
Occupation:"Tactical Support" (Read: Pampered Noble Heiress playing at adventurer)
Level:8
Skills:[Water Magic Lv. 3], [Noble Bearing Lv. 5], [Backhanded Compliment Lv. 4], [Sword Proficiency (Ornamental) Lv. 2]
Current Thoughts:'This is an unmitigated disaster. My new boots are ruined. Father will hear of this. That oaf couldn't lead a parade, let alone a quest party. I knew we should have waited for a proper escort.'
She was beautiful, in a sharp, icy way, with silver-blonde hair and features that looked like they'd been carved from marble. Her expensive mage's robes were now stained with mud and something green and slimy.
[Appraisal Target: Sir Reginald of House Blackwood]
Age:20
Occupation:"Vanguard" (Read: Arrogant Knight with more muscle than sense)
Level:11
Skills:[Sword and Shield Proficiency Lv. 4], [Heavy Armor Mastery Lv. 3], [Intimidation Lv. 4], [Contempt for Peasants Lv. 5]
Current Thoughts:'I should have let the Cave Troll eat him. My armor will take a week to polish. The shame of it all! To be bested by mere vermin because of that idiot's "plan."'
He was a mountain of polished steel and simmering rage, his face a thundercloud beneath his helmet's visor.
[Appraisal Target: Master Finian of the Arcane Collegium]
Age:21
Occupation:"Arcane Artillery" (Read: Smug Mage who thinks he's better than everyone)
Level:9
Skills:[Firebolt Lv. 4], [Mana Shield Lv. 3], [Arcane Theory Lv. 5], [Condescending Explanation Lv. 6]
Current Thoughts:'A fascinating, if ultimately predictable, study in failure. The Hero's karmic resonance is clearly insufficient to overcome basic tactical blunders. My thesis on 'The Correlation Between Lineage and Combat Ineptitude' writes itself. Still, the singeing on my robe is irritating.'
He adjusted his spectacles, looking more annoyed than injured, brushing a bit of ash from his sleeve.
The trio formed a semi-circle around the broken Hero, their body language a wall of accusation.
"A C-Rank quest!" Reginald boomed, his voice cutting through the murmurs of the crowd. He ripped the now-tattered quest parchment from his belt and shook it at Leon. "Clear the Giant Spider nest from the Old Silver Mine. A simple, straightforward extermination! And you led us into a Cave Troll's den!"
Leon flinched, his shoulders hunching. "The… the map was unclear," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "I thought… the symbols for spider web and troll spoor looked similar in the dim light…"
"Unclear?" Seraphina's voice was like shards of ice. "You held the map upside down for the first hour! You led us in a circle! Then, when we finally stumbled upon the correct tunnel, you decided the best way to deal with the webbing was to 'charge through with heroic vigor'!"
A fresh wave of snickers went through the crowd. I could picture it all too easily. Leon, bursting through sticky strands, only to find himself face-to-face with a much larger, much angrier predator than expected.
"And your 'Divine Spark!'" Finian added, his tone dripping with academic scorn. "You managed to singe a single strand of webbing, which then fell onto Reginald's helmet, blinding him at a critical moment. A truly unique application of holy power. I shall have to document it."
Reginald's face went purple beneath his helmet. "I was swatting at my own head while that troll nearly caved my chestplate in! You're a walking catastrophe, boy! A prophesied jester, not a hero!"
The words hit Leon like physical blows. He looked down at his feet, his entire body trembling. I could see the shame rolling off him in waves. This was more than a failed quest. This was a public execution of his spirit.
'Ultimate Appraisal.'
[Appraisal Target: Leon]
Emotional State:Despair (95%), Shame (85%), Confusion (70%)
Current Thoughts:'They're right. They're all right. I'm a fraud. The elder was wrong. The prophecy is a lie. I can't do anything right. I just wanted to help. I just wanted to be a hero...'
A strange, uncomfortable sensation twisted in my gut. It wasn't the sharp pang of sympathy I'd felt in the tavern. This was deeper, duller. A sense of… recognition. Not of his heroism, but of his utter, profound failure. I knew what it was like to be utterly unsuited for the role life had assigned you. My old life as a data clerk was testament to that. But at least my failures had been quiet, private affairs witnessed only by my spreadsheet. His were public spectacles.
But I squashed the feeling, hard. This is not your problem, I told myself, the mantra of self-preservation. He is the main character. You are the background. Main characters suffer. Background characters enjoy sourdough bread in peace. Do not engage.
"Do you have any idea the political ramifications of this?" Seraphina continued, her voice lowering but losing none of its venom. "House Valerius staked its reputation on supporting the 'Chosen One.' My father will be a laughingstock in the royal court! We are withdrawing our support. Effective immediately. You are on your own."
"As is House Blackwood," Reginald grunted, crossing his massive arms. "Find some other fools to drag to their deaths."
"A pity," Finian said, not sounding pitying at all. "The data set was just getting interesting. But alas, self-preservation must take precedence."
With that, the noble trio turned their backs on Leon as one. They didn't just walk away; they performed a deliberate, coordinated snub, striding through the crowd which parted for them, leaving Leon alone in the center of a circle of silent, staring people.
He stood there for a long moment, a statue of humiliation. Then, without a word, he turned and shuffled away, not towards the inn, but towards the poorer, more dilapidated side of town. Probably to some flophouse even cheaper than the Snoring Slime.
The crowd began to disperse, the show over. The gossip would fuel the town for a week.
I stood in the shadows, my peaceful afternoon thoroughly soured. I had gotten what I wanted. The Hero's support structure had collapsed. The chances of him accidentally dragging me into some grand adventure had plummeted. It was a good thing.
So why did I feel so… grimy?
I shook my head, physically trying to dislodge the feeling. It was sentimentality. A weakness. I had my cottage. I had my bread. I had my powers. That was all that mattered.
I decided to head to The Crusty Loaf. The scent of baking bread was the perfect antidote to moral ambiguity.
---
The bell above the door chimed its warm, familiar note. Elara was behind the counter, rolling out dough with a practiced, gentle strength. The smell was, as always, divine.
"Afternoon, Bob," she said, her smile instantly making the world feel a little more right. "You just missed the excitement. Sounded like quite a ruckus over at the guild."
"Something like that," I mumbled, my eyes glued to the rack of freshly baked sourdough rounds. "Just the usual… Hero stuff."
Elara clucked her tongue softly. "That poor boy. Leon, is it? He came in here yesterday, you know. Bought a single roll with the last of his copper. Looked so lost. Reminded me of a young bird that's fallen from the nest." She sighed, a maternal sound that seemed to carry the weight of a thousand worries. "The world expects so much from its heroes, but it never seems to want to give them the tools to succeed, does it?"
I grunted noncommittally, focusing on selecting the perfect loaf. Her words were hitting a little too close to the discomfort I was trying to ignore.
"It's a shame," she continued, undeterred by my lack of response. "Those noble children he was with? They swept through here this morning, complaining about the accommodations. Bought my entire stock of fruit tarts and didn't even say thank you. No kindness in their hearts. Just entitlement. A hero needs friends, not… patrons."
I finally looked at her. She was watching me, her eyes soft but perceptive. It was as if she could see the internal debate I'd been having outside the guild.
"He's not my problem," I said, the words coming out harsher than I intended.
Elara's smile didn't fade. It just became a little sadder. "I didn't say he was, dear. We all have our own paths to walk. It's just that sometimes, the easiest path to walk is the one we make for ourselves. And sometimes, the hardest path is the one someone else forces you down." She wrapped my chosen loaf in cloth. "That'll be one copper."
I paid her, the coin feeling heavier than usual. "Thanks, Elara."
"Any time, Bob. You take care of yourself."
I left the bakery, the warm loaf in my hands failing to provide its usual comfort. Elara had a way of saying things that bypassed all my carefully constructed defenses. She didn't preach; she just… observed. And her observations had a nasty habit of being right.
As I walked back towards the edge of town, I saw him. Leon was sitting on an overturned crate in a dingy alley, head in his hands. He was still in his damaged armor, a picture of utter dejection. From this angle, he didn't look like a hero. He looked like a scared, exhausted kid.
I stopped, hidden in the deepening shadows of the evening. My [Absolute Stealth] was fully active. He had no idea I was there.
I watched him for a full minute. He wasn't crying. He was just… still. Defeated. The weight of a world's expectations had finally crushed him.
A part of me, the part that was still Kenji Tanaka, the data clerk who knew what it was like to be insignificant, screamed at me to do something. It would be so easy. A whispered piece of actual advice. A few coins slipped into his pouch. A nudge in the right direction with [Mirage Crafting]. I had the power to turn his life around with a thought.
But the larger, more powerful part of me, the part that cherished my hard-won peace, screamed louder. NO. This was the event horizon. The point of no return. If I reached out now, even once, I would be tethered to him. I would become the "secret guardian" Celian had begged for. My quiet retirement would vanish, replaced by a lifetime of cleaning up after this walking disaster.
I saw the future branching out before me like a spreadsheet. In one column, Intervention: a lifetime of drama, danger, and responsibility. In the other column, Non-Intervention: my cottage, my bread, my peace.
The choice was absurdly easy.
I turned away from the alley and continued my walk home. The image of Leon' slumped form was already fading from my mind, replaced by the mental blueprint of the new bookshelf I was planning to build in my cottage using [Mirage Crafting].
I had made my choice. I was a background character. Background characters don't get involved in the hero's arc. They just live their lives, unaffected by the grand narrative.
By the time I reached my dilapidated-looking cottage, the uncomfortable feeling was gone. I had successfully rationalized my inaction. It wasn't cowardice; it was strategic prioritization.
I went inside, the door closing behind me with a soft click, shutting out the world and its problems. The interior was warm, bright, and peaceful. I put the loaf of bread on my perfectly crafted counter and put the kettle on my illusory-but-functional stove.
As I waited for the water to boil, I looked out my window at the first stars beginning to pepper the twilight sky. Maplewood was quiet. The Hero was broken. My life was perfect.
So why did the silence suddenly feel so… loud?
I pushed the thought away. It was just my imagination. Everything was fine. I had won.
I was so busy convincing myself of this that I completely missed the second, more significant piece of news that had arrived in Maplewood that day, carried by a dust-covered rider on a lathered horse. News that would soon make the Hero's personal failures seem as trivial as a broken toy.
The Demon Lord's army wasn't just a prophecy anymore. Its scouts had been sighted at the border. The war was no longer coming.
It was already here.