The morning after the dragon's dramatic downfall, the town of Glintveil was buzzing with a fervor that could be likened to a festival—if that festival celebrated the accidental destruction of fearsome beasts. While everyone else reveled in their newfound status as witnesses to an unprecedented miracle, Itsuki Hiroto's internal monologue was less celebratory and decidedly more exasperated.
Hiroto had awakened on an unremarkable bench near the warehouse. Groggy from a short, uncomfortable nap during the chaotic events of the previous day, he rubbed his eyes and glanced at the hastily scrawled notes on a scrap of parchment he'd found next to him. The message, a mix of frantic handwritings from local townsfolk, declared him "the mighty, the humble, and the unstoppable." To Hiroto, however, these titles only underscored the absurdity of his situation.
"Great," he muttered under his breath, "accidental dragon slayer by day, and an unwilling demigod by morning." In his mind, he'd simply been playing dead—as he'd long mastered in order to avoid the petty squabbles of warehouse life. Instead, fate had decided that his "performance" was nothing short of legendary.
Outside the warehouse, the clamor only increased. Crowds had gathered to clean up the mess left by the dragon's fall—a mess that, by all accounts, should have been handled by professionals or at least by someone with a shred of dignity. Instead, every able-bodied citizen was involved, hauling broken scales and soot-stained debris while recounting the miraculous moment when Hiroto had "woken up" and saved the town with a single punch.
The scene was punctuated by the recurring appearance of Lady Virelya Arkwright. Clad in polished armor and accompanied by a pair of persistent knights, she prowled the marketplace like a feline on the hunt. With a mixture of suspicion and determination, she sought to get answers. "I need to speak with you—now!" she declared at every opportunity, leaving little room for Hiroto's attempts to vanish into the background.
At the moment, Hiroto found himself reluctantly cornered near a fruit cart, the aroma of freshly cut apples a stark contrast to the earlier chaos. The vendor, hardly containing his excitement, jabbered, "The hero! The hero! Are you truly the one who delivered the final blow to the dragon?"
Hiroto sighed, his tone as flat as his desire to remain unnoticed. "I just did what I thought was necessary," he said with measured indifference, all while mentally calculating how to slip away before someone mentioned prophecies or, worse, hero training.
Lady Virelya, having caught up to the small huddle, didn't waste a moment. "Madam, please, you must understand—I am no ordinary man. Your people, the Church, even the Demon King, are starting to weave wild tales about your origin and destiny. Yet, you claim to prefer a life in the shadows?"
Her tone vacillated between awe and accusation. Hiroto's only response was an awkward shrug paired with an inward plea for more time—and preferably more tea.
Soon enough, an assortment of town officials and curious onlookers formed a makeshift audience in the central square, where rumors of Hiroto's supposed heroics blurred the lines between myth and misfortune. A makeshift stage had been erected, consisting of a raised wooden platform and an assortment of stolen crates (reminiscent of the very ones Hiroto had arranged the night before). Here, a self-appointed herald stepped forward, brandishing a relic-sized quill.
"Citizens of Glintveil!" he proclaimed in a booming tone meant to resemble the rallying cries of ancient heroes. "We are blessed by the arrival of our invisible guardian—one who defies expectation by walking among us, hidden in plain sight."
The crowd roared with approval, but Hiroto's face, only partially hidden by the brim of a battered cap, betrayed his mortification. He yearned simply for a quiet corner and a hot cup of tea—preferably without an audience of adoring fanatics.
Before he could slip back into anonymity, a sudden shout from the crowd turned the atmosphere even more surreal. "The Capital sends its summons! The Emperor demands your presence!" A burst of excited murmur swept through the gathering. Some citizens hurried to retrieve a battered carriage, the only functional means of long-distance travel in Glintveil. Others rushed to relay the news to their respective relatives, neighbors, and even stray dogs that had become unwitting heralds of the prophecy.
Hiroto's heart sank further. Just when he thought he might enjoy a transient moment of insularity, destiny—or, more precisely, the stupidity of fate—had other ideas. His protests mingled with the rising cacophony. "I'm not interested! I just want to rearrange some tea crates in peace!" His voice was barely audible above the din, swallowed by the mounting enthusiasm of his unintended admirers.
In an attempt to escape, Hiroto edged toward a narrow alley behind the merchant guild building—a route he'd identified as his best chance at evading the gathering storm of adoration and bureaucratic summons. Yet fate, as always, had a wicked sense of timing. As he rounded the corner, his path was blocked by a cadre of determined knights, their armor clinking in synchrony as they advanced, leaving little to no room for an unceremonious retreat.
Among them, one knight—slightly younger and noticeably less weathered than the others—stepped forward. "Mister… are you Itsuki Hiroto?" he asked with a mixture of reverence and outright disbelief. "The Capital has urgently requested your presence at Solencia. It is—well—it is of grave importance."
Hiroto's sigh deepened. The young knight's earnest eyes seemed to pierce through his indifference. "Listen, I'm really not interested in a heroic proclamation or any sort of divine intervention," he replied dryly, each word measured as if he were checking off a tedious to-do list from another life. "I'd rather not become a legend—or even a nuisance."
But the knights were unyielding. For all the world believed Hiroto to be a savior, a chosen one whose mere presence could alter the fate of kingdoms, and escaping such a destiny was proving, as always, far more complicated than one might hope.
In the midst of the escalating commotion, Lady Virelya reappeared, her eyes flashing with determination. "Your silence is no longer an option," she declared. "If you do not come with us, consequences will follow. We must protect the people, and you are the key." Her tone left little room for negotiation. Her gaze was unwavering, and even the most indifferent hearts in the crowd seemed to quicken at her impassioned call.
With resignation he couldn't quite hide, Hiroto allowed himself to be led away, each step punctuated by an internal litany of sarcastic remarks. "I suppose this is destiny's way of saying 'No rest for the wicked,'" he mused, his thoughts drifting to the quiet solace of a secluded tea garden—far from the hysteria that now enveloped him.
As a rickety carriage rumbled toward the outskirts of Glintveil Town, carrying the very embodiment of a man who'd much rather be forgotten, Hiroto stared out at the rolling fields beyond. The cool morning air and the distant hum of life seemed to mock his determination for tranquility. Here, in a world of overblown legends and stubborn prophecies, one's desire to live unnoticed was quickly subsumed by the collective will of an entire society desperate for hope—no matter how half-baked or accidentally supplied.
Thus, as the wheels of fate (and an ill-fated carriage) turned steadily toward Solencia, Hiroto steeled himself for the unknown. With each jolt of the carriage's creaking frame, he recited a silent mantra: "I just want to play dead." However, fate, once again, seemed to be laughing quietly at his misfortune.
And so, chapter two closed with Hiroto's reluctant acceptance of the new reality—a fate where even a refusal to participate became an epic, unwanted journey. The whispers of destiny trailed behind him like persistent echoes, promising that his role in this world was only just beginning to unfold, much to his chagrin.