Early the next morning, in the dim light before sunrise, Itsuki Hiroto found himself once again staring at the reflection of a man he never quite recognized. The armor, the insignias, and even the way the air around him seemed to buzz with the weight of expectation—none of it belonged to the simple clerk he once was. Yet there he was, burdened with titles and responsibilities that grew heavier with each passing day.
After a sleepless night filled with urgent scrolls and whispered commands from distant parts of the Empire, Hiroto had been summoned to the training grounds on the outskirts of Solencia. Imperial officials had declared that it was high time for a "demonstration" of his abilities—a formality meant to reassure a nervous public and to showcase the Empire's secret asset. It was the very sort of event Hiroto loathed. The last thing he wanted was a stage to prove any "heroic" skill.
The training ground, a broad expanse of grass and old stone fortifications, buzzed with excitement. Soldiers and squires were assembled in neat ranks, each man and woman aware that a fabled legend was about to perform an impromptu act of valor. Banners waved in the cool breeze, and the hum of whispered expectations filled the air.
Hiroto walked slowly to the center of the field, his expression as blank as the ledger entries of days past. He wore his usual drab military coat with an air of reluctant dignity, a stark contrast to the overly enthusiastic decorations that adorned the training ground. His internal monologue, ever sarcastic, was already at work: If I wanted to be on display, I'd have taken a theatrical role in a play—this isn't the spotlight I ordered.
Leading the assembled soldiers was Captain Morven, whose booming voice carried over the field. "Today, we witness the proof of the Emperor's choice—a demonstration by the great Captain Hiroto, who despite his lowly origins, stands as a bulwark against chaos!"
A murmur of approval ran through the ranks. Hiroto, however, had no desire for accolades. "I swear," he thought, I'm just a clerk who happened to punch a dragon once. I don't need to be here turning every stumble into an epic tale.
Before he could retreat into the back of his mind, a clamor arose from the far side of the field. A band of local troublemakers—rebellious peasants turned renegades, emboldened by recent events—had charged across the field with crude weapons raised, shouting demands for justice, or perhaps simply looking to cause a distraction. Their antics were fueled by a mixture of genuine grievance and the wild rumors that had been circulating since Hiroto's ascent into accidental heroism. Their leader, a wild-eyed fellow with a tattered cloak and a makeshift baton, bellowed, "Come out and face us, you pretender! Prove that you're more than just a mere clerk!"
The crowd tensed. This was no scheduled drill—this was an uninvited provocation. Sensing the rising tension, Captain Morven shouted, "Stand firm! But let our captain handle this!"
Hiroto's heart sank. He had no wish to engage in another public spectacle. I just want to clock in and sort inventory, not wage a street brawl… Yet, fate again placed him at the forefront. He sighed and adjusted his stance as he walked toward the insurgents, his gaze locking onto the defiant man who led the charge.
"You're all mistaken," Hiroto called out in a calm yet measured tone, trying to defuse the situation. "I'm not here to incite conflict. I'm simply fulfilling orders—nothing more. Let us settle this as peacefully as possible."
But the renegades were beyond reason. With no sign of de-escalation and the raucous crowd egging them on, their leader took a swing with his battered baton. The impact of the strike was intended as a challenge, but fate—and Hiroto's innate reflexes—reacted in an almost comically overpowered manner.
In the blink of an eye, Hiroto's hand, as if guided by habit rather than a desire for spectacle, swung forward. A single, decisive blow—delivered with the same lack of fanfare that characterized all his heroic acts—met the rebel leader squarely on the chest. There was a shock of silence, followed by an explosive mix of gasps and cheers. The rebel staggered back, his baton clattering onto the stones, and soon, his cohort faltered, their defiance turning into an unwieldy chaos of disorganized retreat.
The demonstration had happened all too swiftly—and all too effortlessly—leaving the assembled soldiers and officials both awestruck and disconcerted. Captain Morven, unable to hide a smile of admiration, clapped Hiroto on the shoulder. "You've done it again, Captain—without fanfare, without flair, just pure efficiency!"
Hiroto, meanwhile, could only shake his head in disbelief. I swear, I'm just a clerk. His response was curt and measured, "I'm merely doing what needs to be done."
Yet, as the crowd erupted into applause and the murmurs of admiration swirled around him, Hiroto felt the sting of another unwanted label being affixed to his identity. He had no interest in being revered, no desire to become a symbol of martial might. His only long-held ambition was to revert to his simpler days among dusty crates and quiet tea breaks.
Later, after the commotion had subsided and the renegades were taken into custody, Hiroto retreated to a quiet chamber set aside for him within the military headquarters. The room was sparse—a utilitarian cell with little more than a bed, a worktable, and a window that overlooked a courtyard filled with soldiers preparing for the next challenge. In the privacy of these walls, Hiroto allowed himself to acknowledge his true feelings. The celebration outside—the loud cheers, the boisterous accolades—felt like a punishment for someone who craved anonymity.
He sat at the desk and opened his logbook, his pen moving automatically as he documented the incident in dry, factual terms. His entries were concise and devoid of the embellishments that had turned his actions into legend among the populace. Rebel provoked; responded nonchalantly; incident resolved with minimal disruption to public order. He signed off with a terse note: Clerk remains merely a clerk.
Yet, even as he diligently recorded the day's events, the reality of his situation pressed upon him. He was no longer the unremarkable employee he once was; he was an unwilling focal point—a hero by circumstance, not desire. The burden of expectation, though wrapped in absurdity, was very real. Every swing of his fist, every unintended display of power, served as a reminder that the world viewed him as something greater than he perceived himself to be.
That evening, as twilight draped itself over Solencia, Hiroto found a brief respite in the solitude of a small courtyard garden behind the barracks. The gentle trickle of a fountain and the soft rustling of leaves under a mild autumn wind offered a sliver of the quiet he so craved. He sat on a worn stone bench, gazing at a modest tea set left by a well-meaning attendant—a silent homage to the simpler pleasures of life.
In that rare moment of calm, his internal monologue resumed its familiar cadence: I swore I was just a clerk… yet here I am, unavoidably dragging the weight of hope and chaos upon my shoulders. Perhaps one day I'll manage to file my own destiny in neat, unassuming lines. But until then, fate insists that I stand in the glare of a world that won't let me be invisible.
As he sipped the lukewarm tea, his eyes closed momentarily, and with them went the briefest flicker of resignation mixed with a stubborn spark of determination. He would continue to do what needed to be done—quietly, efficiently, and with just enough reluctance to remind everyone that even heroes have their limits.
The night deepened, and the city beyond the walls murmured with the promise of tomorrow's challenges. Hiroto, despite the roars of adulation echoing in his mind, knew that his role remained as unwelcome as ever. But in the silent depths of his heart, he resolved that if he must be forced into the spotlight time and again, he would steer its glare away from his true self—the simple, unassuming clerk who just wanted a quiet day's work.
And so, as the stars emerged one by one in the darkening sky, Hiroto leaned back on the bench and allowed himself one quiet wish: to once again be lost among the shadows, unnoticed, with only the rustle of leaves and the distant hum of solitude as his companions.