The parade was supposed to be small.
Just a little ceremony, they said. A formality. A token of appreciation for "the humble hero who saved the town from the dragon." Hiroto had specifically asked for it to be "as low-key as possible."
He should've known that to nobles, "low-key" meant less than ten brass bands and no fireworks during daylight hours.
The town was bursting with banners bearing his face—some drawn so poorly he looked like a grumpy eggplant. Petals were being thrown from balconies. Children were singing a song titled "The Clerk Who Slew the Sky Serpent" which had a suspicious number of verses about his "shimmering muscles" (which he didn't have, for the record).
And Hiroto was hiding in a crate.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
Inside a sturdy wooden crate on the back of a cart labeled "Ceremonial Cabbage Supply."
"This is fine," Hiroto whispered to himself, knees tucked to his chest. "They'll do the parade, cheer at the statue, and I'll sneak away once the crowd disperses."
"Captain?" came Sera's voice from outside. She knocked on the crate. "The mayor is starting to sweat again. He keeps looking around and whispering that 'the dragon-slayer has vanished like smoke.'"
"Tell him I'm meditating," Hiroto replied. "Spiritual preparation. Deep internal cleansing."
"You're sitting on a head of cabbage and panicking."
"Same thing."
Sera sighed. "You can't hide in vegetables forever."
"That's quitter talk."
Before she could respond, the cart suddenly lurched. Wheels turned. Hiroto's crate rattled.
"Sera?" he called.
No answer.
The crate moved again. Faster this time.
A realization dawned.
"They're parading the cabbage cart," he muttered, dread pooling in his stomach. "They're parading the cabbage cart!"
He peeked through a knot hole—and saw hundreds of people lining the street, waving little flags with his face on them. He was now the centerpiece of his own parade, while hiding like a smug potato.
The irony was so dense it could've been used to forge a weapon.
At the reviewing stage near the town square, trumpets blared as the cart came to a stop. Hiroto could feel the platform underneath it begin to rise.
"They put me on a lifting dais?!"
"Ladies and gentlemen!" called the mayor, arms stretched wide. "Presenting the humble, brave, and totally cooperative hero of the hour—Hiroto, the Dragon-Slayer of Dampfield!"
The front of the crate was yanked open with theatrical flair.
And there he was, blinking in the sudden sunlight, surrounded by confetti, horns, and the undying gaze of a hundred awestruck townsfolk.
"…Hi," Hiroto said weakly.
The cheer nearly blew his eyebrows off.
After fifteen minutes of standing awkwardly while three different choirs sang dramatically conflicting songs, Hiroto was handed a bouquet of golden thistle. He held it like it might explode.
Then came the quiet part—the after-party in the mayor's hall, where only "important individuals" were allowed.
And that's when the real trouble arrived.
A man entered, flanked by two imperial knights. He was tall, dressed in velvet-trimmed robes with the seal of the capital gleaming on his shoulder. His smile was courteous. His eyes were sharp as a blade.
"Captain Hiroto," he said with a bow. "I am Envoy Gaius of His Majesty's Court. His Imperial Grace has heard of your… triumph."
"Ah," Hiroto said, "does he need someone to slay another dragon? Because I'm technically on my lunch break."
Gaius didn't blink. "The Emperor has requested your presence in Solencia. An audience has been prepared. Transport is already arranged."
Behind him, one of the knights held up a velvet-lined bag.
Hiroto stared at it.
"…Is that a kidnapping sack?"
"It's ceremonial," Gaius said smoothly. "Silk interior. Gold trim. Very traditional."
"I see," Hiroto said. "So I don't get a choice in this."
"You get honor, Captain."
Sera leaned in. "You're being politely kidnapped."
"I hate how normal that sounds now."
Gaius gestured to the open carriage outside. "Shall we?"
Hiroto sighed. "Do I at least get snacks for the road?"
"We have lemon cakes and despair."
"Perfect."
He climbed into the carriage as the knight gently set the kidnapping sack beside him "just in case," and the crowd outside cheered for their humble, heroic, completely unwilling royal guest.
As the carriage rolled toward the capital under the setting sun, Hiroto leaned back and muttered:
"I played dead to avoid trouble. I should've just stayed that way."
The royal carriage was luxurious. On the outside.
Inside? It was the sort of cramped, cushion-stuffed purgatory that screamed "wealthy torture box." Every bump in the road caused Hiroto's knees to jab into his chin. The seat was too plush, like sitting on a sponge made of arrogance. The window was barely big enough to glimpse the scenery—which was good, because the scenery was mostly trees, road, and the occasional "Hiroto for Hero-King!" sign nailed to a chicken coop.
Across from him sat Sera, arms crossed, glaring like a cat in a rainstorm. She'd insisted on accompanying him. "For moral support," she said. "And to slap you if you try to jump out a window," she added.
Envoy Gaius rode ahead on horseback. The knights flanked the carriage, watchful and silent.
"Let me get this straight," Hiroto muttered. "I kill one dragon. Accidentally. And suddenly, I'm being summoned to meet the Emperor, paraded like a turnip, and possibly inducted into the Hero Olympics."
"You could've said no," Sera said, voice flat.
"I tried. They brought a ceremonial sack."
He leaned his head against the window. "You know what I wanted this week? A nap. Maybe reorganize the warehouse. Try that new bread the baker made. Not this... political nightmare."
Sera raised an eyebrow. "You still haven't told me how you killed the dragon."
"I tripped. Threw a pebble."
"Uh-huh."
"It was a really motivated pebble."
She smirked, despite herself. "You're hiding something."
"I'm hiding many things. My strength. My real job title. My last name. The fact that I once roundhouse kicked a wyvern into a bakery by accident."
"You what—"
"Moving on."
They passed several towns on the way to Solencia. In each one, Hiroto insisted they keep a low profile.
In each one, he was recognized instantly.
"You're the humble dragon-slayer!"
"Please bless my cow!"
"Sign my sword! Sign my baby!"
"Your humility is so radiant it's blinding!"
Hiroto started traveling in a full hooded cloak by the second day.
By the third day, he'd added a fake mustache.
By the fourth, they were throwing flowers at the carriage before it even arrived.
"I swear this is spreading faster than a flu in a bard college," Hiroto groaned as the carriage rumbled through a banner-strewn village. "There's a statue of me in the square."
Sera peered out. "They got your nose wrong."
"Great. I look like a heroic potato."
A boy ran alongside the carriage. "Sir Hiroto! Is it true you defeated the dragon by reciting a poem of sadness so pure it shattered its will to live?!"
"…Yes," Hiroto called. "It rhymed. It was devastating."
The kid screamed in delight and sprinted off to write a ballad.
Sera stared at him.
"What?" he said. "If I'm gonna be misunderstood, I may as well make the lies entertaining."
By the fifth day, the walls of Solencia came into view.
And what walls they were—tall, gleaming with enchantments, lined with statues and golden gargoyles. The city beyond sprawled in organized chaos, like someone had dropped a treasure chest on a chessboard and decided to live in the explosion.
Towering spires glittered in the distance. Airships floated lazily in the sky. Magical streetlamps hummed even under daylight. Hiroto could feel the weight of the capital pressing on him like an overly familiar uncle at a family reunion.
He gulped.
Sera peeked at him. "Second thoughts?"
"I think I forgot how to breathe."
"Too late to back out now."
"I miss my cabbage crate."
The gates opened with a trumpet flourish and confetti cannons.
"Who funds all this?" Hiroto hissed.
A street bard struck up a song.
"Oh mighty Hiroto, humble and true,
With fists like thunder and eyes like dew,
He slayed the beast with barely a frown,
Now all the capital wants him crowned!"
"Eyes like dew? I look permanently sleep-deprived."
"You kinda do," Sera said, smiling.
The carriage clattered up the main road. Nobles leaned out of balconies. Vendors handed out "Hero Bread." Someone sold "official tear jars" said to be wept by Hiroto himself.
"I never cried!" he shouted out the window.
"They're forgeries!" the vendor yelled back, grinning.
At last, they rolled to a stop outside a palace of polished marble and floating runes. A grand staircase led to doors tall enough to fit the dragon Hiroto allegedly punched into stardust.
Gaius reappeared, looking perfectly composed.
"Welcome," he said, "to the Imperial Court."
"I feel sick," Hiroto muttered.
Sera patted his shoulder. "You'll be fine. Just don't speak."
"Ever?"
"Ever."
Two guards opened the doors.
Hiroto took a step inside.
And thus ended the quiet life of a warehouse clerk.
The Imperial Palace of Solencia was the kind of place that could make a man feel poor, unworthy, and slightly constipated just by walking in.
Polished marble floors reflected torchlight like a scrying mirror. Every inch of wall was covered in elaborate murals depicting the kingdom's long history of conquest, diplomacy, and fabulous hair. Massive chandeliers hung like jeweled spiders from the ceiling, and ethereal music played from instruments that floated mid-air.
Hiroto wanted to turn around and run.
He didn't.
Mostly because there were twelve elite knights behind him with extremely sharp, ceremonial swords. Also because Sera had looped her arm through his in a casual-but-death-grip sort of way.
"Remember," she whispered, "you're here to nod, smile, and not accidentally insult anyone."
"Define 'accidentally,'" he murmured back.
They were led through towering halls into the Throne Chamber, which was less of a room and more of a cathedral with delusions of royalty.
At the far end, raised above everyone else by three whole steps and one small sunbeam, sat the Emperor.
Emperor Caldor Vian Solencia. A man with the presence of a lion, the eyes of a hawk, and a mustache that deserved its own zipcode.
He wore robes of midnight blue and gold, his crown levitating an inch above his head through subtle enchantment. One hand rested on his throne, the other cradled a teacup like it was his greatest national treasure.
Next to him stood a robed woman—elegant, pale-eyed, radiating mana like a sunlamp on overdrive. Court Magister, no doubt. And beside her was someone Hiroto really didn't want to see.
Lady Virelya.
The knightess who'd been suspicious of him from the start. And now she was in full armor, arms crossed, wearing the smuggest "I knew it" face in the room.
Hiroto barely resisted the urge to play dead on the floor.
"Approach," the Emperor said, voice like rolling thunder wrapped in honey.
Hiroto took a step. Then another.
By the third, he was convinced his boots had become lead bricks. He knelt because everyone else was kneeling. That seemed safe.
"You are Hiroto, warehouse clerk of South Drenvale."
"Yes, Your Radiance," Hiroto replied, trying not to sweat visibly.
"You slew a dragon."
"Accidentally, Your Radiance."
The chamber chuckled.
Only the Emperor didn't. His brows rose a fraction.
"A curious way to frame heroism."
Hiroto coughed. "I tripped. Threw a rock. It exploded."
Lady Virelya's gauntlet squeaked.
"Tell me, Hiroto. Do you know what the people are saying?"
"I've been trying to ignore them, Your Radiance."
"They say you are humble."
"Painfully."
"They say you hide great power."
"Very successfully, I thought."
"They say you are the Divine Variable spoken of in the Scriptures of Flame."
"…That one's new."
The Emperor sipped his tea.
"I detest politics. I rule a kingdom, yes. But I care not for fawning nobles or fake praise. What I do care about is strength used wisely, and a citizen who does not seek power… but earns it."
Hiroto blinked.
Was he… being praised?
No. Wait. No! This was worse. This was recognition.
"You're mistaken," Hiroto said quickly. "I'm just a guy. Not even a good one. I can't even boil an egg properly."
Lady Virelya stepped forward. "Your Majesty, if I may—during my investigation, I observed signs of restraint, concealment, and unnatural calm. I believe Hiroto is a master-class martial adept. Possibly divine-class."
Hiroto turned slowly toward her. "We shared soup once."
"You cut a log with a bread knife."
"It was stale."
"Clean through."
The Emperor held up a hand. Silence fell.
"I have no intention of forcing your hand, Hiroto. You will not be made a knight, nor declared Champion of the Realm."
Hiroto almost collapsed in relief.
"However," the Emperor added, "you will serve as Special Logistics Advisor to the Crown. An honorary title. No combat duty. No public speeches. Simply… presence."
Sera leaned close. "That's not a title. That's a leash."
The Emperor smiled faintly. "You may reside within the palace for as long as you wish. Or return to your town. But understand this—whether you choose it or not, the eyes of the world are upon you now."
And just like that, Hiroto realized something horrifying:
He wasn't being trapped by force.
He was being rewarded.
As they exited the throne chamber, Hiroto groaned loudly enough to echo.
Sera slapped his back. "Could've been worse."
"How?"
"They could've given you an army."
"Why would they—"
Lady Virelya walked up.
"Hiroto. I'll be assigning you a personal squire."
"I don't want—"
"It's me."
"...Why?"
"Because I want to watch the moment your lies unravel like an overcooked noodle."
He stared at her.
She stared back.
Sera snorted. "Well. Have fun, Your Honorary Majesty."