Hero Orientation, Zero Motivation

The King’s Guest Room of Lysvalde Castle was decorated in a style I could only describe as “Bankrupt Aristocrat Garage Sale.” It was a masterpiece of misguided opulence. Gold leaf, applied with the precision of a toddler finger-painting, peeled from the ceiling like a bad sunburn. The velvet curtains, once a majestic crimson, had faded to the color of a cheap wine stain and sagged under the sheer weight of their own dusty importance. A grand chandelier, missing half its crystals, flickered with the dying gasps of a firefly that had just remembered its crippling mortgage.

I was sprawled on an oversized sofa that smelled faintly of potpourri and regret, my new, ludicrously itchy “Honorary Hero” robes feeling more like a wearable punishment. I stared up at a water stain on the ceiling that looked suspiciously like a middle finger, feeling it was the most honest piece of art in the entire room.

So this is the hero’s life, I thought, my brain still buffering from the whiplash of the last hour. One minute, you’re risking it all on a digital horse named Moist Thunder, the next you’re the unwilling guest in a palace that looks like it lost a fight with a pawn shop. My old apartment in Tokyo, a shoebox with a view of a brick wall, was starting to look pretty good. At least its stains were my own.

Across the room, the source of my current misery, Prime Minister Vince, stood before a blackboard. This wasn't some sleek, modern whiteboard, mind you. This was a slab of slate that looked like it had been personally excavated by a dinosaur, covered in charts and bullet points so dense they were probably collapsing into their own gravitational field. He was midway through a lecture that could weaponize boredom.

“—and thus, after the fall of the final Demon King one hundred and twenty years ago, our kingdom entered an unprecedented era of stability,” Vince droned, his voice having the same soporific effect as a fistful of sleeping pills.

"Our fiscal growth has seen a steady, if modest, increase of point-three percent annually, excluding, of course, the Cabbage Famine of 78—” Vince continued with his rambling. 

I gently blew on my pinky finger, inspecting the nail for imperfections. “Fascinating,” I said, with all the sincerity of a customer service hotline.

Vince, bless his bureaucratic heart, took this as genuine encouragement. “Indeed! Which brings us to the Grand Summoning Circle Terms and Conditions, article seven, sub-section eight-dash-three, concerning the legal and existential status of the summoned entity…”

I yawned, a great, jaw-cracking affair so profound that the king’s pampered corgi, who had been sleeping in the corner, woke up with a startled yip.

King Edward, supposedly presiding over this vital orientation, was trying to discreetly carve his initials into the arm of his throne with a letter opener.

Only one person in the room seemed to be enjoying herself. Princess Marie sat opposite me on a chaise longue, her posture immaculate, sipping tea with the quiet, predatory amusement of a cat watching a particularly stupid mouse wander into a trap. Our eyes met over the rim of her cup, and she gave me a smile that was equal parts charming and terrifying.

“—should no Great Evil present itself for vanquishing,” Vince continued, oblivious to the fact that he was actively creating a Great Evil of soul-crushing ennui right here in this room, “the summoned champion may remain as an honored guest of the kingdom until such a time as—”

I couldn't take it anymore. I sat up, ruffling my hair in frustration. “Alright, timeout. Let me get the SparkNotes version,” I interrupted, pointing between Vince and the King. “No Demon King, no portal home. I’m stuck here. New world, new rent. Did I miss anything?”

Vince paused, blinking slowly like a tortoise who’d just been asked to do calculus. “Well… in essence, yes, that is the unfortunate reality of your situation.”

“Cool.” I leaned back, sinking into the sofa’s musty embrace. “Then this is my new apartment. Do I at least get a key? And what’s the policy on overnight guests?”

King Edward, jolted out of his vandalism, cleared his throat. “We can, ah, certainly compensate you for the… egregious inconvenience of your summoning.”

My ears perked up. My entire nervous system, finely tuned by years of corporate drudgery, came alive at that one magical word. “Compensation,” I repeated, sitting forward. The fog of boredom began to lift. “Now we’re talking. What’s the per diem on being an accidental, unemployed, and tragically misnamed hero?”

Vince unfurled a long scroll with a dramatic snap. “You will be provided with living expenses equivalent to a senior kingdom officer, paid in a lump sum for one year. Additionally, we are prepared to offer you a prestigious post befitting your heroic status.”

I tapped my chin, feigning deep thought. “Prestigious post, huh. Like what? Royal Knight Captain? Grand Court Mage? King’s Personal Beer Taster?”

Marie’s eyes glinted with mischief. “Would Hero Sukebe perhaps be interested in the position of ‘Princess’s Personal Bathhouse Attendant’?” she murmured, her voice just loud enough for me to hear.

My head snapped towards her. “For the last time, it’s Su-he-be,” I hissed. “And that second one sounds less like a real job and more like a restraining order waiting to happen.”

She tilted her head, a picture of perfect innocence. “But you seemed so interested in cleanliness when you arrived, Sukebe-sama. Holding your… paper scroll.”

I buried my face in my hands. “It was toilet paper. And that name for 200 hundred time means Per-vert.”

Marie covered her mouth, but it couldn't hide the snort that escaped into her teacup. “Oh dear,” she whispered, dabbing her lips with a napkin. “The Pervert Hero…”

Vince, blessedly interrupting my public execution, clapped his hands. "Before we discuss the post, there is one final formality. The Appraisal." He gestured, and two guards wheeled in a pedestal bearing a crystal orb that looked like an overpriced bowling ball. "Please place your hand upon the Orb of Clarity, so we may ascertain your heroic capabilities."

"You want me to touch your balls," I deadpanned.

The room went silent. The king choked on a giggle. Vince’s face turned a fascinating shade of plum. "It is the... Orb... of Clarity," he ground out.

Sighing, I shuffled over and placed my hand on the crystal. It was cool to the touch. For a second, nothing happened. Then it lit up like a pachinko machine hitting the jackpot. A booming, disembodied voice that sounded suspiciously like a game show host filled the room.

BEEP! ANALYZING SUBJECT… SUBJECT APPEARS TO BE SEVERELY UNDER-CAFFEINATED AND SUFFERING FROM EXISTENTIAL DREAD. COMMENCING POWER LEVEL SCAN! BEEP!

Everyone stared.

BEEP! POWER LEVEL… ERROR! ERROR! READING EXCEEDS MAXIMUM PARAMETERS! SUBJECT IS… MAX LEVEL! CONGRATULATIONS, YOU’VE WON THE GRAND PRIZE OF NARRATIVE SIGNIFICANCE! BEEP!

The orb went dark. Vince’s jaw was on the floor. The King looked impressed. I just felt tired.

“My God,” Vince whispered. “A Max-Level Hero…”

I exhaled slowly through my nose. “That’s nice. Can we file that under ‘things to not dwell on’ and move on to the big questions?” I held up two fingers. “One: gambling. Is it legal, and are the games rigged in the house’s favor, or just mostly rigged? Two: red-light district. What’s the local term for it, and does it have a loyalty card program?”

The fireplace hissed. Marie nearly aspirated her tea.

Vince coughed, adjusting his spectacles. “Er… we have several state-licensed gaming establishments in the capital. And as for the… other request… our kingdom is quite famous for its ‘hospitality districts.’”

Marie cut in, her smile now a razor-sharp slash of pure amusement. “Oh, yes. They are renowned for their customer service. Perhaps the Hero would like a guided tour? I can arrange it.”

My eyes lit up like I’d just been promised a lifetime supply of beer and a winning lottery ticket. “Finally. A world that understands priorities.” I turned back to Vince, all business. “Right. Compensation secured. Gambling secured. Hospitality district secured. The holy trinity of a healthy work-life balance is covered. Now, about this ‘prestigious post.’”

Vince, relieved to be back on script, gestured dramatically. A team of servants, groaning under the weight, hauled in a literal mountain of scrolls and dumped it on the carpet. Wax seals cracked, and the scent of old parchment filled the air.

“These,” Vince announced, “are all the current high-ranking vacancies across the kingdom, each one honorably suited to a champion of your stature.”

I crouched by the pile and started popping scrolls open with the jaded efficiency of a man sorting through junk mail.

“Royal Knight Captain,” I read, then scoffed. “Requires morning drills. Too much cardio. Pass.” I tossed it aside.

Marie leaned over the back of her chaise. “Leading armies is very heroic. Very manly.”

“‘Manly’ is just another word for ‘requires effort,’” I shot back. “Pass.” I unrolled another. “Magical Infrastructure Oversight Committee Chair? Sounds like meetings, memos, and lukewarm coffee. Tempting, but still meetings. Pass.” Another scroll: “Official Royal Poison Taster.” I stared at it. “Are you kidding me? Hard pass.”

I kept muttering, sorting the scrolls into piles of ‘No,’ ‘Absolutely Not,’ and ‘Are You Trying to Kill Me?’ “Okay, what I’m looking for is maximum pay, minimum responsibility. Are there any perks? Does the job come with a designated nap room? Paid siestas?”

Vince, completely misreading the situation, beamed with pride. “Take your time, Great Hero. We are honored that you would deliberate so diligently on how best to serve our kingdom.”

“Yeah, yeah. Diligence,” I mumbled, my fingers fishing out a dusty, dishwater-gray scroll from the very bottom of the pile. The wax seal was plain, the ribbon a depressing shade of beige. It read: The Kingdom Department of Public Health and Sanitation.

I unrolled it. My eyebrows, which had been furrowed in concentration, shot up. “Kingdom Hygiene Inspector… huh.” The description was beautiful, a poetic masterpiece of bureaucratic loopholes. ‘Oversee departmental operations… delegate inspections to junior staff… file quarterly reports… flexible hours…’

Marie saw the flicker in my eyes. “Thinking of cleaning the kingdom’s toilets, Hero Sukebe?”

A slow, triumphant grin spread across my face. “No,” I said, setting the gray scroll aside in its own, hallowed pile. “I’m thinking of never having to work hard again for the rest of my life.”

I stood up and stretched, my joints popping in a satisfying chorus of laziness. The chandelier flickered, casting a long shadow over the mountain of rejected destinies on the floor. Outside, the bells of Lysvalde chimed. Inside, the Max-Level Hero had just found his true calling.