Castle Life, Hero Style

I stood in what the castle staff called the “Hall of Respected Lineage” but what I privately dubbed the “Corridor of Disappointed Ancestors.” A long, drafty hallway lined with oil paintings of long-dead royals, every single one of them glaring down at me with the same expression of profound judgment my old boss used when I tried to claim a vending machine coffee as a business expense. I could practically hear their thoughts echoing through the centuries: That’s our legendary hero? The one with the rumpled shirt and the perpetually bewildered expression? We’re doomed.

Prime Minister Vince, a man who seemed to be held together by starch and protocol, stood before me with the posture of someone who had never once experienced the simple joy of slouching. He cleared his throat, a dry, rustling sound like dead leaves skittering across pavement.

“Your official compensation, Hero Sukebe,” he announced, presenting a leather pouch with all the ceremony of a holy relic. I reached for it, and my arm nearly buckled under the weight.

Holy hell, this is heavy. It was packed with the kind of large, gold coins you only see in pirate movies. A dragon’s hoard of walking-around money. My degenerate, gacha-addicted soul began to sing a glorious aria. I could almost hear the triumphant fanfare of a thousand loot box openings.

“One year’s senior officer salary, paid in advance, as stipulated,” Vince continued, blissfully unaware of the rampant financial irresponsibility I was already plotting. “A reward for your future diligent service to the kingdom.”

“Nice,” I said, hoisting the bag onto my shoulder. It felt less like a paycheck and more like a portable dumbbell. I mentally converted the weight to yen, and my brain short-circuited. This wasn't just ramen money. This was ‘buy the entire restaurant and turn it into my private ramen clubhouse’ money. “Finally, a severance package without the soul-crushing exit interview.”

Vince’s left eye twitched, the only sign that he was processing my blasphemy. He then produced a scroll tied with a crisp, royal blue ribbon. “And here is your formal letter of appointment. Your duties as Kingdom Hygiene Inspector begin in two days. Your office is located in the administrative wing, a mere ten-minute walk from the palace grounds. Simply follow the eastern boulevard and look for the building with the large copper gargoyle that appears to be weeping.”

“Weeping gargoyle, ten minutes, got it,” I muttered, though my internal monologue was already complaining. Ten minutes? That’s like, a whole anime opening song. Is there a carriage service? Can I expense a horse? Maybe I can just delegate the commute to someone else.

“We look forward to your… contributions,” Vince said, the slight hesitation in his voice telling me everything I needed to know. He was already expecting me to be a complete and utter disaster.

“Yeah,” I said, patting my new bag of gold. “Contributions. Diligence. Synergy. All the magic words.” I gave him a lazy salute and turned to find my new digs, leaving him to stare after me with the weary resignation of a man who knew he was enabling a terrible decision.

The room they gave me had belonged to the late Grand Chamberlain, a man who, judging by the decor, had been fantastically rich and profoundly sad. It was my personal slice of the ‘Bankrupt Aristocrat Garage Sale,’ and it was glorious. The bed wasn't just king-sized; it was a sprawling continent of mattress, wide enough to host a rugby scrum and still have room for a light brunch. I immediately threw myself onto it, boots and all, and sank into a sea of goose-down pillows.

“This,” I announced to the empty room, “is so much better than my apartment.” No rent. No landlord banging on the door about the overflowing recycling bin. No neighbor practicing the trombone at three in the morning. This was the life.

A stern-looking portrait of the old chamberlain hung over a massive oak desk, his painted eyes seeming to follow my every move. He had the gaze of a man who had stamped one too many documents and had finally achieved a state of transcendent boredom. I gave him a little wave. “Don’t worry, grandpa. I’ll take good care of your nap spot.”

The wardrobe, a behemoth of dark wood, still smelled faintly of lavender and old pipe smoke, like a ghost who was really, really into potpourri. It was unsettling, but in an expensive way.

My room was at the end of a quiet, velvet-carpeted corridor. On the other side of the wall, I could hear the faint, muted sounds of the palace staff. That was Princess Marie’s private wing. I had no doubt she had arranged my accommodations personally. It wasn't to "provide support to the hero," as the official reason stated. It was a strategic placement. I was the weird new zoo animal, and she’d put my enclosure right next to the zookeeper’s office for easy observation. I could already feel her smug, amused aura seeping through the walls.

I rolled onto my back, holding the pouch of gold up to the light filtering through the grimy window. “Compensation acquired,” I murmured. “Mansion-sized room acquired. Two full days off before I have to pretend to work. I think I can get used to this.”

I cracked the seal on my appointment scroll, my eyes scanning the fine print. My grin widened. Official perks included a generous lunch stipend, access to the royal library (which I would use exclusively for nap-related research), and, most importantly, near-total autonomy. It was the holy grail of employment.

“Easiest job in the kingdom,” I whispered, rolling the scroll back up. “It’s beautiful.” I stretched out on the bed, spreading my arms and legs like a fallen knight. “Freedom tastes like lavender-scented dust bunnies.”

After a formal dinner in the royal banquet hall—an ordeal involving three courses, four types of forks, and King Edward trying to tell a joke about a goblin and a barmaid with his mouth full of roast pheasant—I slipped out into the castle courtyard.

The night air was cool and smelled of damp stone and distant cooking fires. In the distance, the city of Lysvalde glittered, a treasure map of temptation. Taverns, dice games, and the legendary “hospitality district” I’d been fantasizing about since my disastrous orientation. With the pouch of gold clinking at my belt, I felt a familiar, primal urge take over. It was the same feeling I used to get on a Friday night after a brutal week of work, but magnified by a thousand.

My grin was pure middle-schooler cutting class. “Two days off, a fat sack of cash, and no boss to call my phone. Let’s go conduct a thorough, hands-on survey of the local culture.”

I was halfway to the main gate, practically skipping, when a voice as smooth as silk and sharp as glass slid out of the shadows.

“Going somewhere, Sukebe-sama?”

I froze mid-skip. Marie emerged from the darkness near a rosebush, her pale dress shimmering in the moonlight. She looked less like a princess and more like a beautiful, terrifying ghost about to assign me some homework.

I sighed, dropping the act. “Yeah, yeah. Just… trying to reward myself. For the immense psychological trauma of being ripped from my humble toilet and mislabeled for all eternity.” I threw an arm across my forehead, striking a pose of high drama. “Alas! A hero’s soul, scarred by the horrors of interdimensional plumbing! Only the siren song of dice and the warm embrace of cheap booze can soothe this weary heart!”

Marie tilted her head, her smile unwavering. “A compelling tragedy. But aren’t you concerned it might tarnish your heroic image? Spending your first night of freedom in the city’s most… colorful establishments?”

I dropped the pose and gave her a wicked grin. “Tarnish what image? I’m the ‘Pervert Hero,’ remember? The kingdom has already branded me.” I mimed polishing a medal on my chest. “Might as well live up to the hype. It’s called method acting.”

She covered her mouth, a delicate gesture that did nothing to hide the genuine laugh that broke through. “Oh, you are truly impossible. Then by all means, go. I look forward to reading tomorrow’s headlines.”

“Don’t wait up!” I called back, giving a mock salute and bolting for the city gates like a man escaping a tax audit. The guards barely had time to stammer out a bow before I vanished into the welcoming, anonymous glow of the city.

Hours later, I was a king in my own right. The neon glow of enchanted lanterns painted the streets in hues of purple and gold. At a high-stakes card table in Lysvalde’s premier casino, The Golden Eastern Dragon, I was on an unbelievable hot streak. My ‘Max-Level’ stat apparently applied to dumb luck as well. Professional gamblers with scars on their faces and ice in their veins watched in disbelief as I consistently pulled winning hands with the grace of a drunken buffoon.

By midnight, my significantly heavier pouch and I migrated to the main event: the Street of Red Lanterns, the city’s famed hospitality district. It was a street alive with the scent of grilled meats, exotic perfumes, and paper lanterns swaying in the night breeze. Courtesans in shimmering silks drifted between doorways like butterflies, their practiced smiles promising paradise for a price.

And I was their hero. The story of the “Pervert Hero” had apparently already spread. I was a living, breathing meme, and they treated me like visiting royalty. Drinks were on the house. The best seats were reserved for me. It was everything I had ever dreamed of.

By the time the first gray hints of dawn stained the sky, my pouch was two-thirds lighter and my head was two-thirds heavier. I stumbled out of a place called The Drunken Panda Steamhouse, my hair a mess, my shirt untucked, clutching a single, lonely gold coin and a half-eaten meat skewer of indeterminate origin.

“Oh, crap,” I slurred to a stray cat that was watching me with pity. “I think I almost blew the whole year’s salary in one night.”

Above the city, the bells chimed the hour. Back in the castle, Princess Marie was likely sipping her morning tea, a smug, knowing smirk on her face. The legend of the Max-Level Hero had officially begun… with a skull-splitting hangover and a profound sense of financial dread.