The Hero's Tax Write-Off

We stood in the royal alchemy lab in a state of stunned silence. Edgar, my formerly giggling subordinate, was blinking in confusion, miraculously cured but now deeply concerned about the contents of his stomach. Justus was staring at the empty vial as if he’d just witnessed a blasphemous miracle. Eliza wasn’t writing; she was just staring, her analytical mind visibly crashing as it tried to process an event that defied every known law of magic, alchemy, and common sense.

Marie was the first to speak, her voice a soft, disbelieving whisper. “You actually did it. You cured a magical curse with office supplies and cheap wine.”

“Never underestimate the power of a good solvent,” I said with a shrug, holding up the now-empty beaker. The single, perfect drop of clear liquid that remained shimmered with a light of its own. It was beautiful. It was terrifying. It was my golden ticket to a life of perpetual laziness.

“So… what do we do now, sir?” Edgar asked, rubbing his stomach. “Do we… make more?”

“Make more?” I scoffed. “Kid, do I look like a factory worker to you? We have the cure. The next step is obvious: we take a victory lap and then I take a very long nap.”

“That is insufficient, Sir Hero!” Justus boomed, finally finding his voice. “The citizens of this fair city still suffer! We must replicate this holy concoction and dispense it to the afflicted with great haste!”

Eliza finally snapped out of her trance, her auditor brain rebooting with alarming speed. “He’s right, for once,” she said, her eyes fixed on the beaker. “What you’ve created is… unprecedented. An unregulated, broad-spectrum magical cure. We need to analyze its composition, determine its stability, calculate production scalability, and assess any potential long-term side effects.”

They were talking about logistics. Meetings. Research and development. My heart sank. This was my worst nightmare. I had created the ultimate lazy solution, only to have it create even more work for me.

“No, no, no,” I said, shaking my head. “You’re all overthinking this. We have the cure, we go cure the laughing idiots, and then we’re done. End of story.”

But I knew it was too late. The genie was out of the bottle, and it was about to file for a patent.

We ended up in the throne room. Of course we did. I stood before King Edward, holding the single, shimmering drop of potion in a vial as if it were the holy grail. For dramatic effect, we had brought the still-laughing guild master from The Golden Thread Haberdashery with us. He stood beside the throne, chortling and weeping into a handkerchief.

“And you’re certain this will work?” the King asked, looking at the vial with suspicion.

“It has a hundred percent success rate in clinical trials,” I said gravely. “The trial consisting of Edgar, five minutes ago.”

Without waiting for permission, I walked over to the guild master and uncorked the vial. “Alright, big guy, open up.” He giggled, and I tipped the single drop onto his tongue.

The effect was just as instantaneous as it had been with Edgar. He hiccupped. A rainbow-colored rune floated out of his mouth and vanished. His laughter died with a pathetic little gasp. He stood there, blinking in the candlelight of the throne room, and then fell to his knees.

“I’m… I’m cured!” he cried, tears of actual joy now streaming down his face. “Thank you, Hero! Thank you!”

The throne room erupted. The King jumped to his feet, his eyes wide with a manic, capitalistic glee. Prime Minister Vince, who had been observing from the side, nearly dropped his stack of documents.

“It’s a miracle!” the King shouted. “Vince, do you see this? We can sell it! We’ll be rich!”

As the ministers began chattering about production, I held up my hand for silence. “Your Majesty,” I began, my voice filled with a fake, humble piety. “This discovery is a gift to the people. Its administration requires a hand that is both noble and astute. I, as a humble hero, am a warrior, not a merchant.” I then pointed dramatically at Marie. “Therefore, I formally request that the full authority for the production and distribution of this ‘Cure-all Potion’ be granted to Her Royal Highness, Princess Marie.”

The King beamed. “Excellent! My daughter has a great head for numbers!” Marie accepted with a graceful curtsy. Her smile didn’t falter, but I saw the flicker in her eyes. It was a look that said, You magnificent, lazy bastard. You just dumped the single biggest administrative job in the history of this kingdom squarely on my lap.

“What a selfless act!” the King boomed, clapping me on the shoulder. “Refusing to profit from your own genius! We must reward you! I decree an immediate bonus of ten thousand gold coins!”

Prime Minister Vince stepped forward. “An excellent suggestion, Your Majesty. And might I add, a permanent adjustment to his salary, commensurate with this heroic deed? We can raise his pay to that of a department head, while he retains his current, vital post as Kingdom Hygiene Inspector.”

A huge pile of gold and a raise for doing the same amount of nothing? It was the perfect deal. “Your Majesty, Prime Minister, you are too generous,” I said, bowing deeply. “I accept this boon on behalf of… the ongoing fight against filth.”

The King roared with laughter, satisfied. But then I saw my opening for the final, master stroke. I looked at the imaginary pile of gold before me, then back at the King, my face a mask of thoughtful concern. I sighed heavily.

“What is it, hero?” the King asked, his smile faltering. “Is ten thousand gold not enough?”

“Oh no, Your Majesty, it is more than enough,” I said, sighing again. “I’ve just been bothered. This gold is still being taxed, isn’t it? And with the salary increase, my tax bracket will surely change… It’s all very complicated. The paperwork alone… it is a great and confusing burden to a simple hero like myself.”

The King stared at me, then at Vince. The word “complicated” seemed to short-circuit his brain.

“Taxed? Complicated?” he sputtered, a look of genuine disgust on his face. “Nonsense! A hero of your stature should not be troubled by such trivialities! A hero should be fighting, not filing forms!” He slammed his fist on the arm of his throne. “Scribe! I hereby decree: the Hero of Lysvalde, Okina Sukebe, is exempt from all royal taxes for life! Let no tax collector bother our champion ever again!”

It was done. A cash bonus. A permanent raise. And a lifetime tax exemption. The holy trinity of financial freedom.

I bowed again, a true, genuine smile on my face for the first time. I had turned a global health crisis into a personal triple-word-score victory for my own laziness. It was, without a doubt, another win for the Hero.