A Max-Level Threat

We reappeared in the private room of The Weary Traveler inn in a silent flash of golden light. The whole rescue mission had taken, at most, twenty minutes from start to finish. My "team" was still in the middle of a frantic, panicked strategy session. They all stopped and stared as Marie and I materialized, completely unharmed.

Edgar, who had been trying to organize a pile of maps, let out a choked sob of relief. Justus, who was in the middle of a rousing speech about honor and sacrifice, stopped mid-sentence, his mouth hanging open. Eliza looked up from her slate, her analytical eyes widening as she processed the impossible reality of our return.

“The Princess!” Justus was the first to find his voice. “She is safe!”

“Yeah, I got her,” I said, my adrenaline and cold rage rapidly fading, replaced by a familiar, profound weariness. I released Marie and immediately collapsed into the nearest chair. “The bad guy monologued, I ignored him, broke his toy, and we left. Can we go home now? I missed lunch, and I think that qualifies as a legitimate crisis.”

They all just stared at me. They had been preparing for a long, complex, and likely fatal special operations mission. I had just completed it solo in the time it takes to hard-boil an egg.

Marie, however, was looking at me with a new expression. The usual teasing amusement was gone, replaced by something deeper, more serious. She had seen firsthand the cold, effortless, and terrifying power I had been hiding behind my lazy persona. She knew the game had changed.

“Let’s go home,” she said, her voice quiet.

The journey back to Lysvalde was awkward. My team kept shooting glances at me, as if I might spontaneously decide to vaporize the carriage for being too bumpy. They were buzzing with the victory, discussing the political ramifications of Alistair’s defeat at Benimaru's Peak and what our next move should be.

I ignored them all, leaning my head against the window and trying to catch up on some much-needed sleep. They think we won, I thought, a familiar sense of dread creeping in. Idiots. This is a classic JRPG trope. You beat the mid-boss at his fortress, you humiliate him and destroy his plans. He doesn’t just give up. He gets angry. And then he goes and does something really, really stupid that makes everything a thousand times worse. I knew this wasn't over. Not by a long shot.

We arrived back at the castle just as the sun was beginning to set. For a moment, there was a sense of relief. We were back on friendly ground. We were safe.

And then the world started to shake.

It wasn’t a normal earthquake. It was a deep, violent, magical tremor that seemed to come from the very bones of the earth. The stone floor of the castle hangar groaned, and a deep, resonant hum vibrated through the air, a sound so low it felt like it was shaking my soul. Dust rained down from the ceiling. Outside, people were screaming.

We rushed to a balcony that overlooked the capital. The entire city was in a panic. The ground was rumbling continuously. But the most terrifying part was the sky. A faint, shimmering dome of light, previously invisible, now flickered over the entire kingdom, cracks of golden energy spiderwebbing across its surface.

“The seal,” Marie whispered, her face pale with horror. “Alistair… that madman…”

As if on cue, a massive magical projection flared to life in the sky, not just over our city, but visible across the entire continent. It wasn’t Alistair this time. It was a view. A live feed of the Great Jura Mountain.

We saw Alistair, his robes torn, his face a mask of insane fury. Behind him stood the four “Holy Champions,” looking battered but resolute. They were all standing on a massive, ancient runic circle carved into the mountaintop, pouring every ounce of their holy magic into its core. The Chalice of Convergence was on a pedestal in the center, glowing with an intensity that pulsed in time with the worldwide tremors.

Alistair wasn't trying to rally support anymore. He wasn't trying to be clever. This was a brute-force, desperate, final gambit. He had been pushed into a corner, and now he was trying to tear the whole world down with him.

“What is he doing?” Edgar cried, clinging to a pillar to stay upright.

“He’s not just weakening the seal anymore!” Marie shouted over the growing roar. “I’ve read the ancient texts! A clean break, a proper unsealing, would just release Rumiri Tempest! This… this is a catastrophic, uncontrolled fracture! He’s trying to shatter the dimensional barrier itself! If that seal breaks this way, it won’t just free the Demon King; it could tear a hole in the fabric of reality! The resulting energy backlash could wipe this entire continent off the map!”

The stakes had just been raised from “political crisis” to “potential apocalypse.”

The King and his ministers, who had joined us on the balcony, were in a full-blown panic. This was no longer a problem for a secret task force. This was a world-ending threat.

My heart sank into my boots. This was it. The exact moment I had been dreading. The moment the author decided to go full-on epic fantasy.

See? I screamed in my internal monologue, directing my rage at the cruel god of storytelling who had trapped me here. See what you did? I told you this plot would escalate! Now we have world-ending stakes and continental destruction on the table! I hope you’re happy! I’m going to have to actually try now, and I’m going to complain about it the entire time!

Amidst the chaos and the shouting, I was the only one who was perfectly still. My laziness, my apathy, my carefully constructed life of doing nothing—it had all been a shield. But there was no hiding from this. The plot had finally won. My quiet life was over.

Everyone on the balcony—the King, Vince, Eliza, Justus, Edgar—all of them slowly turned to look at me. Their faces were filled with terror, but also a tiny, desperate glimmer of hope. They were looking at the “Max-Level Threat” who was the only one who could stop the other max-level threat. The weight of the world, a heavy, uncomfortable, and deeply annoying burden, had just been officially dropped onto my shoulders.

I let out a long, suffering sigh. I turned to Marie, who was staring at the apocalyptic light show in the sky, her face grim.

“So,” I said, my voice dangerously calm. “On a scale of one to ten, how completely and utterly screwed are we?”

She looked at me, her eyes filled with a terrifying certainty.

“Eleven.”