“Pray pardon me, sir, yet you may not depart the venue. The celebration shall not conclude until sunset. I suggest you to partake and make merry.”

  Before my brain can finish processing the word sunset like it’s a personal threat, Genovefa steps forward and lifts a hand, halting the guard with grace. “He attends with me. Furthermore, you shall permit the other Heroes to withdraw as well. My father calls upon them to the academy council’s office.”

  The guard stiffens. Light armor chimes like nervous cutlery. “F—Father…? M—my apologies, Your Highness. I shall see it done at once…!” His head snaps downward so fast I half-expect whiplash.

  She laughs softly, an elegant sound, all silk and restraint. “Raise your head. I fault you not—the arrangement is sudden.”

  “You are most gracious, Your Highness,” he exhales, stepping aside. Then his gaze slides to me, eyes narrowing just enough to sting. “…Sir Hero Shin.”

  I nod. No bow, no flourish. Gravity still works on my neck, but I refuse to add theatrics.

  We leave the graduation ceremony behind, the noise and glitter thinning like fog burned away by sunlight. If I stayed any longer, my mind would’ve gone numb—like staring at a looping GIF of nobles partying and minggling about.

  The party’s meant to run until sunset. Again. Same as last year. I already told the other three to fix this nonsense since they’re literally on the student council now. I get the value of celebration—ritualized recognition reinforces social cohesion, boosts morale, all that anthropological BS—but from late morning until dusk?! Just hang me at that point!

  As we walk, I catch it in my peripheral vision—a ghost of a smile playing on Genovefa’s lips.

  “What’re you smiling about? Earlier you were stiff as a mannequin ever since we talked to your older sister.”

  She covers her mouth with a delicate hand, shoulders lifting faintly. “I find myself… amused. By the manner in which all eyes rest upon you.” Her tone turns thoughtful, almost indulgent. “As if you were the most superfluous object in the world.” She sighs and places her hands at her back, then bumps her hip lightly against mine as we walk. “The Weakest Hero, huh? Whilst the other three parade their feats, you remained seated in some quiet corner, content to observe. In its own way… rather charming.”

  This girl is absolutely looking for a fight.

  Of course, I say nothing. Silence, after all, is the most efficient response when someone mistakes restraint for fragility. Underestimation is cheaper than armor and far easier to maintain.

  We turn a corner and enter the main building—and it’s blissfully empty. No orchestral fanfare, no ceremonial clapping, no nobles hunting for conversational prey. Just our footsteps echoing off stone and the soft whisper of curtains breathing against tall windows. We go deeper, down corridors I’ve never once taken in my two years here. That probably says more about my lifestyle choices than the academy’s layout.

  Unlike the other three, I never ran for student council. Not that I would’ve won. My routine has been gloriously minimal: dorm, class, cafeteria, dorm. Sometimes I would sneak out to the same forest to regine my Magic Skill usage, but that’s beside the point. So yeah… It might shock people—especially those who think heroes are supposed to “know the land”—but I have absolutely no idea how to navigate this place. It’s massive, yes, but two years should be enough to build a mental map.

  Apparently not. For me at least.

  Spatial memory needs repetition, and my lifestyle clearly didn’t give me that opportunity. Thank whatever deity handles logistics that Genovefa guides me without comment or mockery. Asking for directions would’ve been a whole new flavor of humiliation—

  “We’re here,” she says abruptly, tugging my sleeve and snapping me out of a perfectly good internal lecture on habit formation.

  Ahead of us loom massive double doors, slightly ajar. Voices leak through the gap—one unmistakably the king’s, and the other’s from Belladonna’s. There are others too. Adult voices. Unfamiliar. Probably important, which is never a comforting adjective.

  I inhale, reach for the door, and push it open fully. Casual mode engaged. One hand goes up. “Yo. You called, Your Majesty?”

  Predictably, everyone I expect is here. The king. Belladonna. And several men in a similar uniform as hers who immediately look at me like I’ve tracked mud across their worldview. Their eyes narrow in near-perfect synchronization—

  Urk?!

  A fully armored knight steps forward—one I recognize instantly. Muscle memory fires before common sense. Her hand hovers near her blade.

  “You, knave—!”

  Both my hands go up. Palms out. Universal sign for please don’t reduce me to narrative paste.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa—wait, wait—!”

  She stops mid-step, visibly vibrating with the effort of not lunging. Then she turns toward Genovefa, irritation evaporating like it never existed. Her face softens into a bright, genuine smile so abrupt it’s almost unsettling.

  “Your Highness! It hath been far too long—!” She closes the distance and pulls Genovefa into a light hug.

  Genovefa returns it briefly, then pulls back, cupping the knight’s face with fond familiarity. “A full-fledged knight now, I presume?”

  Leyni nods with enthusiasm that borders on devotional. “Yes…! I am at last worthy to stand before you—and to serve you as a proper knight.” Her voice drops, soft and reverent.

  Something about the way she looks at Genovefa sends a quiet alarm bell ringing in my head. I’ve suspected before that Leyni has a… clingy streak. I always chalked it up to overprotective-older-sister energy, but now, seeing it up close—

  “Maybe she swings that way…?” slips out of my mouth before my internal censor can tackle me to the ground.

  Genovefa turns slowly, one brow lifting. “Is that another colloquialism from thy world? Pray enlighten me as to its meaning.”

  Leyni pivots toward me, eyes narrowing with pure contempt, as if the previous adoration had never existed. “Explain thyself, knave.”

  “It’s nothing,” I say, lying through my teeth as I turn away and cover my mouth.

  My brain, unfortunately, does not share my commitment to discretion.

  Right. Two girls hugging. A knight and a princess. Armor clinking softly, silk brushing steel. My visual cortex immediately betrays me. That’s… kind of hot.

  エロい!

  If reincarnation came with a compensation package, this might qualify as a partial refund. Any man claiming indifference to that scene is either lying or has transcended mortal weakness—and I know for a fact I haven’t.

  A loud, authoritative ahem slices cleanly through my internal degeneracy.

  Our attention snaps to the king, now seated at the head of a massive table. He gestures, and several men move at once, lifting a large rectangular chest from the corner. The thing looks ancient in the way expensive video game artifacts do—ornate but restrained, like it’s quietly confident that it can ruin your life if opened improperly. Heavy. Important. The kind of object that screams plot device.

  So this must be it. The thing Belladonna mentioned earlier. The one they want opened.

  I glance at her. She returns a thin, knowing smile that crawls straight under my skin. The woman has a talent for that. It’s unsettling how easily she unsettles me.

  The chest hits the table with a dull, weighty thud. And as if on cue, the door opens again, and the other three stroll in.

  Ray runs a hand through his slicked-back blond hair—a habit he picked up after deciding to reinvent himself as a dating-sim protagonist. “Looks like the nerd’s already here,” he says with a grin, eyes sliding from me to the chest. “Miss Belladonna gave us the gist. So? This it, Your Majesty?”

  Mark smacks the back of Ray’s head. “You in a hurry to trigger an ancient curse? Let His Majesty explain first.”

  “You always jump the gun,” Joshua adds warmly.

  The king rises. Two of the men stands beside him in perfect synchronization—either well-trained or deeply terrified. “Regrettably, I must attend to other affairs with the Lords Commissioners of the Treasury. I am here solely to ensure that the Chest of the Covenant arrives safely.” His gaze shifts to Belladonna. “She shall provide you with the necessary explanations.”

  All four of us bow. Even me. I have enough common sense left to respect a man juggling a kingdom.

  ““““Thank you for gracing us with your presence, even if but briefly.””””

  He smiles, then looks directly at me. “I wish you were always so well-mannered.”

  I shrug. “That’s a tall order.”

  A sharp pinch explodes at my hip. Genovefa. She glares up at me like I’ve just embarrassed her in public. Okay, a simile is not even warranted, I did embarass her in public.

  “Sorry,” I mutter. “Reflex.”

  The king sighs, rubbing his temple, eyes drifting to his ledest daughter. “What a wearisome lad. You remind me of someone…”

  Belladonna finally speaks, one hand pressed to her chest in artful, feigned offense. “To liken me unto such a boy, Father—truly, you wound my heart.”

  The king offers no reply. He merely waves a hand. And with it, chairs scrape, footsteps retreat. In seconds, he is gone, and the remaining men fan out to the walls, standing at attention like carved figures awaiting animation. Belladonna remains at the far end of the table, the so-called Chest of the Covenant resting between us like a sleeping animal that might wake angry. Genovefa drifts to her sister’s side, light and unanchored, like a dandelion seed caught by an invisible current.

  Ray pumps his fists, eyes gleaming. “A mysterious ornate box? Yeah, this is definitely that trope—”

  “Don’t even say it,” I cut in, flat and immediate.

  Belladonna claps her hands once. The sound snaps sharp in the air. Her posture straightens, rigid as a parade-ground officer. “At attention, Heroes,” she commands. “What lies before you is a coffer empowered by an artifact bequeathed by the Hero Giasone. Of all Heroes past, he alone did not content himself with manuals nor manifestos. He deemed it wiser to leave behind something… tangible.”

  Mark frowns. “Guess the others didn’t expect to die eventually.”

  Or maybe they did, and simply understood the danger of leaving tools behind for the wrong hands. History is generous with examples of good intentions rotting into disasters. Either way, their thought processes aren’t my problem. The box is.

  “Genovefa said it’s never been opened. Care to elaborate?”

  Belladonna’s gaze settles squarely on me. Not the group. Me. “Just so. Not once had it been opened since the passing of the former Heroes.”

  She removes her white gloves, pristine save for worn fingertips dusted faintly. Her bare hand glides across the lid. The chest responds. Light blooms. Lines assemble themselves in midair. A floating interface materializes—clean, geometric, unmistakable. A keyboard. Full alphanumeric layout. English letters.

  My stomach tightens.

  “The Chest of the Covenant is warded by the artifact within,” she continues on with the exposition. “A locking contrivance. No known force had prevailed against it. Neither explosive, nor Magic Skills, nor monster’s might. All such attempts are rendered void. Instead—” Her fingers hover above the glowing symbols. “—the riddle left by Giasone must be answered.”

  “Riddle?” Joshua echoes, already exhausted.

  I don’t blame him. Riddles are elegant traps—simple on the surface, cruel in execution. And if this thing has stayed sealed for generations, then whatever Giasone left behind isn’t some tavern puzzle scribbled on a napkin. It’s something meant to outlast civilizations.

  Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

  Either way, my attention locks onto the floating numbers and letters. Modern Hindu-Arabic numerals… the English alphabet. I’ve seen them on Earth, and I’ve seen them here too—which isn’t surprising. Four Heroes before us dragged manuals across worlds and jump-started a few modern systems. What is strange is an artifact supposedly native to this world using the same symbols. That narrows the suspects fast.

  That Hero Giasone tinkered with it. Had to. Which means he wasn’t just an some outlier—he was inventive. Smart enough to bend a foreign logic system until it obeyed his own understanding. That already tells me more about him than any heroic mural ever could.

  “The most learned scholars of the Kingdom have endeavored to solve the riddle,” Belladonna says coolly. “Their failure led my father to surmise that perhaps Heroes born of the other world might fare better.” She gestures toward the chest. “Yet you shall not perceive the riddle unless you lay your hands upon the Covenant.”

  The four of us exchange glances. Same as always. In a world that keeps reminding us we don’t belong, this silent check-in is instinct. Two years here hasn’t dulled it. If anything, it’s sharpened.

  We place our hands on the lid.

  The sensation is familiar—and abrupt. Like the Blessing all over again. Information doesn’t arrive so much as slam into my skull. A long passage burns across my consciousness, searing itself into memory. It reads:

  What the—

  “…fuck…?” Ray voices it for all of us, eyes stretched wide, pupils pinched tight. “Isn’t that a tad bit long?!”

  That’s one word for it.

  I can’t believe that guy really chose a math problem as his final gatekeeping mechanism. Of all things. No blades, no trials of courage, no moral dilemma—just fractions stacked on fractions.

  “No wonder it hasn’t been opened in ages…” Mark mutters. He glances at Belladonna, clearly restraining a mix of awe and apprehension. “Your Highness—just so we know this suffering isn’t for nothing—do we actually know what’s inside?”

  Belladonna exhales and shakes her head once.

  “Unfortunately,” Genovefa cuts in, “even we are ignorant of its contents. Nor do any who were once close to the four Heroes know its nature.” She pauses, then adds carefully, “Yet it is recorded that whatever lies within is deeply personal to Sir Giasone, and meant to bestow some manner of power upon the one who opens it.”

  Her hand slips behind her back, fishing beneath her overdress. She retrieves a small pocket journal and raises it slightly. “It’s written here—in his diary.”

  “Y—you’ve just been carrying that around…?” I ask, barely holding back a snort.

  She presses it to her chest, smug. “Thanks to this that I have learned—barely—the peculiar manner in which thou dost speak. The contents are quite mundane though, but…” Then she smiles sweetly. “…I shall lend it to you, should you kneel and lick my shoes.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  I close my eyes and tune the world out. The riddle is still there. Vivid. Permanent. The moment our hands touched the Covenant, it etched itself into my mind like a scar—like it had always been waiting there.

  I click my tongue softly.

  We have to open this.

  Plenty of people would walk away. Any sane person might, when faced with a problem this absurd, with no guarantee the reward even justifies the effort. But the riddle itself argues against that instinct. No one imposes constraints this brutal for something trivial. You don’t demand perfect squares, triangular numbers, and coupled fractional systems unless what lies beyond matters—a lot.

  We may not know what’s inside the chest. But whatever it is, it’s important enough to dare someone to prove they deserve it.

  Almost in sync, we pull our hands away from the lid, each of us wearing our own practiced smiles—thin masks stretched tight to keep the grimace from leaking through.

  “…So we’re doing quadratics,” Mark mutters before he shoots a glance at Ray. “Thank God I actually paid attention in math class. Unlike some people.”

  “Hey, hey,” Joshua says mildly, already slipping into mediator mode. “Let’s take turns tackling it, yeah?”

  “Yes! I’ll go first!” Ray pumps a fist, absurdly energized. “Alriiiight! Let’s get this box open and loot the hell out of it!”

  Since when did he become the leader?

  Paper shuffles nearby. We all turn as several attendants prepare another table—four neat stacks of paper, four containers brimming with fountain pens. Excessive, almost intimidating.

  “That shall be your workstation,” Belladonna says, smoothing a stray strand of hair back into place. “You are granted until nightfall for your first attempt. Should you fail, another trial may be made the following week.”

  The other three don’t waste time. Chairs scrape. Papers spread. Pens start scratching as they rewrite the riddle, translating poetic cruelty into something resembling equations.

  I stay where I am.

  “Oh?” Belladonna’s hand settles on my shoulder. She leans in—close enough to invade, not close enough to touch. “Are you not joining the others? You shall require parchment if you wish to compute an answer.”

  “I don’t need it,” I reply flatly.

  She stiffens, just a fraction, then pulls back with a smile sharpened at the edges. “What—are you some kind of prodigy?”

  I shake my head. “No. I’m actually terrible at math. If that wasn’t already obvious.”

  She folds her arms. As she does, two identical golden bands catch the light on her right ring finger.

  I narrow my eyes. “A widowed soldier…?”

  She snorts, immediately clocking it as retaliation. “And how did you arrive at that conclusion?” she asks—mirroring my own words from earlier, back when she accused me of being a clever boy hiding his true capacity beneath mediocrity like a second skin.

  “It’s not difficult,” I say, tilting my head, a smirk tugging at my mouth. “Two identical rings, same finger. Back in my world, it’s a tradition done by widowed women in a certain continent.” I pause, letting it hang. “Makes you wonder how much else I could figure out.”

  Belladonna smirks. At her side, Genovefa goes visibly pale. Leyni, meanwhile, looks ready to combust—her armor emitting a low, grinding tremor like a machine straining against its bolts.

  “Y–you wretch…!” Leyni snarls. “How dare you speak so to Princess Genovefa—and to her sister besides?!”

  Belladonna waves them off with idle amusement. “I permit it. This is entertaining.” She plants her hands on her hips, posture open, inviting. “Well? What else canst thou discern about me, Mister I-Am-Mediocre?”

  She probably knows my real stats. The numbers I buried. The carefully cultivated image of unremarkable competence. Agitating someone with clearance to expose all of that is objectively a bad move.

  But then her earlier words echo back, clean and sharp.

  Of the four Heroes, I believe you and I are alike in certain respects.

  If that’s the case, then that’s more the reason to push this petty game…

  Time for payback!

  “Your braided crown,” I say, circling a finger lazily near her head, “is unnervingly neat. Not a strand out of place. It’s less a hairstyle and more a structural feature, like it grew that way. Which suggests you’re a widowed soldier with obsessive–compulsive tendencies.”

  “Are we now condemning people for how they arrange their hair now?” she scoffs. Her tone is dismissive, but there’s a laugh threaded through it. “And what manner of diagnosis is that? You are inventing nonsense.”

  “It’s a term from my world. A mental condition characterized by compulsive rituals enacted to maintain a sense of control.” My finger drops to her attire. “Which brings me to your clothing. Formal. Militarized. Designed to function in both ceremony and command.”

  Specifically—though I don’t say it aloud—it mirrors Second World War women’s auxiliary uniforms from Earth. Efficient. Symbolic. Authority stitched into the seams. Clothing alone proves nothing, of course. Correlation isn’t causation. But words matter…

  I may err, of course, but I place great faith in my own intellect and my sharp perception thanks to being an officer.

  At attention, Heroes…

  The way she phrases things and the way she talks suggests a military affiliation. Likely an officer considering her status as a royalty.

  I raise my finger again. “Military service reshapes people. Obsession with order bleeds into everything—logistics, personal space, even how one’s bed is aligned. I’ve read accounts. From my world. From this one.”

  Her smile grows wider. That’s confirmation enough.

  “I remain unconvinced.”

  “Then let’s talk about your gloves.” I nod at the white fabric. “Looks new. Pristine. Except for the fingertips—worn. Smudged with dust.”

  My hand slips into my pocket. It’s shaking. I force it still. I’m pushing too far. I know it. But backing down now would ruin the line.

  “The hall where the graduation is held,” I continue, glancing toward the distant windows where the celebration still churns, “was immaculate. Banners aligned. Trays symmetrical. I watched you nudge a goblet—just slightly—until its rim matched the table’s edge.”

  If she was the one who did the rounds before speaking to us, that would explain the dust. Order restored by hand. Repeatedly.

  “You said we’re alike,” I say, forcing a smirk. “I don’t think that’s true. I don’t need a Magic Skill to pull this off.”

  Message delivered: I’m better.

  My conclusions rely on inference and pattern-matching, sure. Circumstantial. Fallible. But the point isn’t certainty—it’s irritation. If she truly believes we’re the same, this should sting exactly the way it stings me.

  Her smile stretches ear to ear. The scratching of pens stops. The other three look up in disbelief.

  Leyni lunges, fingers fisting my collar. “You insolent—!”

  Clapping cuts through the tension.

  Belladonna is laughing. Not politely. Not softly. A sharp, delighted cackle. Leyni freezes. The men along the walls exchange confused looks.

  “That was excellent!” Belladonna says, eyes gleaming—not predatory now, but genuinely pleased. “You did not disappoint me at all.” Her gaze warms, almost fond. “A widowed woman with obsessive-compulsive disorder, hmm? Only a tactless piece of trash would say such a thing to a widow.”

  I let out an awkward laugh and start prying Leyni’s armored hands from my collar. Before I can finish, her grip tightens and she yanks me closer, her face inches from mine, magenta eyes blazing.

  “Listen well!” she hisses. “I care not what manner of games you play with Her Highness, but you shall join the others at once instead of squandering her time…!”

  “F—fine, let go…”

  She shoves me away. I stumble back, barely catching myself. Belladonna waves dismissively, already bored. Genovefa, meanwhile, mouths something like:

  We’re going to have a very loooong discussion about this later.

  Scary.

  I retreat to the workstation and drop into an empty chair. “Geez… that woman is a pain.” I grab a sheet of parchment—but pointedly not a pen. I just hold it up, staring, forcing the numbers to exist in my head instead. I would rather be fed to a demon than use one of those fountain pens.

  “I know you’ve always taken things to extremes—even back on Earth,” Mark mutters, eyeing me like I’ve grown an extra limb, “but didn’t you push it a bit far this time?”

  Ray snorts. “She had it coming. Reading us with her Skill, boiling our personalities down to neat little phrases…”

  I lower the parchment. “She did that to you guys too?”

  Joshua exhales, irritation flashing briefly across his usually placid face. “Yeah. It got under my skin. Honestly? Watching you fire back helped.”

  Ray tears a sheet of paper in half, groaning. “I still don’t like your guts,” he says, then grins. “But you definitely put that sly cat in her place. Didn’t think you’d show that side of you so soon.”

  I let out a long breath. “Glad the show was worth it. Now let’s focus on the riddle at hand.”

  My head already feels lighter. Catharsis does wonders for cognitive load. Now—

  Where do I even begin?

  Just recalling the riddle makes my temples throb again. Fractions layered onto fractions. Geometric constraints. A sadist’s idea of elegance.

  “This guy was insane…”

  And yet… the structure nags at me. The way the conditions interlock.

  I squint at the blank parchment, mind racing ahead of my hand. I’ve seen something like this before… Somewhere between a math textbook and a footnote no sane student ever reads.

  “Where…?”

  Through my binoculars, the academy courtyard lies empty and obedient, stone washed pale by the late afternoon light. Too quiet. The good kind of quiet. Graduation means the grand hall is packed—students drunk on relief, nobles wrapped in ceremony, guards relaxed just enough to die surprised.

  Perfect.

  I lower the lenses and steady myself against the thick branch beneath my boots. Leaves press cool shadows against my skin. Then the wind changes, and I feel it—someone beside me, familiar weight, familiar silence.

  “Boss…” Mair whispers, voice tight. His eyes cut toward the academy. “Can we really trust that guy—Nkríza?”

  I don’t answer right away. The name tastes wrong. Sharp. Like biting foil.

  “We have the same enemy.”

  “But that doesn’t mean the same goal,” he presses. “He hands us an artifact strong enough to breach the academy’s defenses but… We don’t know what he wants. Something feels wrong.”

  It does. I hate depending on someone who smiles like he already knows the ending. Someone stronger than me, smarter than me. But opportunity doesn’t knock twice—it kicks the door in once and dares you to hesitate.

  “Two years,” I say quietly. “Two years hiding in the dirt. Didn’t that eat at you?” I grip his shoulder, firm. “The nobles. The youngest princess too. They’re all in one place—almost wrapped neatly like a present for us. If the artifact works, the barrier drains their magical energy dry. Then it’ll be our turn to speak.”

  His jaw tightens, pride wrestling with fear. The kind of fight men lose slowly.

  Finally, he exhales. “Alright. Whatever you decide, boss… you’ve got my heart with you.”

  “Good.” I lift the binoculars once more, centering the grand hall in my vision. Stone walls, banners fluttering, light spilling from tall windows like an invitation. “We attack at dusk.”