Chapter 02: The Hero Arrives With A Bang


    Long golden hair, mischievous golden eyes, a disdainful grin, an arrogant posture, and a divine gleaming sword in hand—check.


    Like a mental checklist, Luke quickly analyzed the man before him and confirmed his identity.


    As his heartbeat thundered in his ears, the truth settled in—this was Arryn Rocheford, the very protagonist of the novel he despised.


    Arryn’s hair, long and smooth, shimmered with an otherworldly sheen that even the gods envied. His eyes, predatory and golden, sent shivers through anyone who dared to meet them. Framed by his wicked smirk, he exuded the arrogance of a man utterly convinced of his own superiority.


    Yet, his flawless, radiant skin gave him an angelic aura, making people feel compelled to bow before him.


    Arryn was dressed in a medieval-style white lace-up shirt, brown leather trousers, and black boots. A sword sheath hung from his waist, adding to his divine yet threatening presence.


    Even if these features didn''t reach people''s ears, his sword did. The longsword, entirely composed of white divine light, overshadowed the moon’s glow. To his followers, it was a beacon of calm serenity; to his enemies, it was a harbinger of fear and inevitable death.


    “Hiding underground. A perfect hole for a rat like you,”


    Arryn sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. He let out a slightly dissatisfied sigh before continuing,


    “How disappointing. I expected a swarm of your men. Instead, I found a handful of wretches guarding a filthy alleyway. This is the legacy of the so-called underground ruler of Lestead?”


    Luke remained rooted in shock, his gaze fixed on Arryn. His legs trembled uncontrollably, though the large table hid his shaking from Arryn’s view— otherwise, Arryn wouldn''t have wasted his time speaking to him.


    ‘Don’t tell me… I’ve transmigrated into this novel. Why is this bastard here?’


    Arryn’s sudden appearance was an impossibility Luke had never considered. His mind swayed between shock and hysteria, teetering on the brink of an internal collapse—until an acrid, metallic stench slapped him back to reality.


    As the dust from an explosion settled behind Arryn, Luke’s eyes tracked its source.


    Luke''s mind screamed at him to flee as he witnessed severed heads scattered among more than a dozen corpses, resting where they had fallen. And yet… not a single drop of blood marred the floor.


    The sheer terror in the severed heads'' faces pierced Luke’s eyes, making him question what kind of death they had suffered.


    Luke''s stomach churned. His grip on the table tightened as his legs nearly gave out. He swallowed the bile rising in his throat, and leaning on the table for support, he understood in that moment the fate awaiting him next—death.


    Arryn observed Luke’s pitiful state with detached interest, as if he had already lost interest in his prey.


    “Weak-Leg Errol,” he mused. “I can''t believe you had the gall to try to steal my divine sword.”


    Arryn tightened his grip on his sword, preparing to cleave Luke in half and end things quickly. Meanwhile, Luke’s eyes remained locked on a half-filled glass pitcher nearby.


    In an instant, like clear brown alcohol, Luke’s thoughts became crystal clear. This shift piqued Arryn’s curiosity, and he waited, intrigued by Luke’s next move.This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    Finally, Luke regained his composure, his legs steadying as he recalled the name Arryn had just called him: *Weak-Leg Errol.*


    ‘Errol Wynter! I’m in Errol Wynter’s body… If it’s Errol, then there’s a possibility.’


    Luke’s mind raced with possibilities. His heartbeat slowed with each calculated moment. His eyes darted toward the sword he had tossed earlier, lying to his left, then to a shelf filled with dusty shields, swords, and bottles of booze. He weighed his options.


    ‘I could throw this pitcher at Arryn. It won’t hurt him, but it might startle him enough for me to grab the sword and— No… He’s a Star-Bearer. I can’t defeat him like that.’


    His thoughts shifted again.


    ‘What if I throw the booze and weapons at him to distract him, then dash through the door and escape? No… Still dead.’


    “Hey, Weak-Leg.” Arryn tapped his foot impatiently. “Are you planning to do something? Or do I put you out of your misery now?”


    Luke, after a moment of clarity, fixed his gaze on the pitcher.


    Luke grabbed it, gulping down the bittersweet booze without hesitation, emptying it in seconds. The burn steadied him. Then, abruptly, he hurled the empty pitcher—not at Arryn, but to the side, where the sword lay. The glass shattered.


    Arryn narrowed his eyes, puzzled by Luke’s strange behavior.


    Before he could react, Luke stepped out from behind the table, facing Arryn directly. No weapon in hand. No defensive stance. Just two bloodshot eyes staring right at him, raw and unwavering.


    For a brief moment, Arryn smirked. This Errol Wynter was showing defiance—something unexpected. But before the smile could linger for even a second, it vanished with Luke’s next action.


    Without warning, Luke dropped to both knees, spreading his arms to show he was unarmed. Before Arryn could scoff, Luke slammed his forehead against the wooden floor. A loud crack echoed as blood splattered onto Arryn’s boots.


    Luke''s head collided with the floor, causing blood to stream from his forehead. His clenched fists betrayed his mounting frustration, and his bent posture resembled that of someone pleading for forgiveness.


    “A royal bow before a prince? How pathetic.”


    Arryn clicked his tongue in distaste. Any expectation he had vanished.


    Luke heard the rumbling sound of the sword being sheathed, the light from the blade illuminating the entire room before slightly dispersing.


    Luke could tell that Arryn had sheathed his sword, and in that moment, he knew he wouldn''t be killed.


    Luke nearly collapsed in relief.


    Luke had thought of many ways to escape or even kill Arryn. But none ensured victory.


    Then, he recalled a chapter from the novel.


    Among noble bloodlines, a tradition existed: if someone threw away their weapon, bowed, and bled in surrender, even traitors had to be forgiven. Even if that person had tried to kill them.


    As a prince, Arryn Rocheford was bound by this custom. And more importantly, divine sword wielders feared that killing someone who bowed before them would sully their blade, possibly stripping them of their ability to wield divine power.


    Luke banked everything on this belief.


    Even though he had secured a chance to live another day, tears trickled down his face.


    The man he hated with all his heart, the man he wished dead in every chapter, the man he had dreamed of killing himself—he was now bowing before him. The humiliation burned inside him.


    “You made a clever decision, I’ll admit, but…”


    Arryn paused.


    Fear gripped Luke again as he heard the unmistakable sound of a sword being unsheathed. The room''s illumination increased slightly, with Arryn''s sword casting a sharp shadow over him.


    The weight of Arryn’s bloodlust bore down on him, as if Arryn had pressed his boot against his head, pinning him down.


    ‘Why is he unsheathing his sword? Is he going to kill me? Why? Why?’


    Luke''s mind spiraled in panic. Questions overwhelmed him as he struggled to understand Arryn''s actions, yet no answer came.


    As Luke’s mind clouded with more fear, he could feel the light of Arryn''s sword directly above his head, like a blade aimed down at him while his head was trapped in the pillory. Yet, even in all this, the radiant light from the sword sparked a single thought in his mind:


    ‘I can’t escape this.’


    “Say your prayers, Errol Wynter,” Arryn declared.


    Arryn lifted his sword high, and Luke began to scream as his demise neared. In the blink of an eye, Arryn brought the sword down, but just as it was about to strike,


    “Masym Rete! Masym Rete!”


    Luke screamed a single name, causing Arryn’s blade to stop mere inches from his skull.


    Golden eyes darkened with sudden intrigue.


    “Speak!”


    Arryn ordered, his voice carrying a new edge of interest, yet his sword hovered in place.


    Luke, forehead still pressed against the floor, gasped for breath.


    “I will give you… Masym Rete!”


    [The Hero’s Journey continues…]