The feast had ended in absolute chaos.
Knights were chanting "Sacred Slice!" like it was the kingdom's new anthem. Nobles were already drafting poems about "The Hero of Cheese and Tomato." Someone even tried to steal my half-eaten crust, declaring it a "relic of the goddess."
Me? I just wanted to crawl into a bed, pull the sheets over my head, and never come out.
So of course, fate wouldn't let me.
"You there. Hero."
The sharp voice made me freeze mid-sneak. I turned slowly.
And there she was—Princess Elara Valtoria, only daughter of King Regis III, glaring at me like I was a cockroach that had just scuttled onto her royal carpet. Her long red braid swished behind her, emerald eyes practically glowing with irritation.
"Oh. Uh. Hi, Princess Elara," I said, trying to casually hide the bread rolls I'd swiped from the feast. "Lovely dinner. The chicken was especially… chicken-y."
She didn't laugh. In fact, I was pretty sure she'd have me executed on the spot if I made one more joke.
"You expect me to believe you are the chosen Hero?" Elara's voice was sharp enough to slice armor. "A man who openly admitted to dying… from shampoo?"
I coughed into my hand. "Technically, Princess, it was the floor that killed me. The shampoo was just… an accomplice."
Her lips pressed into a thin line. "Unbelievable."
I straightened up, trying my best to look dignified. "Hey, don't underestimate me. Did you see those slimes? Bam—gone. Thanks to my sacred blessing."
"You mean your… laundry ability." Elara's glare intensified. "Do you expect me to stake the future of the Kingdom of Valtoria on a glorified washboard?"
"…Yes?" I said before my brain could stop me.
Then quickly added, "I mean, look, Princess, laundry is important! Imagine if the Demon King showed up with wrinkled pants. Instant morale loss."
She pinched the bridge of her nose. "How could Father and Archmage Mordrel be so easily deceived…"
"Hey, I didn't deceive anyone!" I said, pointing at myself. "I was literally dragged here against my will by some goddess with questionable taste in superpowers."
Elara stepped closer, her emerald eyes narrowing. "Listen well, Kaito Takamura. I, Princess Elara Valtoria, don't believe you're the Hero. And I will expose you for the fraud you are."
Her cape swished dramatically as if on cue. (Did she have a wind mage following her around just for effect?)
I blinked at her, unimpressed. "Okay, sure. But, uh… do I still get breakfast in the castle tomorrow?"
Her eye twitched.
She stepped even closer, so close I could smell the faint scent of roses clinging to her hair. "Tomorrow morning, my father will announce your training. And I will personally oversee it."
I swallowed. "O-oversee?"
"Yes." Her voice was steel. "Sword, spell, survival. If you fail, I will make sure the entire kingdom knows you're a fraud."
I forced a smile. "Cool. Great. Nothing like a bit of public humiliation to start the day."
Elara's lips curled into a sharp smirk. "Sleep well, Hero. You'll need it."
And with that, she spun on her heel, her cape snapping behind her as she stormed off, leaving me clutching my bread rolls in the silent corridor.
"…I feel like I just got engaged in a blood feud," I muttered.
That night, I was shown to my "guest chamber."
By chamber, I mean a room about the size of my entire apartment back on Earth. There were golden chandeliers, velvet curtains, carpets so thick my feet sank into them like quicksand, and—front and center—the bed.
The. Bed.
It was enormous. Four-poster, canopies, sheets that looked like they were spun from angel feathers. The kind of bed that screamed "I'm so expensive, if you sneeze on me, you'll be charged for damages."
The maid who showed me in bowed politely. "If you need anything, Hero Takamura, ring the bell by the door."
"Thanks," I said, trying not to look suspicious as I clutched my bread-roll napkin stash tighter.
When she left, I flopped onto the mattress.
…And immediately regretted it.
It was like sinking into a marshmallow filled with guilt and expectations. My entire body was swallowed up by softness. I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe.
"This isn't a bed… it's a trap," I gasped.
Back home, I had a perfectly fine futon. Firm, reliable, spring poking me in the back every so often—good character-building stuff. This? This was like trying to sleep in the embrace of a smothering cloud goddess.
I rolled left. Fluff.
Rolled right. More fluff.
Sat up, tried to adjust the pillows… they multiplied. I swear there were at least fifteen of them, all different sizes.
"Who even needs this many pillows?! Is this a bed or a pillow dungeon?"
I ended up lying on the floor just to breathe properly. The carpet was ridiculously soft too, like they'd shaved a baby sheep and wove its wool into a mattress.
Just as I started to drift off, it happened.
Ping.
I shot upright, eyes wide. The pizza sense.
"…No way."
I scrambled to my feet, pressing my ear to the wall like some kind of food detective. The signal was faint but undeniable. Somewhere in this castle… someone was eating pizza.
At midnight.
"Savages," I whispered.
I considered sneaking out to investigate. But then I imagined Princess Elara catching me prowling around at night, covered in crumbs, claiming I was "on a sacred mission." Yeah, no. She'd probably stab me with a candlestick.
So instead, I curled up on the floor like a disgraced housecat and tried to sleep.
Morning came far too soon. I woke up on the carpet, drooling on the royal wool like some kind of peasant raccoon. My back cracked in three different places.
By the time I shuffled to the royal dining hall, I looked less like a divine Hero and more like a guy who lost a fight with a sofa.
The long table was already set. Silver platters gleamed, steam rising from roasted meats, fried eggs, and golden loaves of bread that smelled like heaven. Servants moved in perfect rhythm, replacing trays the instant they emptied.
And at the far end, sitting tall and radiant, was Princess Elara Valtoria, sipping tea like she hadn't sworn a blood feud against me last night.
Her emerald eyes locked onto mine the moment I entered.
I froze mid-step.
It was the deadliest kind of stare. Not anger, not hatred—just pure, judgmental disappointment.
I sat down cautiously at the opposite end of the table. And then the food war began.
I grabbed bacon. She raised an eyebrow.
I buttered bread. She narrowed her eyes.
I poured juice. She shook her head ever so slightly.
"Do you always… judge people while they eat?" I asked finally, stuffing half a croissant into my mouth.
Elara set her cup down with deliberate elegance. "I am observing. A true Hero should have discipline. Grace. Self-control."
Crumbs exploded out of my mouth as I said, "Guess I'm more of a freestyle Hero."
Her lips twitched—either rage or laughter, I couldn't tell. Probably rage.
Halfway through my third plate, the doors opened and two familiar figures entered.
King Regis III, tall, broad, with a beard that looked like it had conquered its own kingdom. He radiated authority in every stride.
Beside him shuffled Archmage Mordrel, his snow-white beard trailing almost to the floor, robes covered in glittering runes. His eyes twinkled like he knew the punchline to a joke no one else did.
Both stopped when they saw me shoving sausage links into my mouth like I hadn't eaten in years.
I froze mid-bite. "…This is my warm-up plate."
Elara groaned.
After breakfast, the great hall was cleared. Banners of gold and crimson hung from the ceiling. Knights stood in rows, shining armor polished until it gleamed.
King Regis rose from his throne, his booming voice filling the chamber.
"People of Valtoria! Today marks the dawn of a new age! The goddess has granted us a Hero!"
The knights cheered. The servants clapped. Someone in the back fainted from excitement.
Me? I tried to look heroic while desperately wishing I hadn't eaten that last cinnamon roll.
Regis spread his arms wide. "With the strength of this Hero, we shall drive back the Demon King's forces and secure peace for generations!"
The crowd erupted again.
Then the King's eyes landed on me. "But every weapon must be honed. Every diamond polished. Therefore—" He raised one hand dramatically. "We shall begin Hero Training at once!"
"Hero Training?" I repeated, suddenly sweating.
Beside him, Archmage Mordrel stroked his beard. "Indeed. Swordplay, magic, strategy, and survival. The Hero must master them all."
"Sounds… reasonable," I said nervously.
"And to ensure proper discipline," Regis continued, "I appoint my daughter, Princess Elara Valtoria, to personally oversee his progress."
My jaw dropped. Elara's smirk could've sliced me in half.
"You've got to be kidding me."
Regis nodded solemnly. "No. This is law. Training begins tomorrow at dawn."
The hall shook with applause and cheers.
Meanwhile, I was already imagining myself getting murdered by wooden training swords, accidentally setting my pants on fire with magic, and Elara standing there the whole time, gleefully taking notes.
"This kingdom," I whispered to myself, "is trying to kill me."