I Wrote Trash Novels to Level Up, Now Everyone Thinks I'm the Hero

From the far end of House Vance's third-floor hallway, Sword Emperor Regulus's booming laughter rolled through the corridor like thunder, rattling the twelve suits of ancient demon-forged armor lining the walls, their metal joints clattering ceaselessly against each other.

Lucian had just reached his father's study door, his small hand raised to knock, when the heavy oak door swung wide open on its own.

The sight that greeted him froze the ten-year-old's foot in midair.

On the thousand-year-old rosewood desk, buried under paperwork, the continent's legendary Sword Emperor was standing — both feet planted right on the desktop. His crimson cloak snapped in some unseen wind, and his gilded command sword, drawn from its sheath, pointed straight up at the ornate ceiling.

Seeing his son walk in didn't faze Regulus one bit. If anything, he puffed out his chest, drew a deep breath, and launched into a tragic, sweeping recitation:

"O endless darkness! You may gnaw upon my flesh — but never shall you touch her smile!"

Clang!

A razor-sharp blade of sword-energy tore through the air, shearing the top clean off a silver candlestick on the bookshelf before burying itself in the wall.

Regulus spun, landed solidly, and sheathed his sword with a decisive click, then turned to his son with eyes blazing.

"Lucian! What do you think? That's the climax from Chapter Forty-Two! I've been drilling that passage for three days straight, getting ready for the grand performance at the Royal Theater next month!"

Lucian stood frozen in the doorway.

Every toe inside his leather boots curled violently. His temples throbbed in waves, a cold current racing up his spine and straight through the crown of his head. The full-body cringe hit hard enough that the soul of a grown man from his past life felt like it was about to shatter into pieces.

Heavens above. Lucian clutched his forehead, feeling like someone had just stripped him bare and thrown him into the middle of the capital's central square.

That passage... that was the one he'd written last year, delirious with a forty-degree fever! Half-conscious at the time, he'd lifted an entire melodramatic scene straight out of some prime-time drama from his past life, just to pad out the Demon Tongue word count.

And now his own father, the Sword Emperor, was planning to stand on the Royal Theater's stage — in front of the Emperor, the Empress, and the entire court — and perform that garbage in front of everyone?!

"Father..." Lucian took a deep breath, fighting to keep the anguish out of his voice. "Don't you think that passage is a little... unreasonable? How is someone supposed to do three midair flips while dodging twelve magical fireballs and still manage to behead a demon beast? That's completely made up!"

"Made up? Made up my foot!" Regulus glared, leaping down off the desk to land right in front of his son, swinging a sleeve in indignation. "What do you know about the highest realm of swordsmanship! That triple-flip technique is 'Threefold Void Fracture' — a fusion of spatial footwork and absolute sword-intent! Whoever wrote this passage has to be some reclusive Sword Sage whose power rivals my own!"

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Lucian looked at his father, completely out of arguments.

Reclusive Sword Sage, his foot. The "author" of that passage had been sneezing his brains out with a runny nose the whole time he wrote it!

"I think we should halt the printing of Volume Two," Lucian said, scraping together whatever family dignity he had left. "We're a respected merchant house. Earning money off pulp fiction is going to damage our reputation—"

"Halt it? Absolutely not!" Regulus waved the idea away, pulling his son excitedly toward the continent map on the wall. "His Majesty just approved a hundred-thousand-gold budget to fund this grand opera! The whole capital's gone mad for it! The scholars at the Linguistics Institute are even hunting down leads on the author's identity. Word is, the traces of High Elvish and Demon Tongue in the book point back to the free territory of Oakhaven, out on the western border..."

Before Regulus could finish, a bright triple chime rang through Lucian's mind.

Ting! Ting! Ting!

The pale blue System panel slid into view, a gold-edged notification expanding across it:

[EXPLORATION MILESTONE DORMANT: 1,000 DAYS.]

[FIELD EXPEDITION BONUS AVAILABLE.]

[Decode an extinct linguistic variant within a Free Territory or unregistered Ancient Dungeon.]

[Bonus window: 30 days.]

[First-clear reward multiplier: ×3.]

Lucian's pupils contracted.

A first-clear multiplier of three.

Four years of optimizing language practice had taught him one thing: when the System offered that kind of return, ignoring it was financial malpractice. And if the destination happened to be far away from the Royal Theater, so much the better.

Watching Lucian's gaze suddenly lock onto Oakhaven's mark on the map, his expression flickering from shock to grim resolve, Regulus smiled to himself, full of understanding.

The Sword Emperor thought: There it is — that's my son. Says one thing out loud, but deep down he's clearly desperate to go to Oakhaven himself, track down that anonymous sage, and beg to become his disciple! A boy with that kind of ambition — how could I possibly stand in his way?

Regulus gave Lucian's shoulder a light pat and let out a deliberately casual, deeply pointed remark.

"Oh, by the way — that little safe in the corner of my study. Lately I've been leaving the key in the second drawer on the right, out of pure carelessness. There's a stack of Vance bearer notes in there and a few special border passes. Terribly careless of me."

With that, Regulus cleared his throat and turned his back, pretending to admire his sword again.

Lucian looked up at his father's back, then glanced at the desk drawer.

His mind kicked into overdrive.

Staying at the estate: he'd have to attend the Royal Opera next month, sit in the seat of honor, and watch actors bellow every one of his garbage lines for four straight hours, in front of every noble on the continent. That was death by humiliation.

Leaving the estate: he'd have to travel to the lawless territory of Oakhaven, facing bandits, assassins, and every trap an ancient dungeon could throw at him. That was death by physical harm.

But to Lucian, physical death sounded infinitely more pleasant than living out the rest of his life as the publicly humiliated author of that book.

Lucian stepped back and bowed to his father.

"I'll go rest in my room now, if that's alright."

"Go on, son," Regulus said, smiling to himself, eyes still fixed on his sword. "Get to bed early."

Stepping out of the study, Lucian walked briskly back to his own room. He looked at the glass hourglass sitting on his desk, fine grains of sand sliding down without mercy.

Thirty days.

On one side: a dead language buried in ruins, but one that could make him strong. On the other: a melodramatic opera about to demolish what was left of his dignity.

Lucian clenched his fist, a spark of grim determination flashing in his eyes.

"It's either go find those ruins, or stay here and watch a stage play adapted from my own garbage... I'm leaving. Tonight."

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