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

The sharp reek of sulfur from crude smelting furnaces, the sour bite of cheap barley liquor, and the acrid smell of scorched mutton fat hit Lucian the moment the wagon rolled to a stop.

Oakhaven unfolded before him through the grey fog of the border valley.

It was a strange, sprawling city — rickety two- and three-story wooden houses stacked haphazardly atop the massive granite ruins of a civilization that had collapsed ten thousand years earlier. Rope bridges swayed between crumbling stone pillars, and black smoke poured from hundreds of chimneys, blotting out even the midday sky.

There were no crisp lines of royal guards, no customs checkpoints. In Oakhaven, the only thing keeping order was the barrel of a magic-forged gun and the dagger hidden up someone's sleeve.

Lucian jumped down from the straw-filled wagon bed and brushed the dust off his ash-grey traveling cloak.

The moment the ten-year-old's boots touched the muddy ground of the depot, at least five pairs of sharp eyes locked onto him from the shadows of roadside taverns.

A child, traveling alone, clean clothes, pale unweathered skin — nothing about him said war refugee. To the local underworld, he looked exactly like a sack of money that had just walked into the wolf's den on its own two feet.

A gaunt man with greasy hair and yellowed teeth drifted past Lucian, pretending it was an accident. His hand slid out fast as a striking snake, aiming for the inside pocket of the boy's coat.

Lucian folded the man's fingers backward just far enough to drop him to one knee.

He didn't even bother looking down. Keeping the thief trapped in the joint lock with one hand, Lucian pulled a jet-black magic-printed flyer from his pocket with the other and pressed it into the man's free palm.

"Fast hands like that shouldn't go to waste on this kind of work," Lucian said, voice flat and even, calm as an adult lecturing a wayward nephew. "Sign up with the Vance Mercenary Company. Three meals a day, accident coverage, and if you die out on the border, they'll cover fifty silver for a coffin. Take the flyer and go stand in line."

He let go. The pickpocket clutched his throbbing hand, stared at the flyer stamped with House Vance's red seal, then looked back at the boy with pure terror in his eyes before bolting into the fog like he'd just run into a demon.

Ten steps away, three thugs who'd been drawing their daggers, closing in, froze mid-step, cold sweat breaking out down their necks.

A ten-year-old had dislocated a professional pickpocket's fingers in half a second flat, expression unchanged, breathing steady — then calmly handed out a mercenary recruitment flyer like it was nothing.

To the local underworld, this wasn't some lost rich kid. This was a child assassin, raised from the cradle by one of the dark assassin houses, sent to Oakhaven for a quiet, deniable job.

They tucked their knives away without a word and melted back into the shadows, not one of them daring to take another step toward the boy.

Ting.

The familiar system chime rang in Lucian's mind:

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[6 hybrid dialects detected in the Oakhaven Black Market area.]

[Auto-decoding of ambient communication in progress: 10%... 15%...]

Lucian pulled his hood lower and moved briskly down the uneven cobblestone street. Scanning the area with his mana-syntax analysis, he easily spotted faintly glowing threads of magic strung across the alley corners — tripwires set by the local gangs. He slipped past every one of them without disturbing a single strand.

He pushed through a warped wooden door and stepped into a run-down eatery called The Limping Ram.

Inside, the air was thick with mutton fat and cheap magical tobacco smoke. Bristly-bearded mercenaries, dwarf miners missing a finger or two, and a few fake adventurers in patchwork armor sat scattered around cracked wooden tables.

Lucian walked straight to the bar, climbed onto a tall wooden stool, and set a copper coin down on the grimy counter.

"A bowl of mutton soup, and a heel of black bread."

The one-eyed innkeeper, his face a mess of sulfur-burn scars, glanced at Lucian with his single cloudy grey eye. He ladled out a watery bowl of soup and set it in front of the boy along with a piece of bread hard as stone.

Lucian didn't touch the food right away. He reached into his pocket and flicked a gleaming silver coin across the wooden counter, letting it spin to a stop right at the tip of the innkeeper's paring knife.

The coin was spotless, not a single scratch on it, stamped with House Vance's silver-plated crest.

The innkeeper's eye narrowed instantly. In a city drowning in dirty money, a clean coin bought three times the information.

"What do you want to know?" the innkeeper asked, voice rough, pressing a rough hand down over the coin.

"News on tonight's underground auctions," Lucian said, taking a spoonful of soup, unhurried. "The kind that sell unappraised antiques, or things that... don't come with paperwork."

The innkeeper glanced around the room, then leaned in close, murmuring in a thick local dialect.

"The war up north's pushing tens of thousands of refugees down here. The Iron Blood Gang's headhunters are rounding up demihumans who've lost their citizenship. They dodge the law by forcing them to sign a 'Protective Labor Covenant,' then auction them off like goods."

He tapped a finger against the table.

"Tonight, midnight sharp, in the basement of the Old Colosseum, east side of the city. There's a special auction. Word is they just caught something extremely rare — from the ruins of some ancient race that's nearly gone extinct."

Lucian chewed the stale bread, a cold glint flickering in his eyes.

Protective Labor Covenant. A pretty name that slave traders used to dress up wartime bondage. It was the kind of plot beat he'd carelessly thrown into his trashy novel — and now it was playing out in front of him, in its cruelest possible form.

He stood without another word, pulled his hood down over his face, and walked out of the eatery.

Night was falling over Oakhaven. The thick fog turned a deep red under the glow of magic torches lining the ruined cliffs. In the distance, the massive black shape of the Old Colosseum loomed like some prehistoric beast, jaws open, waiting for prey.

As Lucian approached the slope leading down to the Colosseum's basement level, his vision suddenly convulsed.

Ting! Ting! Ting!

Not the soft, familiar pale blue this time.

The system panel erupted in a violent surge of deep blood-red light, warning after warning flashing at a frequency he'd never seen before.

[SPECIAL TARGET ALERT: Legendary-Tier Extinct Language source code detected within a 200-meter radius!]

[Preliminary identification: Silver-Winged Ancient Dialect.]

[Current comprehension: 0.0%.]

[Secondary alert: Language source is in a state of severe life-force depletion!]

Lucian stopped in the icy fog, his dark eyes fixed on the rusted iron door leading down into the Colosseum's depths.

The corner of his mouth curved upward.

"Found it."

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