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

The underground training ground, fifty meters beneath House Vance's estate, sprawled out like a military parade square, lit by hundreds of night-pearls set along the load-bearing stone arches.

Three hundred knights in full black armor stood in three perfectly straight columns, absolutely silent.

Not a clink of metal. Not a single dry cough. Three hundred streams of high-tier mana radiated out from beneath their heavy steel armor, merging together into an invisible pressure that thickened the very air of the chamber.

This was House Vance's core guard force — a private army recruited from the most battle-hardened veteran officers of the border wars, equipped with premium anti-magic alloy weapons, paid triple the crown's standard military wage in clean coin, and covered with lifetime death benefits.

In a shadowed corner behind the weapons racks, Lucian stood alone in front of a sound-dampened stone wall.

He had no interest in reviewing the troops. What concerned him right now was calibrating his own anomalous stat sheet before he set foot in public society again.

Since claiming the jackpot reward at Vael-Kharas, Lucian's Spell Control had leapt to ninety-five billion.

The number did not give him more mana or more raw Spell Power. What it did give him was a deeply uncomfortable amount of precision.

Before entering a public tournament, he needed to learn exactly how much precision was too much.

Lucian looked at a training dummy carved from thousand-year-old magic wood, standing five paces away.

He extended one finger and formed a thread of wind mana, intending to punch a neat hole through the center of its chest.

Tick.

The thread vanished into the target.

For a second, nothing happened.

Lucian frowned and walked closer.

He touched the dummy with one finger.

Slide.

The entire upper half shifted sideways and dropped cleanly onto the floor.

Thud.

Lucian froze.

The cut surface was mirror-smooth. No burns. No splinters. No fracture marks. His tiny mana thread had entered along a natural grain boundary and separated the entire reinforced block with almost no wasted energy.

He stared at the two halves.

"...That was not supposed to happen."

More importantly, the training dummy cost two hundred gold.

Stolen story; please report.

The reflexes of a chronically guilty son activated instantly.

Lucian grabbed the upper half, lifted it back into place, aligned the cut so perfectly that the seam nearly disappeared, then rubbed a little sawdust over the line for good measure.

From three meters away, it looked intact.

Probably.

Lucian stepped backward and nodded to himself.

"Asset restored."

Clop. Clop.

The sound of steady footsteps echoed from the stairwell.

Old steward Boris, dressed in an elegant black suit, a gold pocket watch pinned to his chest, walked over unhurried. With his own combat power sitting at eighteen million nine hundred thousand — a veteran scout, through and through — his footsteps were so light they didn't disturb a single grain of dust.

Seeing Lucian standing beside the training dummy, Boris paused.

The old steward's eyes narrowed.

For one instant, a nearly invisible line across the dummy caught the light.

A perfect cut.

No burn marks. No displaced mana. No splinters.

Boris's expression slowly changed.

A cutting technique so precise that the target itself doesn't realize it has been severed until touched...

Then he noticed the suspicious dust Lucian had rubbed over the seam.

The young master is even concealing the evidence so the troops won't lose confidence before the tournament!

Boris drew a slow breath, deciding there were some things an old servant was better off pretending not to see.

He stepped closer and bowed.

"Young master, the escort convoy and all three hundred knights have completed equipment inspection. We are ready to depart at your command."

Lucian turned around, cleared his throat softly, and did his best to put on the fragile air of a delicate child who couldn't so much as wrestle a chicken.

"Uncle Boris, does the carriage have soft velvet cushions? I've been sitting hunched over books lately and my back's been a little sore. I'm worried the long trip will jostle me too much."

Watching Lucian's flawless, unguarded act of fragility, Boris's admiration for his young master climbed another notch.

He's deliberately playing the harmless child, so as not to wound the pride of us old guards... The young master is truly considerate and deep beyond his years!

"Rest assured, young master," Boris said, smiling with complete understanding, his tone brimming with absolute protectiveness. "Your carriage is lined with three layers of snow-swan down cushioning, fitted with a Tier 7 shock-dampening array. Even rough gravel roads will feel smooth as riding on a cloud."

"Wonderful, thank you, Uncle Boris," Lucian said, letting out a relieved breath, quickly walking toward the exit to put as much distance as possible between himself and the hole in the floor.

Ten minutes later, the underground gates of House Vance's estate swung wide open.

The ten-carriage escort convoy, each one an elegant gold-plated armored vehicle, rolled out of the estate grounds in a single line. Three hundred black-armored knights, mounted on towering magic steeds, split into vanguard and rear formations, shielding Lucian's central carriage in an absolutely secure position.

There was no fanfare, no boastful shouting — but the cold discipline and military strength radiating off the convoy made every adventurer and patrol soldier along the road step aside automatically, bowing their heads to clear the way.

Inside the spacious main carriage, roomy as a small parlor, Lucian leaned back against the plush cushions. Sylvia sat across from him, hands moving briskly through stacks of Ancient Tongue documents and a list of notable rivals for the tournament, just delivered by the trading house's intelligence network.

The carriage glided smoothly along the stone-paved road, heading straight east.

After half a day's journey, as the sunset began to paint the clouds on the horizon a deep red, a towering white granite wall, hundreds of meters high, rose into view across the vast valley.

The capital of Solaris.

Thousands of banners bearing the crests of great duchies, vassal kingdoms, and magic academies from across the continent snapped in the wind along the grand avenue leading to the city gates.

Lucian drew back the window curtain and watched the greatest center of human power slowly come into view.

He took a sip of his herbal tea and let out a slow breath.

"This place is a lot busier and louder than Oakhaven... Looks like earning that five hundred thousand gold and slipping back home quietly isn't going to be easy after all."

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