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

The stone corridor behind the Royal stands was damp and cold, cut off completely from the roar of the crowd outside. Torchlight flickered against the granite wall, throwing the shadow of a young woman in pristine white-and-gold holy knight armor across the stone.

Eleanor stood with her arms crossed. The holy sword at her hip gave off a thin, pale gold light — thin, but strong enough to seal every ripple of space within ten meters, blocking the only path out.

Lucian stopped three meters away, hands still in his coat pockets, and sighed quietly to himself.

What now? Is this about the torch fees from this morning, or did the Valois family send a princess to collect on their bruised pride?

What actually worried him wasn't the holy sword at her hip — it was the magical hourglass draining away at the end of the hall. The betting counter closed in fifteen minutes. Five thousand clean gold, the biggest win of his morning, was sitting there waiting for him, and standing around with a royal princess wasn't putting a single coin in his pocket.

"Your Highness," Lucian said, voice even, dipping into the shallowest bow etiquette allowed for a low-ranked noble. "This tunnel's a bit narrow, and I've got urgent business outside. If you'd let me through."

Eleanor didn't move. She took a step forward instead, her white leather boots striking the stone with a crisp, metallic click. Her sharp blue eyes narrowed, tracking every twitch of expression on the ten-year-old's face.

"Just now," Eleanor said, her voice clear but carrying the cold authority of someone used to commanding armies, "on Ring 3. The footwork you used to get behind Bruno von Valois... and the way you struck his knee with the dagger's hilt."

She paused, holding his gaze, each word coming out with barely restrained tremor.

"In The Elegy of the Nameless Knight, Volume One, Chapter Seventeen, page one hundred forty-two — there's a passage describing the battle at the Black Ravine: 'The truly strong walk on the breath of the void. They need no great blade, no great hammer — only the smallest leverage to unmake ten thousand pounds of violence.'"

Eleanor stepped into his path again, leaving him no clean route around her.

"The angle of every turn. The way you silenced your own breathing. The exact point you struck to break his balance... it matches that book. Word for word. Lucian Vance — who are you, really? Are you his disciple? Or did he teach you swordsmanship himself?"

Lucian stood with his back against the cold stone, both temples throbbing.

A fresh wave of secondhand embarrassment slammed straight into his brain.

Oh, for the love of— This woman's memorized the page numbers and chapter numbers too?!

He remembered that damn chapter seventeen perfectly. He'd been bored out of his mind studying Old Elvish grammar that day, and to hit his word quota for the System, he'd scribbled out some throwaway scene of a knight tripping his opponent face-first into the dirt.

And now, filtered through this princess's hero-worshipping brain, a cheap street-fighter's leg sweep had been elevated into "walking on the breath of the void" and "unmaking ten thousand pounds of violence"?!

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Lucian pressed a hand to his forehead, swallowed his despair, and looked up with the most sincere, bare-faced expression he could manage.

"Your Highness, you've read too many novels. All I did was circle around behind him and trip his leg. His armor weighs two hundred catties — lose your balance under that much weight and of course you fall over. There's no 'void' involved. I'm a creditor collecting on collateral. Not some knight's disciple."

Eleanor studied him in silence, watching for the smallest break in his expression.

She studied him, searching for a flicker, a flash of tragic nobility, some trace of a sage's hidden wisdom.

She found nothing.

The only thing visible in the boy's dark eyes was indifference, an irritated kind of laziness, and the occasional glance toward the hourglass at the end of the hall — like he was afraid someone was about to steal his money.

A deep wave of disappointment rose in Eleanor's chest.

The boy standing in front of her had none of the bearing of the Nameless Knight from her dreams. He was a practical, transactional child, mouth full of debts and interest rates, blunt in manner and stingy down to the last copper.

And yet a fierce curiosity flared up in her at the same time.

If he really was just an ordinary merchant's brat... then how did a ten-year-old possess spatial footwork flawless enough to dodge her own holy light? How could someone who only cared about money earn that kind of pride from the Sword Emperor and the former Knight of the Demon Lord?

Eleanor drew back half a step, her eyes narrowing with fresh suspicion.

Eleanor's suspicion didn't disappear. It sharpened.

The technique on the arena floor matched the book too closely. The silent footwork. The leverage point. Even the philosophy behind the movement was the same.

Either Lucian had learned from the author, or the author had learned from someone in House Vance.

His denial changed neither possibility.

A faint smile touched Eleanor's face.

She reached up, resting a hand lightly on the hilt of her holy sword, and spoke with pride.

"You can deny the connection if you like, Lucian Vance. I don't believe that resemblance was accidental."

Lucian blinked twice, completely out of arguments.

"I'm not acting. I really am this greedy—"

"I don't care what you say," Eleanor cut him off, her blue eyes blazing with a commander's will to fight. "The Royal Family is searching for the man behind that book, to name him Supreme Advisor to the army. And I know you're connected to him."

She turned, her white-and-gold cloak sweeping a perfect arc through the air, and walked toward the tunnel exit at an unhurried pace.

At the bend in the corridor, she paused and glanced back, leaving behind one cold declaration that echoed off the stone walls:

"Don't get eliminated in the early rounds, merchant. If you make it to the Finals, I'll test that footwork myself. Then we'll see how much of this was coincidence."

With that, her regal silhouette vanished around the corner, taking the holy light sealing the corridor with it.

The damp stillness of the hallway settled back in.

Lucian stood alone in the middle of the corridor, watching the space where Eleanor had disappeared, then rubbed at his throbbing temples.

He dug into his coat pocket and pulled out a stale chunk of black bread, biting off a piece.

Crack.

The hard bread cracked against his teeth. Chewing miserably, he muttered to himself in complete defeat:

"What a headache... All I wanted was to collect five thousand gold and slip away quietly. How did I end up the princess's fated nemesis?"

He brushed the crumbs off his sleeve, glanced at the nearly empty hourglass, and broke into a hurried jog toward the payout counter.

"Five hundred thousand clean gold, tournament prize... Looks like by the Finals, I'm going to have to beat this girl up after all."

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