Chapter 02: The Hero Arrives With A Bang

Long golden hair, mischievous golden eyes, a disdainful grin, an arrogant posture, and a divine gleaming sword in hand—check.

Like mentally running through a checklist, Luke scrutinized the man before him and instantly recognized him.

As his heart pounded like a war drum, the reality struck him—this was Arryn Rocheford, the very protagonist of the novel he loathed.

Arryn's long, silky hair shimmered with an ethereal brilliance that even the gods envied. His predatory golden eyes seemed to pierce the soul of anyone daring to meet them, while his wicked smirk and haughty stance screamed of unyielding superiority. 

Yet his flawless, radiant skin lent him an almost angelic allure—an aura that compelled others to bow in reverence.

Clad in a medieval white lace-up shirt, rugged brown leather trousers, and polished black boots, Arryn exuded both divinity and danger. A sword sheath hung at his waist, hinting at the lethal power he wielded. 

Even if these features didn't reach people's ears, his sword did. The longsword forged entirely of pure white divine light, eclipsing even the moon's glow. To his loyal followers, it was a beacon of serene authority; to his foes, it portended terror and certain death.

"Hiding underground. A perfect little hole for a rat like you," 

Arryn taunted, his voice dripping with contempt. With a slight, exasperated sigh, he continued, 

"How disappointing. I expected a swarm of your men. Instead, I found a handful of wretches guarding a filthy alleyway. This is the legacy of the so-called underground ruler of Lestead?"

Luke stood frozen, shock rooting him to the spot as Arryn's disdainful words cut deep. His legs trembled beneath him—hidden, thankfully, behind the large table—otherwise, Arryn wouldn't have wasted his time speaking to him.

'Don't tell me… I've transmigrated into this damned novel. Why is this bastard here?'

The sudden appearance of Arryn was an impossibility Luke had never fathomed. His mind swung wildly between shock and near hysteria—until an acrid, metallic stench violently yanked him back to reality.

As dust settled from a recent explosion behind Arryn, Luke's eyes tracked its chaotic origin. 

Luke watched in horror as severed heads lay scattered among over a dozen corpses, yet not a single droplet of blood tainted the floor. 

The terror etched on those lifeless faces forced Luke to confront a grim possibility: 

Death awaited him.

Clutching the table for support, Luke swallowed hard, his stomach churning. Then, Arryn's detached tone sliced through the tension. 

"Weak-Leg Errol, just as the rumors claim," he mused coolly. 

"I can't believe you had the nerve to try and steal my divine sword."

Arryn's grip on his blade tightened as if preparing to split Luke in twain. 

Meanwhile, Luke's gaze fixated on a half-filled glass pitcher lying nearby.

In that moment, his thoughts cleared as sharply as a swig of clear brown alcohol. The realization struck him like lightning—Arryn had called him *Weak-Leg Errol.* 

'Errol Wynter! I'm in Errol Wynter's body… If it's Errol, then there's a possibility.'

His mind raced as he considered his options. His heartbeat slowed with each calculated moment. His eyes darted between the discarded sword on his left and a shelf crowded with dusty shields, ancient swords, and bottles of booze. 

'I could throw this pitcher at Arryn. It won't hurt him, but it might startle him enough for me to grab the sword and— No… He's a Star-Bearer. I can't defeat him like that.'

His thoughts shifted again. 

'What if I throw the booze and weapons at him to distract him, then dash through the door and escape? No… Still dead.'

"Hey, Weak-Leg," Arryn interrupted, tapping his foot with impatient disdain. 

"Are you going to do something, or shall I put you out of your misery right now?"

In that split second, clarity flooded Luke. He grabbed the pitcher, chugged its bittersweet contents without a second thought, and emptied it in mere seconds. 

The burning liquid steadied his resolve. Then, with a sudden burst of defiance, he hurled the empty pitcher—not at Arryn—but toward the fallen sword. The glass shattered spectacularly.

Arryn's eyes narrowed in puzzlement at Luke's unpredictable move. Before Arryn could react further, Luke stepped away from the table and faced him head-on. No weapon in hand, no defensive posture—only a pair of bloodshot, determined eyes meeting his with raw defiance.

For a brief moment, Arryn's smirk hinted at amusement—an acknowledgment of the unexpected boldness of this Errol Wynter. But before the smile could linger for even a second, it vanished with Luke's next action.

Without warning, Luke dropped to his knees, stretching out his arms in a gesture of complete surrender. Before Arryn could let out a mocking laugh, Luke slammed his forehead down onto the wooden floor. A resounding crack split the silence as blood spattered onto Arryn's boots.

The sound of Luke's head hitting the floor was like a death knell—blood streaming from his brow, his clenched fists betraying his mounting frustration, his posture crumpling in humiliation. 

"A royal bow before a prince? How utterly pathetic," 

Arryn sneered, clicking his tongue in derision as any semblance of hope evaporated from his gaze.

Then came the sound of a sheathing sword—a rumble that filled the room as the divine blade's light washed over everything before dimming slightly. Luke realized in that instant that Arryn had lowered his sword. A spark of relief surged through him; he wouldn't be killed—at least not yet.

For a heartbeat, Luke allowed himself to think of escape or retaliation, but no viable option emerged. Then a long-forgotten chapter from the novel flared in his memory—

A tradition among noble bloodlines: if one discarded their weapon, bowed, and bled in surrender, even traitors were to be forgiven. Even if they had once tried to slay you.

As a prince, Arryn Rocheford was bound by this custom. More importantly, divine sword wielders feared that killing a supplicant would taint their blade—strip them of their divine prowess.

Luke staked everything on that belief. 

Even though he had secured a chance to live another day, the humiliation gnawing at his soul, tears streamed down his face as he realized the cruel irony: 

The man he hated with all his heart, the man he wished dead in every chapter, the man he had dreamed of killing himself—now forced him into a humiliating bow for survival.

"You made a clever choice, I'll grant you that, but…" 

Arryn paused, his tone suddenly turning ominous.

Panic surged through Luke as the unmistakable sound of a sword being unsheathed filled the air. The room brightened as Arryn's weapon cast a menacing shadow over him. The weight of imminent death pressed down as if Arryn's boot were crushing his skull.

'Why is he drawing his sword again? Is he really going to kill me?' 

Luke's mind swirled with terror and confusion as he struggled to decipher Arryn's sudden change.

The brilliant light of the sword hovered ominously above him, a grim promise he could neither escape nor ignore. Amidst the chaos of his thoughts, one chilling realization solidified: 

'I can't escape this.'

"Say your prayers, Errol Wynter," 

Arryn commanded in a voice as cold and final as death itself.

Raising his sword high, Arryn's intent was unmistakable. 

Luke's scream shattered the silence as his doom loomed—but in a desperate, last-moment bid, he screamed out, 

"Masym Rete! Masym Rete!"

At that moment, Arryn's blade halted mere inches from Luke's skull. For a suspended second, Arryn's golden eyes darkened with sudden intrigue.

"Speak!" 

Arryn ordered, his voice carrying a razor-edged command as his sword remained poised.

Barely managing to catch his breath with his forehead still pressed against the floor, Luke gasped out, 

"I will give you… Masym Rete!"

[The Hero's Journey continues…]