The quest board at the Featherbrook Adventurers’ Guild looked worse with each passing week—peeling notices, rain-stained parchment, and barely legible scribbles. It was a minor miracle that any of the postings remained stapled to the board at all. Naturally, the best and highest-paying jobs never made it here. Those were typically offered directly to seasoned adventurers, especially if the client hadn’t already requested someone specific. So, what ended up on the board was the usual: mundane, repetitive, and low-paying work.

  Ju’on, a copper-ranked adventurer scraping the bottom of the dder, had grown accustomed to standing in front of the board, scanning it for anything halfway decent. Nothing too grueling or tedious—herb gathering outside town was out of the question. And sewer cleaning? He could still recall the stench from the time he got lost down there. Never again, he’d promised himself.

  Anyway, most of the worthwhile low-rank quests were usually snatched up within the first hour after the guild opened in the morning. Which meant, now—after lunch—he’d have to make do with whatever was left.

  With a heavy sigh, Ju’on reached for a tattered quest pinned low on the board.

  “Help Farmer Emmett dig new trenches for his pumpkin patch.” He read out loud for himself.

  It was belled as a Copper rank work. His type of work.

  But before he could tear the notice free to cim this quest for himself, a tall shadow fell over him.

  Ju’on tensed automatically. Then rexed when he gnced at the figure standing silently behind him.

  It was them again.

  The Chosen One.

  He tried to look around casually, not wanting to come off as the kind of rude guy who just stared at the Hero. A difficult feat—after all, the Reincarnation of the Phoenix didn’t seem capable of wearing anything resembling normal gear. Mismatched armour, a shovel and a frying pan for weapons, and not even a tunic to cover his bare torso…

  Then there was the silence. The Hero never spoke. It was unnerving on the worst days, and merely inconvenient on the best.

  Feeling the Chosen One’s gaze on his hand hovering near the quest notice, the sixteen-year-old fought an internal battle not to squirm. This isn’t the first time someone of a higher rank pressured him into giving up his quest to them, but—

  How was he supposed to feel about the Hero of the Realm—the legendary Reincarnation of the all-powerful Phoenix—choosing to dig pumpkin trenches instead of accepting one of the carefully curated, high-priority quests at the reception desk?

  His ears picked up the sound of Miss Cire not-so-subtly waving her arms, trying to catch the Hero’s attention. A neat stack of parchments y beside her, practically glowing with importance. She’d been trying a new tactic every four days to convince this man to take on something worthy of his status.

  But every time he entered the guild, he avoided the receptionists like they carried the pgue, always angling his body to keep his back to Miss Cire. Whatever she called out was met with absolute silence.

  And then—without fail—he would approach him, a Copper-ranked adventurer, and volunteer to do some mud-stained errand together.

  At first, Ju’on didn’t bother to think much of it. Probably just one of the many eccentricities a man this noble could possess. He had heard the town’s rumours and seen a few incidents of Rooftop Rituals, so this wasn’t anything different, yeah?

  But it’s the eighth time now!

  "You, uh... want to help?" Ju’on ventured, awkwardly.

  The Hero gave a single nod.

  Ju’on heard Miss Cire’s groan of defeat a few paces away. He couldn’t bme her—he almost felt like groaning himself. Even when he deliberately arrived te at the guild to avoid the Hero, the man still managed to find him. And for whatever reason, he remained adamant about tagging along on the cheapest, most menial jobs. With him, of all people.

  They set out for the pumpkin patch with shovels and a rickety cart not long after meeting.

  The farm was only a ten-minute walk — but somehow, with the Hero, it took nearly an hour.

  Every fork in the dirt road, they would stop.

  The Hero would pull out a map — a ridiculously oversized thing, fluttering in the breeze — and peer at it, turning it upside down, sideways, dragging his fingers on it as if he could lose himself in the paper.

  At least twice, they climbed atop random boulders to “get a better view,” only to leap down with no new insight.

  Ju’on trudged after them, growing steadily more baffled.

  Did Heroes not have a sense of direction? Or were they following some secret path only they could see? Or were they just messing around?

  At the farm, Farmer Emmett greeted them with a wave and gave his instructions on what they ought to do.

  It was simple enough: Dig straight lines. Pumpkin roots needed good drainage.

  Ju’on worked in silence, occasionally gncing at the Hero—half worried the man was digging the trenches too deep, half unsure if he was even digging in the right direction.

  The Chosen One moved with unnerving efficiency, but only after consulting the map before every single trench. Each new line demanded a long pause, a skyward gaze, and sometimes a slow, deliberate circle around the field—like a priest consecrating sacred ground.

  Was it just another eccentricity? Or was there some deeper meaning behind it all that someone like Ju’on simply couldn’t grasp? Maybe the Hero could see the sacred flow of ley lines. Or invisible nature spirits. Or ghosts.

  Or maybe…

  He just didn’t remember which way was North.

  Again.

  After the fifth trench and third skyward stare, Ju’on leaned on his shovel and wiped the sweat from his brow.

  “Y’know,” he muttered, mostly to himself, “you’d think someone chosen by divine prophecy would at least have a basic sense of orientation.”

  The Hero paused mid-step, and Ju’on tensed, worried he’d somehow offended him. But when the man looked back, his expression was the same as ever—not offended, not annoyed, just... bnk. Utterly unreadable. Then, as if nothing had been said at all, he turned back to the map, flipped it sideways, and squinted at a crease in the corner.

  Ju’on sighed. Again.

  By te afternoon, the trenches were finally done—or close enough to something Farmer Emmett was satisfied to pay for, especially after the Hero offered to "bless the soil" by stabbing the ground with the frying pan a few times.

  Ju’on didn’t ask. Old Emmett didn’t either. Probably for the best.

  On their way back, Ju’on tried to hang a little farther behind, pretending to adjust the cart’s squeaky wheel. But the Hero slowed down each time he did, matching his pace exactly. As if he were tethered to him by an invisible thread.

  He’s not unpleasant company, Ju’on admitted to himself with a flicker of guilt. Just… mystifying. Like a cat that appeared one day, decided you were its person, and now followed you everywhere—except this one could probably punch through a wall and recite ancient scripture while doing it.

  They reached the outskirts of town just as the sun began dipping behind the hills. Warm light spilt across the road, casting long shadows ahead of them. The cart creaked. Birds chirped. A perfectly ordinary evening.

  “Why me?” Ju’on finally blurted out, halting mid-step.

  The Hero stopped beside him instantly, as if tethered by invisible choreography.

  “I mean—you always come to me. Out of everyone. Why?”

  Silence.

  Then, without a word, the Hero turned and reached into the mismatched satchel slung over one shoulder. Ju’on braced himself. For what, he wasn’t sure. A sacred relic? A divine weapon? A scroll prociming You Are The Chosen One's Chosen One?

  Instead, the Hero pulled out… a carrot.

  Ju’on stared at it. Then at him. Then back at the carrot.

  The Hero stared too, entirely serene, as if he had just revealed some profound truth.

  He extended it forward like it was a token of cosmic significance.

  “…Right,” Ju’on said, accepting the carrot with the reverence of a man given a puzzle box he had no hope of solving. “Of course. A carrot.”

  The Hero gave a single, satisfied nod. Then—crucially—did not move. He simply stood there, patient as ever, waiting for Ju’on to start walking again.

  Ju’on stood a little longer, the carrot limp in his hand, as the Hero watched him like this was all very normal.

  He looked at the shirtless figure with a frying pan strapped to his back and a map fluttering from his belt like a half-forgotten to-do list, standing there with the bnk serenity of a man who could wait until the end of time for you to finish having your existential crisis.

  “…What is happening?” Ju’on muttered, mostly to the carrot.

  Still, somehow, he found himself pcing one foot after the other.

  The Hero followed immediately, matching his steps like always.

  How did he even know I like carrots…?