Not the Hero, Not the Villain — Just the One Who Wins-Chapter 88: The Weight of Gratitude

It was already late when I finally drifted into a shallow, restless sleep in my assigned room at the inn. The horrors of the goblin cave played on a loop behind my closed eyelids, a silent, screaming slideshow of blood and despair. I acted as if I were asleep when Eren returned, the sound of his quiet, measured breathing a strange counterpoint to the chaos in my own mind. I didn’t want to talk. I didn’t want to explain. I just wanted the silence.

In the morning, I woke to the familiar, rhythmic scrape of steel on whetstone. Eren was already up, bathed, and dressed, his back to me as he sat on the edge of his bed, meticulously polishing the blade of his family’s ancestral sword. The morning light, filtering through the small, grimy window, caught the silver of his hair, making it seem to glow.

He must have sensed me stirring, because he paused, his movements ceasing for a moment. "Morning," he said, his voice a low, quiet rumble that was a stark contrast to his usual boisterous energy. "The village head was searching for you earlier."

I simply grunted in response, my own body a symphony of aches and phantom pains.

"And the village," he continued, his gaze still fixed on his blade. "They all want to thank you."

"I don’t need any of that," I said, my voice a rough, gravelly thing as I swung my legs over the side of the bed. "Just tell them if they want to thank me, they can do it in terms of money."

He was quiet for a long, heavy moment. Then, he simply nodded and returned to his work.

When we descended to the inn’s common room for breakfast, the rest of our team was already there, a tense, silent tableau around a large, rough-hewn wooden table. The air was thick with unspoken questions, with the shared, traumatic memory of what we had all witnessed.

Layla, ever the commander, was the first to speak. "Ashen," she began, her voice carefully neutral, "the villagers are... incredibly grateful. They’re already preparing a small ceremony in our honor."

"I’m not interested," I said, my gaze fixed on the bowl of porridge before me.

"They see you as a hero," Aurelia added, her own voice a soft, hesitant murmur.

"I’m not," I replied, my voice a low, dangerous growl.

"But you saved them," Liora insisted, her own voice a mixture of confusion and a strange, unwilling admiration.

"Tell them to send the reward money to my account at the Academy," I said, my voice flat and cold. "That’s all the thanks I need."

The others fell silent, their expressions a mixture of shock, disappointment, and a dawning, unwilling understanding.

I pushed my chair back and moved toward the exit of the inn, the suffocating weight of their stares a physical thing on my back. But as I reached the door, I saw them—a small, formal procession standing in the morning sun.

Lana, her small face scrubbed clean, her white hair tied back in two neat braids. Her mother, her own face still pale but her eyes filled with a new, fragile light. And a man standing beside them, tall and proud, his own eyes, so like Lana’s, filled with a profound, soul-deep gratitude. They were flanked by a small retinue of maids and security guards, their presence a stark contrast to the rustic simplicity of the village.

The moment she saw me, Lana’s face lit up. She jumped, a small, joyful leap of faith, as if she knew, with an unshakeable certainty, that I would catch her.

And I did.

She wrapped her small arms around my neck, her laughter a bright, musical sound that seemed to chase away the last of the morning’s shadows. She then pulled back, a look of serious, solemn purpose on her face, and took a large, ornate bar of chocolate from a small, embroidered bag she was holding.

"Uncle, take this," she said, her voice a firm, commanding whisper as she handed me the chocolate. "I promised." Then, she added, "Come on, uncle. I will help you eat it." She broke the bar in two with a surprising strength, a look of intense concentration on her face, and then held one of the pieces up to my mouth.

I took it, the sweet, rich taste of the chocolate a strange, welcome comfort. She then held up the other half, her own eyes glowing with a happy, expectant light. I took a small piece from her half, and she ate the rest, her small face a mask of pure, unadulterated joy.

Her father stepped forward then, a slow, disbelieving smile on his face. "It’s the first time," he said, his voice thick with a barely suppressed emotion, "that I have ever seen Lana share her chocolate with someone. She has never even given a piece to me or my wife. It seems she has chosen her favorite."

"Even I don’t know why she likes me," I admitted, my own voice a low murmur as I gently set Lana back on her feet. "By the way, who are you? And why are you here?"

Her father smiled, a genuine, warm expression that seemed to light up the entire village square. "My apologies," he said, offering a slight, respectful bow. "I thought I would make my introduction a little less formal. I am Lana’s father, and the head of this village. My name is Johen."

He looked at me then, his eyes, so like his daughter’s, filled with a gratitude so profound it was almost a physical thing. "And I came to thank you," he said, his voice a raw, emotional whisper. "Thank you for saving my world."

"I am here in front of you not as a village head, but as a father," he continued, his voice thick with an emotion so profound it seemed to shake his very core.

Then, to my utter shock, and to the collective gasp of my teammates who had gathered at the doorway behind me, he bent down on his knees. He bowed, his forehead touching the dusty ground in a gesture of absolute, unconditional gratitude.

"I am truly, deeply indebted to you," he said, his voice muffled by the earth. "I can give you anything you ask for. Anything I own, anything I have—it is yours."

I stared down at the top of his head, a cold, uncomfortable knot forming in my stomach. "I don’t need any of this," I said, my voice a low, dismissive murmur.

He looked up then, his eyes, so like his daughter’s, swimming with unshed tears. "I know," he whispered. "I know that whatever I give you will never be enough to repay what you have done. But please, let me give you something. Let me ease the burden of my own soul."

I sighed, a long, weary sound. "Fine," I said, my voice sharp, almost cruel. "But are you sure? You’ll give me anything?"

He hesitated for a fraction of a second, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. Then, he nodded, his resolve hardening. "Yes," he said, his voice firm. "I will."

I then took the small, trusting hand of Lana, who had been watching the entire exchange with a quiet, solemn curiosity. "Then," I said, my gaze fixed on the village head, "I want your notorious daughter." I pointed at Lana, a slow, deliberate gesture that seemed to hang in the air for an eternity.

He was so amused, so utterly taken aback, that he actually laughed, a short, sharp, incredulous sound. "What?" he shouted, his voice a mixture of confusion and a dawning, horrified disbelief. "What are you even saying? How can you—"

But I cut him off, my voice a low, smooth purr that was designed to both soothe and unsettle. "It’s not what you think. I want you to give your daughter to me for the festival this evening."

He was still confused, his mind clearly struggling to catch up. "What are you even saying?"

Lana, however, seemed to understand perfectly. "Father," she said, her own voice a firm, commanding whisper that was a perfect imitation of my own, "uncle and I will go to the festival. Just accept it."

"But I can’t," he protested, his gaze shifting from me to his daughter, his expression a mask of paternal fear. "I can’t let you out of my sight, not after everything that has happened."

"Don’t worry," I said, my voice a quiet, reassuring murmur. "I won’t harm her. And I won’t let anyone else harm her either. I am doing this because of a promise I made to her."

He looked at me then, his gaze searching mine, and in my eyes, he must have seen something, some flicker of a truth he could not deny. "Fine," he said, his voice a weary sigh of resignation. "But my soldiers will be there with you, to ensure her safety."

Lana, however, was not having it. "No, Father!" she said, her voice rising with an anger that was almost comical in its intensity. "It will be me and uncle. No one else."

"It’s for your own safety, my angel," he pleaded. But she just glared at him, a dangerous, warning look in her rose-pink eyes.

"Then," he said, a note of desperation in his voice, "will my butler be okay?"

She glared even more angrily.

"Okay, okay, last option," he said, his voice a defeated whisper. "Your personal maid?"

Her mood, as if by magic, changed. "Fine," she said, a triumphant smile on her face. "You win. The maid can join us, but she will stay away from us."

Her father looked at her, a mixture of love, exasperation, and a dawning, unwilling admiration on his face. "Did I win, or did I lose?" he murmured to himself. "Because I feel like I lost." He looked at me then, a final, pleading question in his eyes. "I would have given you anything, Lord Ashen. Are you sure this is what you want? Are you sure this is enough?"

I looked down at the small, trusting hand in mine, at the bright, happy face of the little girl who had, against all odds, chosen me. "Enough?" I said, a slow, genuine smile touching my lips for the first time all day. "This is more than enough."