The Reluctant Hero: Why Is Everyone After Me?-Chapter 134: Ch133 When A Name Refuses To Stay Dead

The doors slammed open.

The sound echoed loudly through the corridor, sharp enough to make the elder flinch as the tall elven man stepped out ahead of him. His strides were long and purposeful, with pale robes sweeping behind him as the soft green light lining the halls bent slightly in his wake.

"This is impossible," the man said, his voice tight.

The elder hurried to match his pace. "That was my first thought too."

The elven man clenched his hands at his sides. "Centuries," he continued, almost to himself. "Centuries have passed since Yieli of Asmethan died. He was mortal. No matter how exceptional he was, no matter how much the world bent around him—he died."

The elder nodded. "Yes. That is what all records say."

"Then reincarnation in this form, in this era—" The man exhaled sharply. "It defies natural order."

They turned a corner. The crystal-lined walls reflected their figures in fractured light. Relief carvings of long-ago battles watched silently as they passed—elves standing beside figures whose faces had been smoothed away by time.

The elder paused before speaking again. "And yet... the report remains."

The elven man stopped suddenly.

The elder nearly bumped into him.

They stood beneath a high arch carved with intertwining branches and stars. Light pooled around them, highlighting the tension etched on the man’s otherwise calm features.

"Who delivered this report?" the man asked.

"One of our sentinels," the elder replied cautiously. "A veteran of the seal guard. He has stood watch for over three centuries."

The man’s gaze sharpened.

"He knows the cost of falsehood," the elder continued. "He wouldn’t mistake a passing resemblance. Nor would he invoke that name lightly."

Silence pressed in.

The elven man looked away, his jaw tightening. "And the intruders?"

"One elven woman," the elder said. "Her aura suggests a surface lineage—young. Strongly bound by oath. The other..."

He trailed off.

"The other?" the man prompted.

"...Human," the elder said. "Yet standing on elven ground without being rejected. Without corruption. Without hostility."

The man’s eyes darkened.

"That alone is troubling."

"Yes," the elder agreed. "But there is more."

He swallowed.

"When the guards described him—the way the mana moved around him, the way the roots beneath the seal reacted..."

The elven man briefly closed his eyes.

"...They said he felt like Yieli."

The words hung in the air.

Slowly, the elven man turned back to the elder.

"If this truly is his reincarnation," he said quietly, "then the world has shifted in ways we did not expect."

The elder nodded. "It would mean the past has not finished with us."

"And if it is not?" the man asked.

His aura shifted.

The light dimmed. The air felt heavy, as if something ancient had noticed and was now ready for violence.

"If this is a creature," the elven man continued, his voice low and dangerous, "wearing his face—borrowing his shape, his echo, his memory—"

The stone beneath their feet trembled slightly.

"I will personally tear that false skin from its bones," he said, calm and resolute. "And I will make its death long enough for it to regret every moment it dared to exist."

The elder did not recoil.

He simply bowed his head.

"...What are your orders, Priest?"

The elven man inhaled slowly, visibly calming the surge of power around him.

"Call a council," he finally said.

The elder looked up, surprised. "A council? But if this is truly—"

"If," the man interrupted. "That decision does not belong to one voice. Not even mine."

He turned, his robes settling, his expression composed again—though something restless burned beneath his golden eyes.

"If Yieli has returned," he said, "then this is good news."

The elder allowed himself a small, hopeful breath.

"And if not," the man finished, "then we will find out exactly what dares to remember him."

Luther walked with his hands raised and his patience wearing thin.

The elves escorted them in disciplined silence, weapons lowered but never sheathed. Their footsteps were soundless against the stone paths winding gently forward, threading between towering pillars and arched roots that glowed faintly with mana.

He could feel the looks.

Not constant.

Not blatant.

But often enough to irritate him.

Now and then, he caught the subtle shift of eyes turning toward him, a pause, a whisper, a finger lifting—then dropping when he noticed.

Once, he met an elf’s gaze directly.

The elf quickly looked away as if burned.

"...Am I glowing?" Luther muttered under his breath.

Elythra walked close beside him, her posture tense. She hadn’t relaxed since her sword had been knocked from her hand, and the loss clearly bothered her. Her gaze flicked constantly between the elves, the path ahead, and Luther himself—as if she were mentally calculating threat vectors that refused to cooperate.

Luther leaned slightly toward her. "So," he murmured, "on a scale from one to catastrophic—"

"Quiet," she whispered without looking at him. "They’re listening."

"Right," he sighed. "Forgot. Tall, scary, quiet listeners."

He shifted his hands, fingers twitching with unused instinct.

His hand brushed against empty air where the demonic sword should have been.

He frowned.

"...Still gone," he muttered.

He tried not to dwell on that.

The sword was annoying, loud, invasive.

But it was also his.

And it had never gone silent like this before.

Luther rolled his shoulders, forcing himself to focus on the surroundings instead of the growing unease in his chest.

The path curved gently upward now, stone giving way to what looked like living ground—smooth earth threaded with glowing veins, soft underfoot yet impossibly sturdy. Strange plants lined the way, their leaves translucent, faintly humming with magic that didn’t react to his presence at all.

That bothered him more than if it did.

Elythra inhaled sharply.

He glanced at her. "What?"

"This place..." she murmured. "It’s definitely elven."

"That’s comforting," Luther said dryly.

"But not like any I’ve known," she continued. "The magic here isn’t bound by law or oath. It’s not shaped by command."

She sounded unsettled.

"It feels like the forest chooses itself."

Luther considered that.

"...Yeah," he admitted. "That fits."

They continued on.

The murmurs grew quieter.

More restrained.

Respectful, even.

And then—

The path opened.

Luther stopped.

Elythra did too.

Before them stretched a city that didn’t feel built.

It felt grown.

Terraces carved into cavernous stone rose in graceful spirals, connected by arching bridges of crystal and root. Structures bloomed from the walls like flowers of pale stone and emerald glass, light flowing through them like breath. Massive trees—older than memory—stood at the heart of it all, their branches forming natural canopies threaded with glowing motes.

The city pulsed softly.

Alive.

Elythra’s breath caught.

"...By the roots," she whispered.

Luther stared, speechless for once.

Then, quietly and sincerely, he said—

"...It’s beautiful."

The elves said nothing.

They only watched him.

And far above, unseen—

the past stirred.

Yieli was about to arrive.