Chapter 4: The Cat Knight Who Hated Heroes

The palace training yard smelled of oiled steel, trampled grass, and the kind of expensive soap used by men who believed sweat was something that happened to other people.

Noah Bell stood in the center of a chalk circle while six armored instructors tried very hard not to look like they were waiting for him to embarrass himself.

They had brought him a sword.

It was a heroic sword, naturally. Long, bright, polished until it reflected the morning sun like a weaponized mirror. The hilt had been wrapped in white leather. The crossguard flared outward like angel wings. A blue gem glittered in the pommel, probably worth more than Noah’s apartment had been back on Earth, which was unfair because the sword did not even come with running water.

Noah held it in both hands and felt his wrists begin writing their final wills.

“Again, Sir Hero,” said Sir Gawen, the chief instructor, a barrel-chested man with a mustache groomed into two hostile spears. “Raise the blade. Step forward. Strike with conviction.”

Noah raised the blade.

The sword immediately attempted to drag him into the dirt.

“With conviction,” Sir Gawen repeated.

“I’m currently negotiating with gravity,” Noah said through his teeth. “It’s a difficult stakeholder.”

A few squires snorted from the sidelines and were instantly silenced by Gawen’s glare.

Noah planted his shoes in the grass, inhaled, and tried again. The sword came up, wobbled, and described an arc so crooked it might have been approved by a city planning committee. He stepped forward as instructed. His boot landed on a patch of dew-wet turf. His center of mass made a bold attempt at independence.

For one breathtaking second, Noah saw the blue Eldorian sky, three startled pigeons, and the ornate roofline of the palace all rotate sideways.

Then he hit the ground.

The sword landed beside him with a dignified clang, as if distancing itself from the incident.

Silence spread across the yard.

Noah stared up at the clouds. “Good news,” he said. “The grass is structurally sound.”

Sir Gawen pinched the bridge of his nose. Behind him, the palace rose in white-gold layers of marble balconies, banners, and polished arrogance. Aurelia did nothing by halves. Even its training dummies had embroidered tabards.

Three days had passed since the slime marsh incident, and the mood of the palace had shifted in a way Noah could feel even through the thick carpets and polite smiles. Before, the nobles had treated him like an expensive warhorse they expected to ride toward victory. Now they looked at him like a warhorse that had balanced the budget, unionized the stable, and begun asking uncomfortable questions about marshland zoning.

He had not slain the slimes.

He had not bathed in monster ichor beneath the cheering gaze of grateful villagers.

He had listened to them.

Worse, he had taken notes.

And somewhere between creating a relocation timetable, identifying corruption in the local land office, and accidentally being hugged by a semi-transparent blue blob wearing a flower crown, Noah had become known in taverns and market stalls as the Slime Friend.

The bards were already involved.

Noah wished very sincerely that they were not.

“Perhaps,” Sir Gawen said, “we should begin with something lighter.”

“Like a spoon?” Noah suggested.

“A training baton.”

“A heroic spoon would be less intimidating.”

Gawen’s mustache twitched. “The kingdom does not require a spoon hero.”

“Yet.”

A cough sounded near the gate.

It was not the careful cough of a servant requesting attention. It was sharp, dry, and openly unimpressed. Everyone in the yard turned.

A knight stood beneath the shadow of the iron archway.

She was not tall by the standards of the armored men around her, but every inch of her seemed forged rather than born. Her breastplate was dark steel lacquered in midnight blue, scratched in a dozen places and polished in none. A crimson sash crossed one hip. A narrow saber hung at her side. Her boots were dusty, her gauntlets worn, and her cloak fastened with the badge of the Royal Guard—a golden lion rampant beneath a crown.

But it was her ears Noah noticed first.

They rose from her silver-black hair in sharp triangular points, furred and alert, one nicked near the tip. A tail, the same dusky color, moved behind her in a slow, irritated curve.

Cat ears.

Noah had been in Eldoria long enough to know he should not stare.

He stared for only 1.7 seconds, which felt respectful under the circumstances.

Her eyes found him instantly. They were gold, slit-pupiled, and colder than the polished palace marble.

“This,” she said, “is the hero?”

Sir Gawen straightened. “Captain Liora. You were expected at ninth bell.”

“I arrived when I meant to.” Her gaze flicked to Noah, then the heroic sword lying in the grass, then Noah again. “Was he fighting the ground?”

Noah pushed himself upright. “It started it.”

One of the squires made a choking noise.

Captain Liora did not smile. Her ears angled back slightly, which Noah’s brain unhelpfully translated as threat display.

Sir Gawen cleared his throat. “Sir Hero, this is Captain Liora Ashwhisker of the Third Royal Guard. She has been assigned as your personal escort and bodyguard.”

Noah blinked. “I need a bodyguard?”

“Yes,” Liora said.

“Because I’m in danger?”

“Because you’re a danger.”

“Ah.” Noah brushed grass from his borrowed tunic. “Different department.”

Liora stepped into the yard. The crowd shifted around her without meaning to, bodies making way before their owners consciously decided. She moved quietly despite the armor, each step placed with predator precision. Up close, Noah saw a thin scar crossing her jaw and another disappearing beneath the collar of her gorget.

She stopped an arm’s length away. Noah suddenly understood how mice felt about architecture.

“By order of His Majesty King Regulus,” she said, producing a folded parchment sealed with red wax, “I am to remain within sight of you during all public appearances, inspections, diplomatic receptions, meals outside the palace, training exercises, heroic demonstrations, religious ceremonies, and situations involving monsters, nobles, or unsecured cutlery.”

Noah stared. “That last one is specific.”

“I added it.”

Sir Gawen made a strangled sound. “Captain.”

“He fell with a sword in his hands.” Liora’s tail flicked. “I am considering spoons.”

Noah pressed a hand to his chest. “Finally, someone sees the threat.”

Her golden eyes narrowed. “You think you’re amusing.”

“Usually I’m just stressed.”

“Good. Stress keeps fools alive longer than confidence.”

She looked him over the way a quartermaster might inspect damaged cargo. Noah was suddenly aware of his soft hands, his borrowed boots, the ink stain on his cuff, and the fact that his greatest combat achievement in Eldoria was implementing an efficient queue system for agitated slimes.

“You’re smaller than the last one,” Liora said.

The yard went still.

Noah’s humor faltered. “The last… hero?”

Liora’s expression did not change, but something shuttered behind her eyes. “Summoned champion. Blessed by saints. Loved by crowds. Dead by winter.”

No one laughed now.

The palace bells rang somewhere beyond the walls, bright notes spilling over rooftops and training fields. A flock of white birds lifted from the chapel spire.

Noah stood in the chalk circle, sword at his feet, and felt the shape of the story Aurelia wanted to force around him. Hero summoned. Hero trained. Hero paraded. Hero pointed at Demon Lord. Hero either victorious or martyred, but useful either way.

Liora bent, picked up the fallen sword, and tested its weight in one hand. Her wrist did not tremble. She spun it once, caught it by the blade with her gauntlet, and offered the hilt back to him.

“Hold it if you must,” she said. “But if trouble comes, drop it and stand behind me.”

“That is refreshingly direct.”

“Heroes die when people indulge their fantasies.”

Noah took the sword carefully. “For the record, I did not apply for the position.”

“None of you ever do.”

There it was again. Not contempt alone. Contempt with old grief sharpened into a weapon.

Sir Gawen clapped his hands, too loudly. “Excellent. Since Captain Liora has arrived, perhaps she might assist in demonstrating proper stance.”

Liora’s ears twitched. “No.”

“Captain—”

“If I demonstrate properly, your students will quit.”

“A basic guard, then.”

“Your basic guard leaves the lower ribs open and assumes your enemy has the manners to attack from the front.”

Gawen reddened. “The Royal Academy has taught swordcraft for four centuries.”

“That explains the smell.”

Noah made the tactical decision to cough into his fist.

Liora turned back to him. “Show me.”

“Show you what?”

“Your cheat.”

The word dropped like a coin into a well. Several instructors glanced away, pretending not to listen while listening with every pore.

Noah stiffened. “My… what?”

“All summoned heroes have one. Flame that burns demons, hands that heal mortal wounds, eyes that pierce illusions, divine strength, holy blades, charming smiles that make peasants forget taxes.” Her lip curled at the last. “What’s yours?”

Noah hesitated.

The skill lived behind his vision like a transparent pane, waiting for attention. It had appeared when he arrived in Eldoria, along with the king’s booming proclamation and a migraine shaped like theology. He had tried to explain it once to High Priest Aurivan, who had wept and called it “sacred numeracy.” Noah still had not recovered.

He focused on the sword in his hands.

DIVINE SPREADSHEET

Object: Ceremonial Heroic Longsword

Length: 112 cm

Weight: 2.9 kg

Balance Point: 18 cm beyond optimal for wielder

Grip Diameter: 14% too large

Edge Maintenance: Excellent

Practical Combat Suitability for Noah Bell: 22%

Recommended Action: Replace with short spear, crossbow, or administrative authority.

Noah winced. “It gives me measurements. Comparisons. Optimization suggestions.”

Liora stared at him.

“Numbers,” Noah said.

“Your holy gift is counting?”

“Advanced counting.”

“The gods summoned an accountant.”

“Logistics analyst.”

“That is not better.”

“It is slightly better.”

Liora looked at Sir Gawen. Sir Gawen looked at the sky as if hoping an eagle might carry him away.

Noah adjusted his grip on the sword. “In fairness, counting solved the slime problem.”

“You befriended slimes because someone gave them a swamp ledger.”

“A marshland relocation plan.”

“They are composing songs about you.”

“Not by my request.”

“One of my corporals has been humming O Gentle Hand That Measured Mud for two days.”

Noah closed his eyes. “I was afraid that title was real.”

Liora stepped closer, lowering her voice. “Listen carefully, Sir Hero. The court is laughing because they think you’re harmless. The priests are smiling because they think your gift can be named and owned. The ministers are sweating because you noticed stolen land on your first outing. And the king…” Her ears flattened. “The king needs a hero the people can cheer.”

Noah opened his eyes.

Her expression had gone still, but her tail lashed once. “If you keep solving problems without blood, you will make everyone who profits from blood look very foolish.”

That landed harder than any sword lesson.

Before Noah could answer, a page in green livery came sprinting across the yard, breathless and pink-faced. He skidded to a halt before them and bowed so quickly his cap nearly flew off.

“Sir Hero! Captain Liora! His Majesty requests your immediate attendance in the Hall of Radiant Petitions.”

Sir Gawen frowned. “Now? Training has barely begun.”

The page swallowed. “Monsters have been sighted near the East Market Gate.”

A ripple passed through the yard.

Weapons shifted. Squires straightened. The instructors exchanged glances, and Noah felt the temperature of the morning change. Not physically—the sun still shone, the grass still glittered with dew—but the air tightened with expectation.

“What kind of monsters?” Liora asked.

“Goblins, Captain. A raiding party.”

“Numbers?”

“Unknown. Perhaps twenty.”

“Casualties?”

“None reported.”

“Damage?”

“None yet.”

Liora’s eyes narrowed. “Then why is the king summoning the hero instead of dispatching the East Gate watch?”

The page went pale. “I—I only carry the message.”

Noah did not need Divine Spreadsheet to calculate the probability of nonsense. It was already approaching one hundred percent.

Sir Gawen’s posture changed. He squared his shoulders, ceremonial pride sliding into place like armor. “This is an opportunity. Sir Hero, the people must see their champion defend them. Captain, you will escort him.”

Liora’s mouth thinned. “Of course.”

Noah looked between them. “Do I get a vote?”

“No,” Liora and Gawen said together.

“Efficient.”

Within ten minutes, Noah had been transformed from damp training casualty into public-facing savior.

Servants swept him into a side chamber and attacked him with grooming brushes, polished boots, and a white cloak embroidered with gold thread. Someone tried to put a circlet on his head until Liora bared one fang and asked whether they wished him to survive archery. The circlet vanished.

The heroic sword was belted at Noah’s hip despite his protests. It dragged slightly when he walked, like a judgmental metal tail.

Liora watched the whole process from the doorway, arms folded, ears angled toward every sound in the corridor.

“Is this normal?” Noah asked as a servant fastened his cloak.

“Define normal.”

“A monster attack occurring exactly when the king wants a public victory?”

“No.”

“Is it suspicious?”

“Yes.”

“Are we going anyway?”

“Yes.”

Noah sighed. “I miss email. Email was bad, but at least ambushes had calendar invites.”

Liora glanced at him. “If this is a trap, stay behind me.”

“You said that already.”

“I will keep saying it until you do it.”

“What if the optimal solution requires me to not stand behind you?”

“Then your numbers are stupid.”

“They’ve been called worse by senior management.”

For the first time, something almost like amusement flickered in her eyes. It vanished before it became a smile.

They entered the Hall of Radiant Petitions to find the king already performing concern.

King Regulus stood beneath a mural of ancient heroes stabbing various horned silhouettes. He was broad, golden-bearded, and draped in crimson velvet that made him look less like a ruler and more like an expensive curtain with opinions. Around him clustered nobles in jewel-toned robes, priests with silver censers, ministers holding tablets, and three court painters who had somehow arrived before the emergency.

Noah noticed the painters immediately.

Then he noticed the open balcony doors overlooking the avenue to the East Market Gate, where crowds were already gathering.

Then he noticed Lord Vaust, the Minister of Civic Order, murmuring to a herald while gesturing toward the street in neat little beats, as if choreographing traffic.

His unease sharpened.

“Ah!” King Regulus boomed when Noah entered. “Our blessed champion comes. Sir Noah, dark forces test our resolve. Goblins dare threaten the innocent under the very shadow of our walls.”

“That seems bold of them,” Noah said.

A courtier tittered. Liora did not.

Regulus descended the dais and placed both hands on Noah’s shoulders. The gesture looked fatherly from the balcony. Up close, his fingers dug in like clamps.

“The people must see hope,” the king said softly, smile fixed. “They must see courage. They must see their hero stand between civilization and savagery.”

Noah glanced toward the mural. “Do they need to see stabbing specifically?”

Regulus’s smile tightened. “Monsters understand strength.”

“Slimes understood land rights.”

Several nobles pretended not to hear. One priest made a warding sign.

The king’s grip hardened for one pulse, then released. “A charming tale. But today, the enemy comes armed. Today, the realm asks you to lift your blade.”

Noah looked at the sword at his hip, then at Liora.

Her eyes were on the crowd beyond the balcony. Her nostrils flared slightly.

“Captain?” he asked.

“Smoke,” she said.

As if summoned by the word, a bell began to clang from the east.

The Hall erupted into controlled chaos. Heralds shouted. Nobles gasped with varying degrees of sincerity. The court painters dipped brushes. King Regulus seized Noah’s wrist and lifted it toward the balcony.

“Aurelia!” the king cried, voice rolling outward like a parade drum. “Behold your hero! He goes now to defend you!”

The crowd below roared.

Noah’s stomach sank.

He had heard applause in corporate meetings, the brittle kind that followed mandatory announcements. This was different. This was hunger. People packed the avenue shoulder to shoulder, faces tilted upward, eyes bright with fear and hope. Bakers with flour on their sleeves. Children perched on barrels. Market women clutching baskets. Guards trying to hold a path open through the press.

They believed.

Not in Noah, exactly. They believed in the shape he had been poured into. The summoned champion. The shining answer. The story that meant they would be safe because someone chosen would bleed in their place.

It made him feel heavier than the sword.

Liora leaned close. “Wave once. Not too much.”

“Why?”

“Too much makes you look pleased.”

Noah lifted a hand. The roar doubled.

“Great,” he muttered. “Now I’m complicit in my own branding.”

They moved.

The palace gates opened to a fanfare that absolutely no emergency deserved. Trumpeters in blue and gold marched ahead. Two squads of Royal Guard formed a glittering corridor. Noah walked between them with Liora at his right shoulder, her hand resting near her saber.

The avenue sloped down from the palace hill toward the East Market District. Aurelia’s capital glittered in the morning light, all sun-washed stone, painted shutters, and flower boxes hanging from balconies. The city smelled of warm bread, horse dung, incense, frying onions, and now, faint smoke.

People shouted as they passed.

“Sir Hero!”

“Save us!”

“Slime Friend!”

“Blessed champion!”

“My son wants a marsh ledger!”

Noah nearly tripped.

Liora caught his elbow without looking. “Walk.”

“Did that woman say marsh ledger?”

“Your legend grows teeth.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“Legends never are.”

As they neared the East Market Gate, the crowd thinned under guard pressure. Stalls stood abandoned, awnings fluttering. A fruit cart had been overturned in the street, oranges rolling like small suns across the cobbles. Smoke curled from a stack of hay near the gatehouse, black enough to be seen but oddly tidy, rising from a single contained point.

Noah slowed.

Liora noticed. “What?”

He looked around.

The gate plaza was broad and open, framed by warehouses, taverns, and the city wall. Too open. Too clear. The civilians had been moved back in a neat semicircle with excellent sight lines. Guards stood in formation but had not advanced. On the far side of the plaza, near the half-open market gate, a cluster of goblins hopped and snarled.

They were smaller than Noah expected, wiry creatures with moss-green skin, long ears, and yellow eyes. They wore mismatched scraps of leather armor. A few held rusty blades. One waved a spear. Another kicked at a barrel and missed.

They looked dangerous, yes.

They also looked terrified.

Noah focused.

DIVINE SPREADSHEET

Scenario: East Market Gate Monster Raid

Visible Hostiles: 18 goblins

Average Height: 118 cm

Weapon Quality: Poor

Armor Coverage: 23%

Observed Injuries: 5 minor, 2 moderate, 1 severe limp

Formation Coherence: 31%

Aggression Indicators: Elevated display behavior, low attack follow-through

Escape Routes: Gate partially obstructed from outside

Civilian Risk: High if panic occurs; low if containment maintained

Anomaly: Goblin raiding behavior inconsistent with known opportunistic attack patterns.

Noah’s eyes moved to the gate.

Partially obstructed from outside.

A wagon had been overturned beyond the arch, visible through the portcullis gap. Not smashed by goblins. Placed. Its wheels were intact. Crates lay scattered in a deliberate mess. Behind it, Noah glimpsed movement—men in dark cloaks stepping out of sight.

His skin prickled.