Reivan had barely gotten used to the idea of Sylphy staying with him when another problem landed on his doorstep—quite literally.

It started early the next morning, just as he was stretching and preparing for a lazy day of doing absolutely nothing. A firm knock on the door shattered that dream. Gerald, his father, answered first, but within seconds, he was calling Reivan over.

“Son, there are some… men asking for you.”

That was never a good sentence to hear.

When Reivan stepped outside, he was met with a group of rough-looking mercenaries standing at attention in front of his house. The man in front—a broad-shouldered warrior with a scar running down his cheek—stepped forward and bowed.

Bowed.

Reivan barely held back his panic. What the hell is happening now?

“Sir Reivan,” the man said, his voice full of respect. “I am Garm, captain of the Red Fangs. We have come to request your guidance.”

Reivan blinked. “My what?”

“The mercenary bands have been talking about your insight,” Garm continued, undeterred. “Your evaluation of the training ground the other day was… eye-opening.”

Reivan fought the urge to groan. He hadn’t ‘evaluated’ anything—he had just muttered about their sloppy stances while trying not to lose brain cells watching them. But clearly, the rumors had done their usual thing and turned him into some sort of war guru.

“I appreciate the sentiment,” Reivan said, attempting to weasel out. “But I’m just a merchant’s son, you know? I don’t really have time for mercenary business.”

Garm frowned, then exchanged glances with his men. “Ah… I see. You are testing us.”

“No, I’m really not—”

“We understand,” Garm said solemnly, nodding. “You wish to see if we are worth your wisdom before you commit to us. A true leader does not waste his time on the undeserving.”

Reivan clenched his fists. How do they keep misinterpreting everything I say?!

Garm gestured to his men, and before Reivan could argue, a group of mercenaries stepped forward and set up a quick mock battle formation right there in the street.

“We are ready for your guidance, sir,” Garm said, standing at attention.

Gerald, standing just inside the doorway, gave his son a look that clearly said, Fix this mess you’ve created.

Reivan sighed. Fine. If playing along would get rid of them faster, he’d just say something obvious and call it a day.

He pointed at one of the mercenaries holding a shield. “You. Your stance is too rigid. If someone feints, you’ll overcommit and get knocked off balance.”

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The man adjusted his stance slightly, looking thoughtful.

Reivan pointed to another. “And you—you’re gripping your sword too tight. Your wrist will give out if you keep swinging like that. Loosen up.”

The mercenary widened his eyes, gave it a try, then swung experimentally. His movements instantly became faster and more controlled. He stared at his sword in awe. “...It’s smoother. I’m not even exerting as much force.”

A murmur ran through the group.

Reivan scratched his head, feeling awkward. “Uh, yeah. Just… keep your movements fluid. That’s all.”

One of the mercenaries suddenly dropped to one knee. “Sir Reivan… your wisdom is beyond our understanding.”

Another followed. “Truly, we are unworthy of this level of guidance!”

Oh, come on.

Garm grinned, crossing his arms. “It is as we suspected. Your knowledge is not something we could have gained from mere experience.” He turned to his men. “The Red Fangs will follow Sir Reivan’s guidance from this day forth!”

Reivan inhaled sharply. That was not what he wanted.

He raised his hands quickly. “Now, hold on. I never agreed to—”

A cheer erupted from the mercenaries. The words “Sir Reivan!” and “Our leader!” rang out across the street.

Reivan stood frozen as Gerald sighed heavily, rubbing his forehead.

Sylphy, watching from the side, tilted her head slightly. “You didn’t mean for this to happen, did you?”

Reivan’s eye twitched. “What do you think?”

----------------------------------------

THE BANDIT PROBLEM

Unfortunately, the mercenaries were not just here to pledge loyalty. Garm, now fully convinced Reivan was their strategist, insisted on seeking his wisdom about a real problem.

“Our company is plagued by bandits,” Garm explained. “They’ve been targeting our supply lines and bleeding us dry. We’ve tried fighting them off, but they always retreat before we can land a decisive blow.”

Reivan blinked. “Sounds annoying.”

“It is! That’s why we need your brilliant mind to lead us to victory.”

Reivan’s internal screaming intensified. Brilliant mind?! I was just trying to slack off! But if he rejected them outright, they’d only think he was testing them again. He needed a way out.

He exhaled and decided to go with the simplest solution. “Why not stop transporting supplies the usual way? No supplies, no reason for bandits to attack.”

The mercenaries looked at him, horrified. “But then we won’t have supplies either!”

Reivan rolled his eyes. “No, you redirect your supply routes. Make it look like you stopped, but actually start sending supplies in disguised merchant wagons, scattered among normal caravans. Bandits won’t risk attacking every single merchant on the road in fear of retaliation. They’ll get desperate and expose themselves.”

The group fell into stunned silence. Then Garm’s face lit up like he’d just witnessed a divine revelation.

“A bait tactic… but disguised as retreat!”

Reivan nodded slowly. “Sure.”

One of the mercenaries slammed his fist into his palm. “It’s so simple… yet so effective!”

“It’s genius! They’ll think we’re out of the game, and when they get reckless, we can ambush them!”

Reivan had just been spitballing ideas, but now they were practically worshiping him.

“Sir Reivan, will you lead the operation yourself?” Garm asked eagerly.

“Nope.”

Another round of nods. “Ah… testing our independence. Wise.”

Reivan wanted to slam his head into a wall. He wasn’t testing anything!

But before he could argue further, Garm clasped his hands together. “Sir, please accept this token of gratitude.”

Reivan barely had time to react before a heavy bag of gold was shoved into his hands. He stared at it. “What is this?”

“Payment for your leadership.”

Reivan almost choked. “You’re paying me for this?”

“You are our strategist! It’s only natural.”

He stared at the bag, weighing it in his hands. Maybe… just maybe, getting “accidentally” roped into this warlord nonsense wasn’t the worst thing that had ever happened to him.

----------------------------------------

That evening, as Reivan sat in his room counting gold, Sylphy leaned against the doorframe.

“So… you’re a mercenary leader now?”

He groaned. “Don’t start.”

She tilted her head. “For someone who doesn’t want to lead, you’re really good at it.”

Reivan buried his face in his hands. This was getting out of control.