A NORMAL DAY (THAT GOES HORRIBLY WRONG)

Reivan’s plan was simple: avoid trouble, make money, and live a peaceful life.

Unfortunately, the universe seemed to have other ideas.

The morning started normally—he was supposed to check on a minor grain deal in a nearby village and definitely not get involved in anything remotely dangerous. He even made a point of avoiding the mercenaries and staying clear of any noble affairs.

But as he rode toward the village in a borrowed merchant wagon, his peaceful day came to a violent halt.

Because up ahead, the road was on fire.

Screams echoed through the valley as a caravan lay in ruins, bodies sprawled across the dirt, wagons overturned, and armed bandits looting what they could.

Reivan immediately pulled on the reins and tried to turn the wagon around. Nope. Not dealing with this.

"Turn back, turn back, turn back—"

But just as he was about to steer his horse off the road, a familiar voice shouted behind him.

"SIR REIVAN!"

Reivan stiffened. Oh no.

Garm and a squad of twenty Red Fang mercenaries were riding in behind him, looking far too eager for his comfort.

"What a fortunate day! You’re just in time!" Garm grinned, drawing his sword. "We were about to engage the enemy. With your leadership, this battle is already won!"

Reivan wanted to cry. What leadership?!

Before he could protest, Garm’s second-in-command pointed toward the bandits, who had now noticed the approaching group.

"They have hostages, sir!" the man shouted. "Orders?!"

Reivan, who had already started sweating, instinctively looked around for an escape route.

Unfortunately, the mercenaries mistook this for careful battlefield analysis.

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THE ACCIDENTAL AMBUSH

Reivan, in a blind panic, spotted an overgrown hill with a dense tree line just off the road. Perfect cover.

"THERE!" he shouted. "Get to the trees! NOW!"

Garm’s eyes widened with admiration. "A flanking maneuver? Brilliant!"

Before Reivan could correct him, the mercenaries had already broken off the road and stormed into the treeline, vanishing into the cover of the dense foliage.

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The bandits, seeing the mercenaries disappear, hesitated. Where had the reinforcements gone? Were they trying to surround them?

Bandit whispers filled the air:

"They disappeared!"

"They’re surrounding us!"

"It’s a trap!"

Reivan, still clutching the reins of his wagon, was about to turn around and run, but then he noticed something strange.

The bandits were panicking.

Instead of regrouping, they began shifting nervously, pointing their weapons in random directions, completely unsure where the enemy would come from.

Garm’s voice rang from the treeline, loud and commanding: "Hold! Wait for my signal!"

The waiting only made it worse. The bandits were losing their nerve.

"Screw this! I’m not dying today!" one of them yelled before turning and running into the woods—

—right into the mercenary squad hiding in the trees.

There was a pause. Then a bloodcurdling scream.

The remaining bandits, who were already terrified, completely lost it.

"We’re surrounded! IT’S A TRAP!"

"RUN!"

Panic exploded in their ranks. Some tried to grab whatever loot they could before fleeing into the forest, only to be cut down by the Red Fangs. Others threw down their weapons and bolted in all directions.

Within minutes, what should have been a bloody, difficult battle turned into a complete massacre.

And Reivan… hadn’t moved from his wagon.

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THE AFTERMATH (OR, HOW TO ACCIDENTALLY BECOME A WAR HERO)

Reivan sat on a fallen log, staring blankly at the corpses and unconscious bandits being rounded up by the mercenaries.

Garm clapped him on the back. "Incredible! I see now—your plan was to break their morale before they could properly fight back!"

"Yes," Reivan said numbly. "That was… totally intentional."

"You have a gift, sir!" one of the mercenaries said in awe. "Not a single one of our men was lost! And the hostages—"

The hostages, a group of terrified merchants and their guards, were safe and completely unharmed.

The Red Fangs had not only wiped out the bandits but also secured every single survivor.

"Sir Reivan," one of the rescued merchants said, bowing deeply, "we owe you our lives."

Reivan opened his mouth to say, It was an accident, but the words didn’t come out.

Because at that moment, the sound of galloping hooves filled the air.

A unit of knights carrying the sigil of House Roderic rode into the clearing.

At the head of the group was Viscount Roderic himself.

The nobleman surveyed the battlefield, his eyes narrowing at the scene of utter one-sided destruction.

"It seems," Roderic said, dismounting, "that we arrived too late."

Garm stepped forward. "My lord! We were merely following the strategies of our esteemed commander, Sir Reivan Valcrest."

Reivan wanted to curl up and die.

Roderic turned his sharp gaze toward him. "So you’re the merchant’s son who keeps making waves."

"No," Reivan blurted. "I mean—yes? But also no?"

Roderic chuckled. "Humble."

Reivan internally screamed.

The nobleman stepped forward. "Your tactics today were highly effective. You turned what should have been a dangerous engagement into a complete victory, securing both the hostages and the cargo."

Reivan looked at Garm for help. The mercenary gave him a thumbs-up.

"For such decisive action," Roderic continued, "I cannot let your efforts go unrewarded."

Reivan perked up slightly. Wait. Reward?

Roderic pulled out a small but ornate badge. "From this day forth, I name you an Honorary Knight of House Roderic. With it, you will have my favor and my protection."

Reivan froze.

Garm cheered.

The mercenaries cheered.

The survivors cheered.

And Reivan, staring at the badge in his hands, mentally started screaming again.

This was NOT part of the plan!