So, how did I end up as the potential husband of a human apocalypse? Let's look at the "illustrious" history of my bloodline.
The Thorne family is a minor noble house located in a territory so irrelevant it's basically the "Error 404" of the Empire. I think we were mentioned exactly once in the game's loading screen trivia as a footnote.
There are no legendary dungeons there. No ancient ruins. Our primary industry is literally goat herding. My family aren't terrifying lords; they're just friendly neighbors who happen to have fancy titles and smell vaguely of feta cheese.
Naturally, me leaving for the city was treated like a national day of mourning. You'd think I was being marched to the gallows the way the villagers were sobbing.
"You're finally escaping this mud pit, Cyprian."
"I'll try not to look back, Father."
Baron Silas Thorne, a man who is roughly 90% beard and 10% tear ducts, crushed me in a hug while weeping openly.
"You are the pride of the pasture! Please, just survive the three years and graduate without being executed by a bored royal."
"Dad, you're embarrassing me in front of the goats."
I pried myself away with a confident smirk. Despite the crying, the man is a tank. It turns out wrestling stubborn livestock for twenty years gives you a physique that most knights would kill for.
"Listen to me, son! Do not, under any circumstances, start a fight. The Aurelian Conservatory is crawling with high-tier brats who can kill you with a sneeze. Small-fry Barons like us need to be invisible. Be the beige wallpaper of the school!"
"I get it, Dad. Stealth is my middle name."
I doubled down on the smile to shut off the "Anxiety Lecture" loop. To be fair, he wasn't wrong. In the world of Heroic Hustle, weak nobles are basically snacks for the plot-relevant eccentrics and power-hungry villains.
Luckily, my stats made "being invisible" very, very easy.
---
The Legend of Grade-F
I opened my eyes and squinted at the floating neon trash fire that was my character sheet.
< Bio Metrics >
Name:Cyprian Thorne
Strength: F
Agility: F
Stamina: F
Luck: F
Magic: F
< Ability Log >
[ No Talents Detected. Maybe try a hobby? ]
< Mastery >
[ 0% Proficiency in... everything. ]
< Special Gift >
[ Unawakened (Check back in 50 years) ]
"..."
It was beautiful. It was a masterpiece of mediocrity. I have played this game for thousands of hours and I have never seen a starting build this aggressively pathetic. I'm not just a glass cannon; I'm a glass pea-shooter with no peas.
'I am in literal, physical danger...'
I looked at the tiny, mocking notification blinking in the corner of my vision.
[ MAIN QUEST ]
Objective: Enroll in the Academy and survive the Sorting Ceremony without crying.
I recognized the format from the game, but seeing it IRL was a problem. In a "System" world, a Quest Window isn't a suggestion—it's a demand. It means the Academy is about to become a magnet for every conspiracy, demon invasion, and magical explosion scripted in the lore.
*I can't just ignore the Main Quest...'
If this follows game logic, "Quest Failed" usually results in a Game Over screen. And in real life, a Game Over screen is just a fancy way of saying "The Funeral is on Thursday."
The problem? With my "F-Tier" existence, I can't actually do any of the hero stuff myself. I'm not the protagonist; I'm the guy who gets stepped on in the background of the protagonist's cool intro cinematic.
Look, my personal manifesto is very simple: Rule #1: Do nothing that gets me murdered.
I don't have the foggiest clue how I got downloaded into this reality, but one thing is blindingly obvious. I need to survive long enough to see whatever counts as a "happy ending" here. And attempting to speedrun the Main Story with these sub-basement stats is a one-way ticket to getting deleted. In one breath. Literally, a high-ranking noble could probably sneeze too hard near me and I'd disintegrate.
Yeah, I know. My character sheet says I have an "Unawakened Special Gift." Sure. It's hard to expect much from something labeled "Unawakened (Check back in 50 years)." It's probably something useful, like "Advanced Sarcasm" or "Extreme Irony Resistance."
I don't even have a clue on how to activate it.
'All I remember from the lore is that gifts automatically trigger when the character performs a "Special, Narrative-Defining Action"...'
I don't know about the Main Character, but there is zero chance that I, a Grade-D Extra, am getting the script notes for my own hidden mechanic.
So what's the tactical, 200-IQ play here? Simple.
I will absolutely crush my role as an background Extra.
I'm talking stealth mode: engage. Do not stand out. Do not show off. Be so aggressive low-key that I become the floor wax. I will let the Protagonist handle all the life-threatening, world-saving plot threads. I will just be the texture pop-in for the crowd scenes.
"Don't worry, Father!"
Uh. Now that I actually think about it, the lecture that my goat-herder dad gave me... the one about being invisible? It suddenly sounds like peak wisdom. It's not "nagging" if it prevents me from becoming a demon's chew toy, right?
"I will do my best to become medically invisible at the Academy! Like, actual translucent!"
"…Uh, Cyprian, son, there's... perhaps... no need to go that far..."
"Don't worry, I will never have the 'vain ambition' of raising the Thorne family honor! Honor is temporary, living is eternal!"
"…Yes, it's true that I don't particularly... want that, but..."
After that inspiring exchange, I finally departed from the cheese farm. I did notice that, unlike the weeping send-off earlier, the actual expressions of the villagers and my parents were... well, "confused" is a polite term. But whatever. "A-minus" for enthusiasm.
And thus, my low-key, totally safe Academy Life as a professional extra is about to begin! I'm talking three years of academic mediocrity and aggressive bystanderism. It was a flawless plan.
I was envisioning a truly hopeful future. The kind with no explosions or moral dilemmas. Ah, those dream-filled days. What a sweet summer child I was... literally five minutes ago.
"Do you need a mental health professional? You don't look so good."
"No, I'm okay. I'm just... having a normal one. Thank you."
Actually, no, I am *not* okay. I am currently experiencing a localized existential crisis. As someone who has actively committed to the "Stealthy NPC" lifestyle, meeting the absolute visual apocalypse sitting in front of me was horrifically unfortunate.
"…"
I glanced at the individual currently reading a newspaper with the terrifying focus of a tactical strike and casually sipping tea.
She was... a lot. And I mean that in the "Oh god, the Main Quest just spawned in my living room" kind of way.
It was Eris Vane, the Final Boss candidate.
I have zero idea how I ended up traveling with her. Was it a random encounter? Did my "F" luck stat just roll a natural one? How is she even here?
What's even worse is that I couldn't stop looking at her. She wasn't just "there," she was consuming all the light in the room. She was wearing that ridiculous elite Academy uniform—which, by the way, was clearly tailored to show off every curve she owned and a few she was probably borrowing. The jacket was tight, but it was those high-waisted short-shorts that were the main event.
There was zero mystery left. It was all leg. And I mean, like, all leg.
When she pulled her left leg up and to the side, shifting her weight slightly, it created a visible arch... and a highly visible, deep curve that just... went places. She was leaning against the table, and the position put a visual highlight on her thighs and the narrow gap that separated them.
It was the definition of problematic. She was a gorgeous, world-ending danger, wearing what was effectively visual bait. She looked like a forbidden high-CG illustration from the game, just waiting to delete my save file and my dignity simultaneously. I was doomed. I knew it.
...
The train to the Aurelian Conservatory has two-person cabins. It's a complete lottery—a high-stakes game of "Who am I stuck with for twelve hours?"—and I somehow managed to hit the jackpot of pure, unadulterated misery.
Usually, you'd hope for a fellow potato-farming noble or maybe someone who sleeps the whole way. But if your cabin mate is a walking, tea-sipping omen of the apocalypse, I feel like I'm legally allowed to have a mental breakdown. My luck isn't just bad; it's statistically impossible.
'Seriously, why is a Grand Duke's daughter sitting in a cramped, budget-tier compartment meant for rural Barons who smell like livestock?'
As I was mentally filing a complaint to the universe, a voice drifted over from the other side of the small table. Her eyes never even flickered away from the headlines.
"Grand Duke Malakor is obsessed with his 'Man of the People' branding," she remarked, her tone dry enough to cause a brushfire. "He's convinced that making his heirs ride in steerage creates a 'relatable' image, rather than just admitting he's a cheapskate when it comes to first-class tickets."
"…"
"Relax. You didn't pull the classic amateur move of thinking out loud. Your face is just remarkably loud. It's actually quite entertaining."
The High Arbiter offered a small, terrifyingly sharp smile as she turned a page.
"Everyone who ends up in a box with me has that exact same 'Please don't kill me' expression. You're just the latest person to look at me like I'm a sudden case of the plague."
"…Good to know I'm part of a tradition," I muttered.
I guess this wasn't her first time watching a commoner have a silent stroke. As the daughter of the most powerful Duke in the Empire, she's basically a celebrity on the level of a rock star who can also execute you. The pressure of her presence was like trying to breathe underwater.
"Rest assured, little Baron. You won't suffer any physical trauma just by sharing my oxygen. I apologize for the accidental intimidation."
"…"
She went back to her tea, shifting those long, impossibly pale legs again. The way she moved—all deliberate grace and "I could snap you like a dry twig" energy—was a constant reminder that my low-key academy life was already burning to the ground before I'd even unpacked my bags.