[One Week After the Incident]
Good morning, Dunford!
It was a beautiful day. The sun shone brightly overhead without being harsh, the temperature sat perfectly between hot and cold, and a gentle breeze drifted through the town. It was the kind of weather that made people want to spend the entire day outside.
Today, I am finally fully recovered and ready to give my first interview!
After all, I'm the one who killed the villain!
Hahaha!
Can you believe it? The town even gave me a house for free.
Carl said the journalists were going crazy trying to get an interview with me, so here I am, heading toward Darcy's Field.
My new house was near the main bazaar, and I kid you not, almost everyone who saw me said:
"Good morning, Mr. Darcy."
"Glad to see you've recovered."
Which was nice.
But there was a problem.
They all looked troubled.
Like they were looking at something they wished they hadn't seen.
As I was walking down the path, one little girl happened to look up at me. Trying to be a polite, heroic citizen, I flashed her a warm smile.
She immediately burst into tears and started screaming.
Anyway, I ignored her psychological trauma and kept moving toward the field. I did notice there weren't many people actually shopping in the bazaar this morning. In fact, the shopkeepers—or whatever they were called here—were completely missing too. Most of the storefronts were tightly shut, with only a tiny handful of shops left open. As I walked down the empty street, I couldn't help but wonder why.
The moment I got closer to the field, I found my answer. The townsfolk were all there, tightly packed into a massive crowd surrounding the periphery of the field. In the dead center, Journalists sat in rows of chairs, all facing a single direction. Positioned right in their line of sight was a lone chair and a small wooden table.
*Nope. This looks terrifying. Why… just why are there so many people here? Don't these people have jobs? Don't they have families to feed? Why are they so desperately eager to watch someone else explain a traumatic event they all firsthand experienced anyway?*
The second I took a step onto the field, the crowd spotted me. They rushed forward like a pack of hungry hyenas that had just sighted a lone lamb.
My body nearly shut down.
I took a step backward.
"Hold up! Guys! Calm down!"
The crowd continued advancing.
Just as the crowd was about to swarm me, Joey and Jack suddenly materialized from behind, acting as a human shield to protect me.
Calm down, everyone! Back up and make some space!" Joey shouted at the top of his lungs.
Together they guided me toward the table.
The first fifteen minutes of my grand interview were completely wasted just trying to calm the mob down and getting the journalists back into their actual seats.
Some local brats had stolen chairs meant for journalists and refused to give them back.
Several received the legendary Mama Slipper Technique directly to the face.
It was so chaotic that Joey, Jack, and I personally had to chase children away from the seating area.
Honestly, at this point, my face is basically a superpower.
Soon after the dust settled, Carl and Lyra joined us, dragging over their own chairs. I let out a quiet sigh of relief.
I had assumed I was going to be questioned alone.
Remember how I mentioned the crowd was just there to spectate? Now that everyone was settled, I could see what was actually happening. The enterprising citizens of Dunford were using my historic interview as a massive business opportunity.
There were rows of food stalls popping up all over the field, frying up greasy snacks and pouring local drinks for the spectators. And the merchandise? Incredible. Some guy was standing on a crate selling actual hand-drawn paintings of the battle, while another stall was displaying miniature wooden figures carved to look like our team. They were even selling commemorative shirts to mark the occasion!
Then I saw something that nearly gave me a heart attack.
Someone a few feet away was actively shouting and selling my "autographed" signature clothes
Signed!!
I couldn't even write in the local language.
What was it called again?
Horwet?
Apparently, people from all the surrounding border towns had traveled overnight just to see our whole team together, mostly because one specific member (me) had been completely missing from the public eye due to severe injuries.
Earlier this morning, Carl had also given me a very important warning.
"Remember," he had said. "We found the artifact in ancient ruins. That's the official story."
I still didn't understand why.
He also told me to avoid discussing the tomb entirely.
If possible, forget it existed.
When I asked why, Carl looked me directly in the eyes and said:
"If you mention the tomb, nobody on this planet will be able to save you."
I decided not to ask further questions.
The interview finally began.
Unfortunately, every journalist started shouting questions at once.
After ten minutes of chaos, we established a rule.
Each journalist could ask a maximum of five questions.
The responsibility of counting questions and turns was given to Java Valentine, the Baron's current advisor.
The Baron himself was unable to attend.
The curse had affected him more severely than anyone else.
He could walk short distances now, but exhausted himself quickly.
So he remained at home recovering.
Finally, the first question arrived.
"Mr. Darcy, where did you find the artifact, and where do you believe it is now?"
"First of all," I replied, keeping my voice steady, "I am entirely certain you have already asked that exact same question a hundred times to my companions. My answer remains unchanged: we found it inside an old ruin. Second of all, if the elite Imperial Investigators couldn't locate its current coordinates, how on earth could I? I've been completely bedridden until literally yesterday. I have zero knowledge of its whereabouts."
A different journalist quickly jumped in for the second question.
"Mr. Darcy, how exactly did you manage to kill Cedric Thornwell?"
"I ambushed him from behind and neutralized him using a… pistol."
Several pens immediately started moving.
"And where is that pistol now? Do you still possess it? Is it a weapon of your own creation?"
"I brought it back to my room, but it's completely broken now. And no, it wasn't my creation—I received it on my eighteenth birthday as a gift from my uncle."
More writing.
Another reporter leaned forward, squinting tightly at me. "Mr. Darcy… have you ever been involved in a severe accident involving your face? What exactly happened to it? Or was your current appearance a final, parting curse inflicted by Cedric Thornwell as a form of dying revenge?"
I stared at him, deadpan. "It's natural. I was born like this. And he died instantly."
A heavy, profound silence immediately fell over the crowd. Up until this exact moment, every single person in Dunford was entirely convinced that I had either survived a horrific structural collapse or had been hit by a high-level dark magic curse to the face.
The next question arrived.
"Mr. Darcy, what is your official height?"
I blinked. "W-why do you even care? How is that remotely related to the battle?"
The entire panel of journalists just stared back at me with intense, unblinking gravity, as if my height was a matter of national security and I was being incredibly rude for withholding the data.
"Okay, fine," I sighed, puffing out my chest. "I am six-foot-four."
The silence that followed was deafening. Every single head in the crowd slowly turned to look at the person next them, their expressions clearly screaming: Can you believe the absolute audacity of this man? The way he just straight-up lies to our faces.
"Okay, okay, everyone, I was just joking!" I cleared my throat nervously. "I'm actually six-foot-two…"
Silence. Head turn times two.
"Alright, I am joking again! I'm five-foot-eleven!"
Silence. Head turn times three.
"Okay, look, I am seriously not joking this time! I am five-foot-nine… alright, fine, I'm five-foot-eight! Are you all happy now?!"
The grueling interview dragged on for nearly six hours. We had to take four separate breaks just to keep our sanity intact. By the end of it, my brain was completely fried.
As the crowd finally began to disperse, I spotted the merchant who had been selling the bootleg, "Darcy-signed" adventure hoodies. Seeing me lock eyes with him, the guy immediately bolted.
But I was faster. I lunged forward, firmly grabbing him by the shoulder and pulling him back.
"It's alright, brother," I said, flashing him my most terrifying, face-cursed smile. "We've all got to make a living one way or another, right?
now give me twenty percent of your profits."
In the end he handed over almost twenty thousand Lochu.
Yes.
That's our currency now.
I also took one of the hoodies.
For free.
Why?
I actually really liked the look of the fake signature he came up with. I figured I'd take it home and practice recreating it so I could make it my official signature later.
But I wasn't finished.
There were several other stalls selling things related to me without my permission, so naturally, I visited every single one of them and requested my rightful twenty percent share.
By the time I finished my rounds, I had collected nearly thirty-two thousand Lochu in total.
Not bad for a day's work.
And that was how my first day after recovery ended.
The next morning, however, a letter arrived.
Not just for me.
For Carl.
For Joey.
For Jack.
For Lyra.
The sender was the Imperial Palace.