It was damp backstage.

  The sweet smell of hope layered the air, already thick with sweat and despair.

  A dozen muscular, chiseled young men were stretching, posing, or nervously reading from cue cards.

  It was the finals.

  The Realm’s Next Top Hero — one of the few rare chances to rise to herodom without having to do any actual heroics. Just make sure the crowd loves you. Look like a hero. The marketing team would handle the rest.

  The competition had already dragged on for a full month. The tour had brought them across the realm, slaying monsters that — conveniently — only appeared in the most broadcast-friendly locations. Minimal collateral damage guaranteed.

  Normally, the most competent, courageous, and charismatic contestant won.

  This age, however, the people had chosen someone... different.

  He wasn’t brave.

  He wasn’t strong.

  He wasn’t even literate in most lighting conditions.

  But he was loud.

  And cheesy.

  And shamelessly exaggerated.

  Herculysses of Givia.

  The great-grandfather of our beloved Reralt.

  Failing upwards since the age of twelve — and the reason these competitions were cancelled permanently.

  The people loved him.

  They sang songs of him.

  Well… of his awful punchlines.

  “This is Spartacular!” was one of the most beloved.

  “Happiness depends on ourselves. And protein. Mostly protein.” came in second.

  Of course, the judges — demigods of great esteem (and Simon Cowell, for some reason) — were very, very worried.

  This would make them look silly.

  And despite their best attempts at sabotage — by feedback or by lightning bolt — Herculysses was clearly in the lead.

  ***

  The final assignment was simple.

  Each contestant had to rescue the judges from the Minotaur — a recurring villain every generation or so, guild-certified and highly recommended for children’s parties.

  The setup: enter the labyrinth, survive, and try to save as many judges as possible.

  One judge rescued = one point.

  Knocking out the Minotaur = also one point.

  Most points wins.

  Herculysses, by sheer dumb luck, had survived the previous round — which involved rescuing a princess from a tower.

  That round had been judged by the audience.

  Instead of rescuing the princess, Herculysses had mistakenly assumed the monster — a battle-hardened hag with warts the size of melons — was the princess.

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  The hag, instructed clearly to kill him “very much dead,” didn’t get the chance.

  He tackled her before the first spell.

  And — to everyone's horror and amusement — threw her from the tower in a “rescue” maneuver.

  The actual princess, complaining the whole time. Had been chained up nearby, was also “liberated” — by a now-iconic dropkick out the window, accompanied by the phrase:

  “THIS IS… SPARTA-CULAR!”

  The crowd loved it.

  Falling aristocracy was the best aristocracy.

  In the post-event interview, the judges — confident this would finally eliminate him — questioned him on the matter.

  “Did you rescue the princess?” they asked.

  Herculysses blinked. “Is she still in the tower?”

  “Well... no.”

  “Then I rescued her. Alive wasn’t in the job description.”

  Which — technically — it wasn’t.

  Even worse, one of the judges — Medusa — had tried to petrify him in frustration, only to find her gaze reflected uselessly off Herculysses’s unnaturally oily skin.

  The judges were out of hope. And out of ideas.

  All they could do now was pray the Minotaur would kill him.

  Because if it didn’t…

  They might have to.

  A PR nightmare.

  ***

  Herculysses was first.

  The judges figured a fresh Minotaur had the best chance of killing him quickly — without causing a riot from the audience.

  He entered the labyrinth, waved to the crowd, and did his pre-heroic flexes and warmups, working up the spectators as he went.

  Loudly, he sang his workout anthem:

  Flex it once, flex it twice,

  Oiled-up glory don’t need dice.

  Brains out, muscles in —

  Victory’s loud, and mostly skin.

  For the occasion, he brought a crowd favorite: small barrels of his signature reflective oil.

  Of course, he thought he could throw them into the audience.

  The first one went well.

  The other twenty landed somewhere in the labyrinth.

  It was time.

  Herculysses lit a torch and sprinted into the maze.

  He slipped on the first patch of spilled oil, which was now all over the place.

  The torch hit the oil.

  The entire labyrinth burned down in under an hour.

  The judges were not saved.

  The objective — clearly stated as “very much alive in it” — left no room for discussion.

  But the Minotaur was dead, which technically counts as knocked out, which earned him one point.

  More than any of the other heroes could score,

  now that all the judges were burned to death.

  The crowd roared as he was crowned Hero of the Realm.

  Medusa was never seen after that day.

  Neither was Simon Cowell.

  Although it is said that to this day, his chair is still burning —

  by rage or disappointment, we shall never know.

  ***

  “Really,” Narro stated, holding four mugs of ale, tolling on his feet. “That’s where the oil comes from?”

  “Would I lie to you?” Reralt answered, downing his mug in one large chug.

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