# Chapter 1: The Hero Who Retired Too Hard
The first thing Alen did after saving the world was throw his sword into a lake.
Not in some grand ceremony with bards and trumpets. No, he just walked to the nearest pond, muttered, "You've caused enough trouble," and yeeted the legendary blade like a rusty horseshoe. It sank with a *plop* that sounded suspiciously like relief.
Now, three weeks later, he lay beneath an ancient oak on the edge of nowhere, using a royal commendation as a sunshade and the Demon Lord's crown as a footrest. Gold coins—his official reward—were scattered around him like oversized confetti. He hadn't bothered to pick them up. Too much effort.
"World peace achieved," he said to no one. "Population: one very tired man. Quest complete. Please let me sleep."
A beetle crawled across his chest. He flicked it away with the same wrist that once parried a dragon's breath. The beetle landed on a stack of unopened letters from grateful kingdoms. One envelope, sealed with the Queen's own wax, had been used as a bookmark in a fishing magazine. The title: *"Trout Don't Care About Your Kill Count."*
Alen closed his eyes. The wind smelled of pine and freedom. For the first time in fifteen years, no one was screaming his name.
*Perfect.*
Then came the *crunch* of wagon wheels.
He didn't open his eyes. "If that's another prophecy, I'm allergic."
The wagon stopped. A throat cleared. "Hero Alen?"
"Dead," Alen said without moving. "Died of paperwork. Funeral's next Tuesday. Bring cake."
Silence. Then: "I have a delivery."
Alen cracked one eye. A nervous courier stood beside a cart loaded with… crates? Barrels? A chicken in a cage clucked accusingly.
"Wrong address," Alen said. "Try the guy who actually wants glory. I hear he lives in a volcano now."
The courier consulted a scroll. "It says: *'To the Hero of the Realm, congratulations on your retirement. Please accept this modest cottage as a token of our eternal gratitude.'* Signed, Queen Isolde the Third."
Alen sat up. The royal commendation fluttered to the ground. "They gave me a *house*?"
"Modest," the courier emphasized, as if modesty could be measured in square footage. "It's just over the hill. Bit of a fixer-upper. Roof's mostly there."
Alen stood, brushed grass off his tunic, and sighed the sigh of a man who had fought gods and lost to bureaucracy. "Fine. Lead the way."
---
The cottage was less "modest" and more "enthusiastically haunted." Ivy had unionized. The door hung like a drunk leaning on a lamppost. One window was boarded up with a shield that still had an arrow in it.
Alen stepped inside. Dust motes danced in the single beam of sunlight brave enough to enter. A table sat in the center, one leg shorter than the others. A note was nailed to it with a dagger.
*Welcome home, Hero. Try not to die of boredom. – Management*
He snorted. "Challenge accepted."
That night, he swept the floor with a broom older than some kingdoms, cooked dinner over a fire that coughed more than it burned, and slept on a mattress that smelled like regret and mothballs. For the first time in years, he dreamed of nothing.
---
Morning arrived with birdsong and the faint scent of smoke.
Alen opened his eyes to a ceiling that definitely hadn't been on fire yesterday.
He sat up. The kitchen was *glowing*. Not metaphorically. Literal golden light poured from the hearth, where a woman in white robes stirred a pot with a ladle the size of a sword.
She turned. Blonde hair, kind eyes, smile like a sunrise. "Good morning! You're late for breakfast."
Alen blinked. "Who are you and why is my house a cathedral?"
"Rina," she said, as if that explained everything. "Former Saint of the Divine Order. I heard you were taking in retired adventurers."
"I'm not."
"Too late." She gestured to a backpack the size of a cathedral door. "I already unpacked."
Alen stared. The pot bubbled. The smell hit him—fresh bread, herbs, something that made his stomach betray him with a growl.
Rina beamed. "Sit. You look like you've been living on rations and spite."
He sat. The chair creaked. She slid a bowl across the table. Stew. Actual stew. With *vegetables*.
Alen took a bite. His eyes watered. Not from emotion. Probably.
"This is extortion," he said.
"Nutrition," Rina corrected. "You defeated the Demon Lord with a party of four. You can handle carrots."
He opened his mouth to argue. A crash interrupted him.
The roof exploded upward in a shower of tiles and dwarf.
"**MORNING, YE LAZY BASTARD!**" boomed a voice. A bearded projectile in a leather apron landed in the stew pot with a *splash*. "Gorim Ironfist, at yer service! Heard ye needed a blacksmith!"
Alen looked at the hole in his ceiling. Then at the dwarf now fishing carrots out of his beard. Then at Rina, who was already blessing the wreckage with a sigh.
He put his head in his hands.
"Maybe," he muttered, "I should've let the Demon Lord win."
Outside, a small shadow watched from the treeline. A girl with golden eyes and a tail that flicked like a cat's. She clutched a half-eaten fence post and whispered, "Papa?"
The cottage groaned. The day had just begun.
---
**To be continued…**
*Next chapter: "Saint of Cleaning" – Rina purifies the outhouse. It ascends.*