Rise of the F-Rank Hero

"The core of the team will be the Seven Heroes—Daniel, Jason, William, Amy, Sophia, Lisa, and the Rogue, Ren."

She paused, looking at Oliver apologetically. 𝕗𝚛𝚎𝚎𝐰𝗲𝗯𝗻𝚘𝚟𝚎𝗹.𝕔𝐨𝕞

"I also requested that your party be included as independent specialists. However... the politics of the court are difficult. The generals didn’t want to give up too many spots to ’outsiders.’"

She held up two fingers.

"I could only secure two spots for your group on the official roster. Yours, and Lady Isolde’s."

Ariana stopped chewing. She swallowed her croissant with a gulp. "Eh? Just two?"

"I’m afraid so," Elisha sighed. "The rest of the team will be comprised of the Kingdom’s Royal Guard Captains and the Head Court Mages. The total expedition count is capped at twenty people."

Oliver frowned. "So Ariana and Seraphine are left behind?"

"Negative," Seraphine stated immediately. "My directive is absolute. Separation from Master is unacceptable."

"I can’t sneak you in, Sera," Oliver muttered. "Not if they’re counting heads."

"I can designate myself as ’Equipment,’" Seraphine suggested. "I can fold into a compact storage mode. Or simply eliminate a Royal Guard and take their place."

"No eliminating guards!" Oliver rubbed his temples.

"It’s fine," Isolde interjected, waving a hand. "Seraphine can shadow us. She’s better at stealth than anyone in this castle. And Ariana..."

She looked at the mage girl.

"Ariana can stay here as our liaison. If things go wrong inside, we need someone on the surface we trust to relay messages or secure an exit."

Ariana looked disappointed, but she nodded bravely. "I... I understand. I’m not strong enough for the deep floors yet anyway. I’ll just hold you back."

"You won’t hold us back," Oliver said gently. "You’ll be our anchor. It’s an important job."

He turned back to Elisha.

"So, twenty people. Seven Heroes, two of us, and eleven royal elites."

"Correct," Elisha said. "It is the strongest team humanity has ever assembled."

Oliver leaned forward, his expression hardening. The love triangle drama was gone now, replaced by the cold focus of the Guardian.

"When do we leave?"

Elisha met his gaze.

"In three days."

****

The breakfast plates were cleared, but the tension lingered like heavy smog.

Isolde stood up, stretching her arms above her head, emphasizing the curve of her waist. She looked down at Oliver with a playful glint in her eyes.

"Oliver, since we have three days before we descend into the abyss again, I suggest we make use of the time. The capital has changed much in my absence. I want to see the city."

She stepped closer, trailing a finger down his chest.

"Take me out on a date."

Oliver choked on his water. "A date? Now?"

"Why not?" Isolde smirked, glancing sideways at Amy. "Unless you prefer the stuffy palace air and the company of... children."

Amy’s chair scraped loudly against the floor as she shot up.

"I’m coming too."

Lisa, who had been quietly sipping her tea, looked at Amy with wide eyes. "Amy? What are you talking about? You have duties. And... why are you insisting on going with him?"

She gestured to Oliver, who was trying to make himself look invisible.

"He’s a mercenary, Amy. A stranger we just met. Why are you clinging to him like this?"

"He is not a stranger!" Amy blurted out, her face flushing. "He is... he is..."

She faltered. She couldn’t say ’He’s my childhood friend and the guy I thought was dead.’

"He is..."

"It’s fine, Lisa," Oliver interrupted quickly, sensing Amy was about to short-circuit. He stood up, adjusting his coat. "The Saintess wants to inspect the... cohesion of the new team members. It’s purely professional. Right, Lady Amy?"

Amy looked at him, relieved but annoyed at the excuse. "R-Right. Professional. I need to make sure you’re... suitable for the mission."

Isolde let out a soft, mocking laugh. "Suitable. Is that what we’re calling it? Very well. Try to keep up, Saintess."

****

The capital’s merchant district was bustling with life. Magic stalls sold glowing crystals, bards sang on corners, and the smell of roasted meat filled the air.

But the biggest attraction wasn’t the goods on sale. It was the trio walking down the main avenue.

In the center walked Oliver, dressed in his dark adventurer’s coat, face partially obscured by his high collar.

On his left, clinging to his arm with the possessiveness of a dragon guarding its hoard, was Isolde. Her silver hair shone in the sunlight, and her elegance turned every head.

On his right, gripping his other arm so tight her knuckles were white, was Amy. She wasn’t wearing her robes, but a cute, civilian sundress that highlighted her youthful figure.

"Hey, look at that guy," a passerby muttered.

"Two of them? Are you kidding me?"

"I hope he steps on a Lego."

Oliver felt the collective killing intent of every bachelor in the city boring into his skull.

"Can you two... loosen the grip?" Oliver whispered, trying to wrench his arms free. "I’m losing circulation."

"No," Isolde purred, pressing her chest against his bicep. "The crowd is thick, Master. I wouldn’t want to get lost."

"I’m just ensuring you don’t run away," Amy countered, hugging his other arm and glaring at Isolde across his chest. "We’re watching you."

They moved through the market like a storm.

Isolde stopped at a jewelry stall, pointing at a necklace made of mana-infused obsidian.

"Buy this for me, Oliver," she commanded, not asked.

"It’s expensive," Oliver noted.

"I’m worth it."

Amy immediately pointed to a nearby stall selling bright, colorful hair ribbons—the kind young lovers bought for each other.

"I want that one," she declared, looking at him with wide, expectant eyes. "You used to... I mean, blue suits me, right?"

Oliver sighed, opening his wallet. "Yes, yes. One for the Queen, one for the Princess. My gold is crying."

He bought them both. As he fastened the necklace around Isolde’s neck, she leaned in and licked his earlobe right in front of the shopkeeper.

"Good boy."

Amy, seeing this, grabbed Oliver’s hand and placed it on her head. "Tie the ribbon for me. Now."

As he fumbled with her soft red hair, she leaned into his touch, closing her eyes and humming a satisfied sound that was far too intimate for a public street.

****

By evening, the "date" had moved to the entertainment district. Isolde suggested a play—a popular romance drama being shown in one of the capital’s magical theaters.

The interior was dimly lit, the air cool and smelling of velvet and perfume.

They found a private booth near the back.

"I’ll sit in the middle," Oliver said, trying to maintain peace.

"Obviously," Isolde said, sliding in to his left.

Amy took the right.

The lights dimmed. On stage, actors began to recite lines about forbidden love and tragic wars.

In the darkness of the booth, the real drama began.

Oliver tried to focus on the play, but he felt a hand slide onto his thigh.

It was Isolde.

Her fingers trailed up his leg, slow and deliberate, the silk of her dress rustling softly.

"Are you watching the play, Master?" she whispered, her hot breath tickling his ear. "Or are you thinking about last night?"

"Isolde, behave," Oliver hissed, glancing nervously at Amy, who was staring at the stage.

"I am behaving," Isolde murmured. She took his left hand and guided it under the hem of her dress.

Oliver stiffened. His fingers brushed against smooth, warm skin. She wasn’t wearing stockings. She guided his hand higher, along the inside of her thigh, until his fingertips brushed the damp heat between her legs.

"See?" she breathed, biting her lip. "I’m very... attentive."

Oliver’s heart hammered in his chest. He tried to pull back, but she clamped her thighs around his hand, trapping him there.

"Don’t stop," she commanded silently, moving her hips slightly against his fingers.

On his right side, Amy shifted.

She wasn’t looking at the stage anymore. In the dark, her enhanced senses picked up the rustle of fabric, the shift in Oliver’s breathing.

She looked at him. She saw the flushed look on his face, the way he was leaning slightly to the left.

She narrowed her eyes.

She’s playing dirty.

Amy didn’t say a word. She reached out and grabbed Oliver’s right hand.

She didn’t put it under her skirt. Instead, she pulled it to her chest, pressing his palm directly over her heart—and the soft swell of her breast beneath the thin fabric of her dress.

"Oliver," she whispered, her voice trembling but defiant.

She leaned in, capturing his lips in a sudden, desperate kiss. It tasted of the sweet berries they had eaten earlier.

Oliver’s eyes went wide.

On his left, Isolde was grinding against his fingers, moaning softly into his neck. On his right, Amy was kissing him deeply, her heart pounding against his palm, her tongue pushing into his mouth.

He was trapped.

Overstimulated. Terrified. Aroused.

If the lights come on now, Oliver thought frantically, feeling Isolde’s fluids slicking his fingers and Amy’s soft chest under his palm, I am a dead man.

But the lights didn’t come on.

And neither girl stopped. For the next hour, the play continued on stage, but in the back row, a silent, heated war for ownership was waged over Oliver’s body—and he was losing the will to resist.