CHAPTER 1: The Metalhead and the Goddess in the Wrong Country
South Korea. Somewhere cheap. Fifth floor rooftop unit.
Raiko sat shirtless in a cracked plastic chair, pajama pants flapping in the rooftop breeze. His beanie looked like it had been chewed by a raccoon. Calloused fingers danced across his guitar fretboard with the dedication of a man who had nothing better to do—and took that fact very seriously.
> "Trash," he muttered, glaring at his phone screen.
He was watching an anime finale. Fantasy harem. The hero had just saved the world and won a princess. Again.
> "This is why fantasy's dead," Raiko declared to the pigeons roosting across the roof. "No one even bleeds anymore. Sword goes ting, villain explodes. Garbage."
One pigeon pooped mid-flight.
Raiko took it as agreement.
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Below, the creaky metal door groaned open.
A woman climbed the rooftop stairs, carrying a plastic bag and a tupperware. Elegant in a beige blouse and navy skirt, she looked like she belonged in a classy skincare commercial. A breeze swept her shoulder-length black hair across her cheek. She calmly brushed it aside without blinking.
She found her husband yelling at clouds again.
> "Lunch," she said, handing him the tupperware. "Also, the neighbor's cat threw up again. Not ours."
> "Justice for Lady Tuna," Raiko grunted, accepting the food with one hand while tuning his guitar with the other.
> "You didn't feed her, did you?"
> "I... emotionally supported her from afar."
She sighed. Sat beside him. Opened her own lunch box.
They ate in silence.
---
From the outside, they made no sense.
She looked like she belonged on a drama poster—clear skin, calm voice, perfect posture.
He looked like a punk band's missing bassist who time-traveled from 2005.
> "Raiko," she said, mid-chew, "You need to take a real job."
> "Odd-jobs are real jobs," he argued. "Today I delivered fried chicken and blessed a toddler with Iron Maiden lyrics."
> "You yelled Run to the Hills at a baby."
> "With feeling."
She smiled faintly.
---
Rooftop lunches were their ritual.
In between survival gigs and discount skincare routines, Raiko and his wife always made time—cheap food, rooftop breeze, and loudly complaining about society.
They were married. Legally. Emotionally. Weirdly.
No rings. No Instagram.
But no one who saw them together could doubt it.
> "You know," she said, poking at her rice, "if you ever get reincarnated in another world, you'd still argue with pigeons."
> "Tch. If I ever get isekai'd, I'm taking my guitar and my rage."
> "And I'll summon a demon army. Somebody's gotta pay the bills."
They laughed.
A truck honked far below.
And elsewhere—in a candle-lit chamber, lined with ancient symbols and forgotten laws—a summoning circle pulsed with the heartbeat of fate.
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[TO BE CONTINUED]
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> — Author's Note —
This chapter is based on a real argument I once had with a pigeon.
Rooftop energy is strong, but marriage energy is stronger.
Also: shoutout to Lady Tuna, true queen of the alley.
– H. Behevras
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© 2025 H. Behevras | First published on Royal Road Do not repost without permission.