After a blinding flash of light, I appear in a cathedral of icy marble—still wearing my wrinkled office suit, clinging to the sweat on my back.
"Renkko Hirasawa. You have been summoned by this world to be its hero."
The voice comes from a girl standing before me. Pale as a fresh bandage. She smiles, but her eyes don't move. I rub my eyes. It's not a dream. The air smells of burnt wax and wet stone—too real to be a hallucination.
"What if I refuse?"
Her smile flickers out like a candle snuffed by the wind.
"You won't be able to return to your world until the Demon King is dead."
Great.
She leads me to a side chamber, where she explains the leveling system—yes, just like the MMOs from my world—and my special ability: Copy. I can steal any skill I witness in action.
"Say 'Status.'"
I do. A translucent panel bursts before my eyes:
[Level 1 – Summoned Hero]
[Special Ability: Copy]
"So I'm level one for now, huh…" I mutter.
"You'll level up by slaying monsters," she replies. Apparently, it works just like an RPG from my world.
She hands me a backpack: rope, dried meat, a flask of water, fifty gold coins. And an order:
"Leave now. When you need help, find a Feher church. Say the name Clarisse, and they'll give you shelter."
Clarisse. So that's her name. Would've been helpful to know it before I was thrown into the void.
I walk and walk until I reach a small village about thirty minutes from the church where I arrived. The townsfolk seem happy and content. Honestly, I don't know where to begin my adventure, so I'll make a stop here to learn a bit about the people and their culture.
I step into a small tavern. In RPGs, it's usually the place to meet people or receive a special quest. But inside, there are only elderly folk and nothing particularly noteworthy for an adventurer. I order a random drink and ask about the state of the village.
"The village has suffered attacks from wild beasts," says one of the old men. The others look troubled.
"Besides," the old man continues—his breath reeking faintly of alcohol—"the militia isn't doing their job to keep us safe."
I'm a little disappointed. I thought this would be more like the isekai stories from manga and anime, but this world is simple… and somewhat sad. I down my drink in one gulp and pay. Just as I'm about to leave, a young man bursts in, exhausted and gasping for air. He manages to say:
"Orcs are attacking us!"
I draw my sword and sprint toward the orcs. There are three of them: green-skinned, hulking, and wielding massive clubs. They're huge—really huge. But let's see what I'm made of in this world.
The first one charges, club raised high, howling as if the noise alone could shatter me before the blow lands. I dodge sideways—the ground trembles where his weapon crashes down. I feel the gust of impact against my cheek. I don't think. I react. My blade slices through the air and plunges into his side. He screams but doesn't drop his club. Hot blood splatters my neck—salty, metallic.
The other two attack together. One from the left, the other from behind. I sidestep the first strike, but the second smashes into my shoulder. Pain explodes like shattered glass.
I drop to my knees but roll away before the club can crush my skull. I watch their feet—heavy, slow. I aim low. My sword severs tendons.
The orc howls and collapses. The last one lunges at me, furious. I drive my blade into his chest and push with all my weight. His breath—reeking of rotten meat—cuts off abruptly.
I rise, panting. My hands tremble. Sweat stings my eyes. I stare at the bodies. None move. I feel no triumph—only the sour aftertaste of fear that hasn't yet faded.
A golden flash flickers before my eyes. The panel returns:
[Level 2 – Summoned Hero]
[Abilities Acquired: Orcish Fury, Toxin Resistance]
I don't yet know what they do. But the world has just given me a little more time… and a little less innocence.
I return to the village and receive cheers—but not many. Just a fleeting burst of emotion.
"They're from the Demon King!" shouts one of the youths.
And just like that, the cheers for me turn into cries of hatred aimed at the Demon King. I wonder what kind of person he must be for them to despise him so deeply.
After the shouting dies down, I rent a room at the village inn and decide to rest, thinking about my next steps. First, I'll need to level up—most likely, the Demon King is extremely powerful. Second, I'll need to find out where he is, so that when the time comes, I can kill him.
Honestly, I don't want to kill him. I just want to go back to my world and rest in the quiet comfort of modern life… or well, return to working all week.
Night falls. This world, it seems, has three moons—completely gray, similar to Earth's moon but slightly larger each. I doubt that's physically possible, but I'm no physicist to say for sure. I'll sleep a bit, and tomorrow I'll start leveling up.
I wake to the creak of floorboards beneath my back and the lingering taste of stale beer on my tongue. Sunlight streams through the inn window.
I sit up. My muscles protest—the shoulder the orc struck throbs like a badly tuned drum.
I dress in silence. My office suit is gone; Clarisse gave me travel clothes: a thick tunic, sturdy trousers, boots that still smell of fresh leather. I check my pack: dried meat, water flask, coins. Everything's in place.
I descend the stairs. The innkeeper nods without a word. I leave a few coins on the counter. Outside, the village bustles—carts, children, the scent of freshly baked bread. No one gives me a second glance. Yesterday, I was a hero. Today, just some guy with a sword.
I head toward the outskirts. No one stops me. No one asks where I'm going. Good.
The forest begins where the road dissolves into dirt and roots. The trees are tall, their canopies interwoven as if trying to hide the sky. I take a deep breath. Damp air, wet earth, something sharp—maybe magic, maybe decay.
I draw my sword.
"Level ten," I say quietly. "Or nothing."
And I step inside.
Days turn into weeks. The forest teaches me more than any tutorial ever could: when to strike, when to flee, when to play dead. I don't just fight beasts—I battle exhaustion, hunger, and a silence that hurts more than wounds. Each night, I sleep beneath tangled roots or in damp caves, my sword as a pillow.
Every enemy leaves me something. A wolf grants me Wild Reflexes. A giant spider, Paralyzing Venom. A wandering spirit, Ethereal Step. Abilities pile up on my status panel like useful scars—I don't fully understand them, but they work. And every victory, however small, pushes me a little higher.
The panel flashes more often now. Level 3. Level 5. Level 7. I've stopped counting bodies. I only track progress. My body changes: my arms harden, my breathing slows, my eyes learn to see in darkness without effort. I'm no longer the guy who arrived in an office suit. I'm something else… or something less.
I hit level 10 on a rainy morning, after felling a basilisk that stared at me as if I were the monster. This time, the golden flash is brighter. The panel expands:
[Level 10 – Summoned Hero]
[Abilities Acquired: Wild Reflexes, Paralyzing Venom, Ethereal Step, Orcish Fury, Toxin Resistance, Predator's Sense, Bone Armor, Fiery Burst, Night Vision, Echo of Battle]
They're not just powers. They're fragments of everything I've killed… and everything I've lost.
I return to the village at dusk. I walk the same path, but now my boots make no sound. People glance at me—not with admiration, but caution. Something about me has changed. Maybe it's the scent of dried blood. Maybe it's the way my eyes no longer ask for permission.
I don't go to the tavern. I don't seek cheers. I pass through the market, buy fresh bread and meat, and head straight back to the inn. Tomorrow, I won't train. Tomorrow, I'll seek information.
Because I no longer need to level up.
I need to find the Demon King.