It was a normal day in New York City.
Classes had ended, and the streets were filled with students talking loudly about things that would not matter tomorrow. I walked alone, my bag hanging loosely from my shoulder, my thoughts already drifting away from school.
Nothing felt special.
Nothing felt important.
That was why I did not notice the broken edge of the sidewalk.
My foot caught.
My balance broke.
For a brief moment, the world tilted.
Then—
A horn.
Too loud. Too close.
I looked up.
White headlights filled my vision.
So this is how it ends, I thought, strangely calm.
Sound vanished.
When I opened my eyes again, there was no pain.
No asphalt.
No sky.
Instead, I was lying on a smooth stone floor that felt warm beneath my palm.
"…?"
I slowly sat up.
The air was different. Heavy, yet clean—like it carried something unseen. Light poured down from a high ceiling carved with glowing symbols I did not recognize. Tall pillars lined a vast hall, each one engraved with ancient patterns.
People surrounded me.
Knights in armor.
Men and women in robes.
Faces filled with relief—and joy.
"Welcome!"
"Our hero!"
"You have finally arrived!"
Their voices overlapped, echoing inside my head.
Hero?
The word felt wrong.
I stood up, my legs unsteady, and only then noticed something strange.
I was not alone.
Four others stood near me—two boys and two girls, all around my age. Their expressions mirrored mine: confusion mixed with disbelief. Beneath our feet, a faint magic circle slowly faded, its light dissolving into the air.
A priest stepped forward, holding a staff crowned with crystal.
"By the will of the kingdom," he announced, his voice shaking with emotion, "we have summoned the Four Heroes to save our world from destruction."
Four.
I counted again.
One. Two. Three. Four—
Five.
Before I could speak, a voice interrupted him.
"…Wait."
The single word froze the hall.
It was not loud, yet it carried weight—like it pressed directly against the chest.
The priest stiffened.
"Why," the voice continued, colder now, "are there five heroes?"
Whispers erupted instantly.
"That's impossible…"
"There should only be four…"
"The ritual has never failed…"
An old mage stepped forward, his hands trembling as he stared at us.
"We summon heroes once every five hundred years," he said slowly. "Always four. To defeat the Demon King."
His gaze stopped on me.
Never leaving.
"There has never," he said, voice dropping, "been a fifth."
The hall fell silent.
I looked down at my hands.
They were normal. Human.
And yet—
A strange unease settled in my chest.
If I was not meant to be here…
Then what exactly had answered their summon?
Somewhere deep inside me, something stirred.
And for the first time, I felt it—
Not fear.
But a quiet, dangerous certainty.
This world made a mistake.