It was morning, and Ren was running late.
He skidded around the corner, his school bag thumping against his hip, the shouts of his friends already fading behind him. The sun hung high in the sky, a brilliant, hazy ball of heat that promised another sweltering Tokyo afternoon. He could already feel the sweat beading on his forehead. He just had to make it to the gate before it closed.
A strange, humming vibration suddenly filled the air. It wasn't a sound, exactly, but a feeling, a deep thrum that seemed to originate from the very ground beneath his feet. Ren stumbled, grabbing a lamppost for balance. The sky, a moment ago a clear summer blue, flickered. For a split second, it was replaced by a sky of deep violet, dotted with two moons. Then it was blue again.
"What the…?" he muttered, shaking his head. He must be more tired than he thought.
The humming intensified. The air grew thick, heavy, pressing in on him from all sides. A blinding light erupted from the concrete beneath him, not yellow or white, but a searing, emerald green. It engulfed him completely. He tried to scream, but the light filled his mouth, his lungs, his very thoughts. The world of heat-haze and school gates vanished, replaced by a dizzying vortex of swirling colours and roaring silence.
Then, with a jarring thud, he was solid ground again.
Ren gasped, sucking in air that smelled of damp stone and old incense. He was lying on his back, staring up at a vaulted stone ceiling, impossibly high and crisscrossed with dark, ancient-looking beams. The air was cool, a stark contrast to the Tokyo heat. He sat up slowly, his head pounding.
He was in a grand hall. Rows of marble pillars, each carved with intricate scenes of battles and mythical beasts, stretched out on either side. At the far end, on a raised dais, stood a throne of polished obsidian. And on that throne sat a woman.
She was beautiful in a way that was both stern and sad. Her hair was the colour of spun silver, cascading over her shoulders and down the back of a throne that looked too large for her. A simple, elegant crown of interwoven silver branches rested on her brow. Her eyes, the colour of a stormy sea, were fixed on him. They held a flicker of hope, and a deep, profound weariness.
Around her, a small group of people in rich robes and gleaming armour stared at him. An old man with a beard that reached his chest clutched a gnarled staff, his eyes wide with awe. A knight in full plate armour, his hand resting on the pommel of a massive sword, watched him with a cautious, assessing gaze.
"It worked," the old man whispered, his voice trembling. "The prophecy… it is fulfilled."
Ren just stared, his mouth open. This wasn't a dream. The cold stone was too real against his palms. The weight of the air, thick with unspoken history, was too heavy. He scrambled to his feet, his school shoes scuffing against the polished stone floor.
"Where am I?" he demanded, his voice echoing slightly in the vast space. "Who are you? What is this?"
The woman on the throne rose. Her movements were graceful, deliberate, carrying the weight of royalty. She descended from the dais, her silver gown whispering against the steps. She stopped a few feet away from him, her stormy eyes searching his face. Up close, he could see the fine lines of worry around her eyes, the tension in her jaw.
"You are in the royal palace of the Kingdom of Aethelgard," she said, her voice low and clear, like a bell tolling in a distant tower. "I am Queen Elara. And you, young man, are the one we have summoned."
"Summoned?" Ren's voice cracked. "You can't just summon people! I have school! I have… a life!"
A flicker of what might have been guilt passed across the Queen's face, but it was quickly masked. "I understand your confusion and your fear," she said. "But our world, Eldoria, is in grave danger. A great evil threatens to consume it. An ancient text, the Codex of Light, spoke of a hero from another world, one without magic, who would be called upon in our darkest hour. That hour is now."
"A hero?" Ren sputtered, disbelief warring with a creeping sense of dread. "I'm not a hero. I'm just a student. I can't even run a lap without getting winded."
The old man with the staff hobbled forward. "The Codex does not lie, Your Majesty. The summoning was a success. He is here."
"A demon king," the Queen continued, her gaze not leaving Ren's. "He sits in a fortress of bone and shadow to the north, surrounded by his seven generals, each a lord of calamity in their own right. For a century, they have been sealed away, but the seals are weakening. In a year, perhaps less, they will break free. Our armies are strong, but they are not strong enough to face the demon king himself."
Ren's mind was reeling. Demon kings? Seven generals? It sounded like a bad video game. He looked at the Queen, at the earnest desperation in her eyes. He looked at the old mage, his face etched with a hope that was almost painful. He looked at the stoic knight, whose grip on his sword tightened as if expecting an attack.
This was insane. This was absolutely, completely insane.
"And you want me to… fight this demon king?" he asked, the question hanging in the air, absurd and terrifying.
"We want you to try," the Queen said softly. "We want you to give us a chance. We will not send you to your death unprepared. We have the best knights, the finest mages. They will train you. For a year, you will learn our ways, our magic, our combat. And when the time comes, you will stand with us."
Ren looked around the hall again. The pillars, the throne, the people in their strange clothes. It was all so real. He pinched the skin on his arm, hard. Nothing changed. He was still here.
A year of training. That was what she said. A year to learn how to fight, how to use magic, in a world he didn't understand, to fight a monster he couldn't comprehend.
He had no choice. That was the terrifying truth. He hadn't been asked. He had been taken. The green light hadn't offered him a choice. The queen's words, while gentle, were a statement of fact, not a request. He was their hero, whether he liked it or not.
He let out a long, shaky breath, the fight draining out of him, replaced by a heavy, cold acceptance. "A year," he repeated, the word feeling foreign on his tongue.
Queen Elara's expression softened, just a fraction. "A year," she confirmed. "You will want for nothing. You will have the finest rooms, the best food, and the most skilled teachers. You will be safe here, within these walls."
Safe. The word felt hollow. He was as far from safe as he could possibly be.
The Queen turned and gestured to the stoic knight. "This is Sir Kaelen, the commander of my royal guard. He will be your primary instructor in the art of the sword."
The knight, Sir Kaelen, stepped forward. He was a mountain of a man, his face a mask of weathered stone, a long scar running from his temple to his jaw. He gave Ren a single, appraising look. It wasn't hostile, but it was assessing, measuring.
"The boy is soft," he said to the Queen, his voice a low rumble. He wasn't being cruel, just stating a fact, much like the Queen had. "Training will be rigorous."
"I expect nothing less, Kaelen," the Queen replied.
Sir Kaelen turned his grey eyes back to Ren. "We begin at dawn. Do not be late." It wasn't a suggestion. It was an order.
Ren simply nodded, his throat too tight for words. Dawn. He would start his new life as a hero-in-training at dawn.
The Queen gave a small, almost imperceptible nod of satisfaction. She then addressed the old mage. "Archmage Theron, please see that our guest is shown to his chambers and provided with suitable attire."
"Of course, Your Majesty," the Archmage said with a bow.
As Ren followed the ancient mage out of the grand hall, he cast one last look back. Queen Elara was still standing there, a solitary figure of silver and sorrow in the center of the vast, empty room.
She looked less like a queen who had just found her savior, and more like a woman who had just placed an impossible burden on the shoulders of a confused and frightened boy.
The weight of a kingdom, and of a world, had just been transferred to him. He felt it settle on his own shoulders, cold and heavy as stone. The sun, wherever it was in this strange world, felt a million miles away.