Above the sprawling continent of Lugnica, the sky itself seemed to fracture. A monolithic curtain of light, vast enough to bridge the horizons, solidified from a shimmering void into a terrifying reality. It was an impossible construct, so grand in scale that every living soul—from the lowliest demi-human to the highest noble—felt the primal urge to look up and tremble.
In the Royal Capital, steel sang as knights drew their blades in instinctive defense. Mages stood in rigid formations, mana humming at their fingertips. Even Reinhard van Astrea, the Sword Saint whose power was whispered to be unrivaled under the heavens, found his usual mask of calm slipping.
"What is this magic?"
"An attack from a rival kingdom? Or is it the Witch Cult?"
"No... no individual should possess the capacity for such a feat."
The sky-screen remained indifferent to their chaos. The mirrored surface pulsed, a brief shadow swept across the canvas, and then it began: a high-definition broadcast of a reality none had ever witnessed.
[On a familiar cobblestone street in the heart of the Capital, a man in alien, monochromatic clothing suddenly flickers into existence. His pupils contract violently, his shoulders hunching in an instinctive defensive posture—yet within two seconds, he forces his breathing to steady, his expression smoothing into an eerie, detached mask.]
[The man gives a slight, imperceptible nod, as if acknowledging a calculated variable. He murmurs under his breath, his voice thick with a complex, cynical edge: "Another world... a displacement..."]
The screen was infinite, yet as the people watched, the perspective seemed to adjust to each viewer's eye, clear and intimate regardless of the distance.
"Oh my, right on the eve of the Royal Selection. This is a variable we haven't accounted for," a voice mused from the shadows of a balcony.
"Is it an omen from the Holy Dragon?"
While the commoners panicked, the Royal Candidates stood frozen, their eyes tracking the man on the screen with predatory interest. Even Emilia, her heart heavy with the weight of the coming trials, could sense the weight of the man's predicament. They recognized those streets. They recognized the very air of the Capital.
[The man takes a measured breath. He patrols the nearby storefronts with a watchful eye, attempting to use strange, circular coins to purchase goods, only to realize his currency is nothing but scrap metal here.]
[He settles onto the edge of a bridge, appearing lost to any passerby. In reality, his eyes remain hyper-focused, scanning the crowds. He is a sponge, soaking up every scrap of conversation, every cultural nuance, and every threat within earshot.]
[Retreating to a dim alley, he produces a sleek, black slate—the 'phone' he mentioned earlier. His brow furrows as he confirms the lack of signal. For a fleeting second, his composure cracks—a flash of isolation—but he clamps down on it with terrifying speed.]
[The hunger is visible in the way his hand shakes as he opens his plastic bag. He stares at the meager rations inside—crackers and instant noodles in vibrant packaging—and sighs, tucking them back away. "I don't know the status of the local nobility, but these refined goods are likely luxury items here. I'll have to barter them for something that lasts longer."]
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Uneven footsteps echo against the stone walls of the alley.
Three thugs, their faces twisted into masks of petty malice, emerge from the shadows. "A fat sheep in the wrong pen," one jeers. "Hand over the valuables and we might let you walk." "Don't make this difficult, kid."
"..."
In the real Capital, a heavy silence fell over the streets.
Everyone recognized these three bottom-feeders. Now, with their crimes projected across the literal heavens, the three brothers were single-handedly dragging the Kingdom's reputation through the mud in front of the entire continent. From the balconies of the high-born, a chilling frost settled. Those three were as good as dead.
["A robbery?" the man mutters. "Three of them. One is significantly larger... Based on the local climate, they're likely carrying concealed blades. My odds of victory are negligible."]
["Quit your mumbling! Hand it over!" The thugs' snarl is interrupted as a golden blur vaults over the crates, landing with feline grace in the center of the confrontation.]
["Is this... an ally?" the thugs stammer, uncertain.]
[The golden-haired girl tilts her head, ready to distance herself, when the man's voice cuts through the tension—cold, flat, and entirely devoid of hope. "Regrettably, I don't know her. She's not involved."]
[The girl blinks, realizing the situation. She flashes a grin, patting the man on the shoulder before readying herself to leap away. "Right on, bro! I've got places to be. Good luck surviving!"]
[The thugs exhale, a collective sigh of relief before they burst into raucous laughter. "What a moron! You actually let the fast one go? You could have begged for your life, kid. Now—"]
["The only ones lacking logic... are you." The man's voice is suddenly like iron.]
["Friends, family, lovers... even those bonds fail in the face of death. Why would a stranger risk her neck for a ghost like me?"]
["If kneeling would save me, I'd be on the ground already. But she had no sympathy for me. Why waste the calories on a futile plea?"]
["Normally, I'd hand over the money and move on. Survival is the only metric that matters. But unfortunately, these rations are my only lifeline. If you take them, I die anyway."]
["Lazy, cynical, and selfish—that is who Hachiman Hikigaya is. But even someone like me knows when the cost of retreat is too high."]
["What are you—Gah?!"]
The man—Hachiman—moved. To every observer in the world, his body was clearly frail, lacking the mana-saturated muscles of a knight. Yet, under the gaze of millions, he swung a desperate, unrefined fist into the face of an enemy three times his size.
The surprise lasted only a heartbeat. Within seconds, the tide turned. Hachiman was systematically broken. Heavy blows rained down on him, splitting his lip and bruising his ribs. Blood began to coat the cobblestones.
Yet, staggering and shattered, the man refused to go down. His eyes, though dull, remained locked on the weakest link. He attacked, and he attacked again, fueled by a terrifying, cold-blooded persistence.
The world watched, stunned. This man was weak—pathetically so—yet he possessed a brand of strength that was utterly alien to the knights of Lugnica. He was a monster of pure, unadulterated reason.