The rear barracks of the palace looked more like a warehouse forced into becoming living quarters.
The ceiling was low. The wood was damp. The smell of old straw mixed with the sweat of soldiers too tired to care. My bed was nothing more than a wooden frame with a thin mattress that felt like a plank.
I sat on its edge, staring at my hands.
Still my hands. Five fingers. Not glowing. No holy mark. No mysterious seal.
The other four heroes—if we followed the logic of the stories I used to read—had probably already received legendary weapons or secret messages from a god. Maybe they were touring the palace, being introduced to the knight commander, or listening to an inspiring speech about the great responsibility awaiting them.
I was given a gray blanket and a warning not to wander.
Honestly, this was closer to my old life than I wanted to admit.
The barracks door creaked open. The old knight who had escorted me yesterday stood there, holding a short sword and what looked like a worn notebook.
"Take it," he said.
I stood and accepted the sword. It felt ordinary. Not shining. Not humming. Just steel.
"No ceremony?" I asked.
He glanced at me. "You're the reserve."
"Oh. Right."
He handed me the notebook. The cover was cracked. Some pages looked as though they had once been wet.
"That's the report," he said. "Read it if you want to know your job."
"My job is to wait for the other four to die, isn't it?"
The corner of his mouth twitched. Maybe a smile. Maybe just a habit carved by exhaustion.
"Your job is not to die first."
Then he left.
I sat back down and opened the notebook.
The first page was a list of names. Many names. Beside each was a summoning date, and in the final column, a single short word.
Fallen.
Missing.
Unstable.
Terminated.
I stopped at the last one.
Terminated.
Like a computer program forcibly shut down.
I flipped to the next page. There were brief notes about the summoning ritual. About unstable energy. About "soul incompatibility." About the world possibly rejecting certain individuals.
And at the bottom, written in darker ink:
The reserve is summoned to maintain contract continuity.
A contract with whom?
There was no explanation.
I closed the notebook slowly.
Outside, I heard shouts from training. I stood and walked to the small cracked window, wide enough to peek into the training yard.
The four heroes were already there.
The tall man with sharp eyes wielded a greatsword. Each swing left a faint streak of light in the air. The soldiers watching applauded in awe.
The silver-haired girl raised her staff. Wind spiraled around her, forming a small vortex that made the knights' cloaks flutter.
The athletic young man summoned a nearly transparent shield of light, solid enough to block three spears thrown at once.
The last one stood still. Simply still.
Then the shadow at his feet moved on its own.
Several knights stepped back without realizing it.
I exhaled quietly.
They truly deserved to be called heroes.
I looked at my hands again. No light. No strange shadows. No dramatic wind.
Just skin—and faint calluses that, somehow, had followed me from my previous life.
Suddenly, the barracks door opened again. This time, not the old knight.
A young man in armor still too polished stood there. He looked about my age. He stared at me like someone examining a suspicious discount item.
"You're the reserve?"
"If there are two of us, we could start a club," I replied.
He ignored that. "I've been assigned to watch you."
"Watch me? I don't even know where the kitchen is."
"Exactly."
He stepped inside uninvited, scanning the barracks with clear distaste.
"Arven," he said shortly. "Third-rank knight."
"Third rank sounds important."
"Not really."
I smiled faintly. "Good. We match."
He clicked his tongue softly. "Listen. I don't care whether you're a hero or not. My duty is to make sure you don't do anything suspicious."
"Suspicious like what?"
"Trying to escape. Or approaching the ritual grounds."
The ritual grounds.
Interesting.
"What's there?" I asked casually.
"Nothing you need to know."
Classic answer. Which meant there was definitely something I needed to know.
The shouts from the training yard grew louder. Cheers erupted as one of the heroes split a massive stone target in a single strike.
Arven glanced toward the sound.
"They're incredible," he said quietly, without sarcasm this time.
"Yeah," I answered honestly. "They really are."
He looked at me as if waiting for envy or resentment.
I only shrugged.
"I wasn't summoned to be the main character," I said. "At least not according to the brochure."
"Brochure?"
"Never mind."
He fell silent for a moment. Then, "You're not angry?"
"Should I be?"
"You were dragged to another world, labeled reserve, and placed in a warehouse."
I thought for a second.
"If they're really that strong, I might not have to do anything. Sounds like a pretty safe position."
He stared at me. "This world isn't safe."
"I'm starting to notice."
Suddenly, the palace bell rang.
Not once like last night.
Three times.
Deeper. Heavier.
The cheers in the training yard stopped.
The atmosphere shifted too quickly.
Arven stiffened. "That's not the training signal."
In the distance, an explosion echoed.
The ground trembled lightly. Birds burst from the palace towers.
I walked back to the window. On the far side of the city, black smoke began rising into the sky.
Arven was already heading for the door. "Stay here!"
"My job is to wait, right?" I called after him.
He paused for a second, then left without closing the door.
I stood alone in the silent barracks.
Outside, screams began to rise. Not cheers.
Panicked screams.
I looked at the short sword in my hand.
Not glowing. Not legendary.
Just ordinary steel.
Reserve, I thought.
If the four heroes were enough to protect this city, things would calm down soon.
But somehow, the same feeling from last night returned.
Suspicion.
The smoke thickened in the distance.
And for the first time, I hoped they were truly as strong as they looked.
Because if not, then this world would call my name sooner than planned.