"Why not follow us to the palace?" Seraphine asked gently. "Let's speak with the king. He may help you… see things differently."
Zen didn't answer right away.
Instead, he stared at the runes now fading from the summoning circle beneath his feet.
> Of course. Take me to your leader. Let him give some heartfelt speech. Maybe I'll see starving kids on the way. Burned villages. People crying in the streets. That's how it goes, right?
He ran a hand through his hair, eyes narrowing.
> They'll try to use that. The guilt. The tragedy. The "you're our only hope" line. I've seen this story before—even if I haven't lived it.
He sighed.
"Fine," Zen said, voice flat. "Lead the way."
He followed them.
And just like he predicted, it started.
Broken streets. Burned-out homes. Hollow-eyed refugees gathered near the palace gates. People with bandaged limbs, soot-streaked faces, and haunted stares. The mages and guards tried to keep the path clear, but Zen could feel the desperation pressing in from all sides.
> Right on cue. Show the ruins. Show the pain. Make the Hero care. Classic emotional setup.
He kept walking, face unreadable.
Until he heard it.
A child's voice, raw and frantic.
"Mom!? Mommy?!"
Zen slowed.
The little girl was maybe five. Tear-streaked. Dirt on her cheeks. She pushed through a crowd of haggard adults, spinning in circles, calling out again. No one stopped her. No one even looked.
For a moment, Zen saw someone else in her place.
His little sister.
Alone in a broken world. Parents gone. No one left.
> What if this was her? What if I'd died and she survived? Would someone help her… or would they walk right past her like I just did?
He exhaled sharply, the weight pressing into his chest.
Something inside him shifted. Just a little.
He looked away.
And kept walking. But the girl's voice stayed in his chest like a splinter.
> Don't think about her. Don't start caring. That's how the story grabs you.
As Zen walked beside Seraphine and the palace guards, voices began to rise from the crowd.
"Who's that… walking with the priestess?"
"He's wearing strange clothes…"
"Could it be—?"
"Yes. It must be. The Hero!"
A ripple of realization swept through the gathered refugees like wind through dry grass.
"We're saved!" someone shouted.
"Thank the gods!"
"We'll finally be free from those demons!"
Faces turned. Murmurs grew into cheers. Eyes once dull with suffering now glimmered with desperate hope. Hands reached out—not to touch, but to see. To believe.
Zen didn't react.
> Just like that, I'm a symbol. Not a person. Just the shape they need me to fit.
He kept walking, jaw tight, gaze forward.
But their voices followed him, rising like a wave:
"Hero! Hero! Hero!"
He didn't stop. Didn't smile. Didn't acknowledge a single word.
He just kept walking.
> They don't know me at all.
Only the story they need me to play.
Zen finally arrived at the palace.
The king welcomed him with a warm smile and open arms, clearly prepared for the moment. Thanks to Seraphina, who had sent a guard ahead, the king was already aware of the situation and had the throne room prepared.
Lavish banners hung from the vaulted ceilings. Courtiers lined the marble hall. Royal guards stood at attention in gleaming armor. It was all very regal… and all very predictable.
The king began, his voice deep and practiced:
"Hero of another world, we welcome you to the Kingdom of Ashton. Since ancient times, our land has been caught in an endless war with the demons—"
"Okay, you've convinced me," Zen interrupted flatly.
The room froze.
"I don't need a boring lecture," he added. "Just tell me what I have to do."
The king blinked. "R–really? You haven't even heard the rewards yet."
Zen rolled his eyes. "Let me guess. I get to marry the princess, inherit the throne, become some 'beloved figure of legend,' right?"
He waved a hand dismissively.
"Save it. I don't need that fairytale bullshit. Let's just get this over with so I can maybe rest in peace in this world."
Gasps rippled through the court.
Nobles stared in stunned silence. One knight actually dropped his helmet. Even the court mage looked like he'd just witnessed blasphemy.
Only Sayed—the royal advisor—remained calm. Middle-aged, unreadable, sharp-eyed. The kind of man who measured twice before speaking once.
"Well," Sayed said simply, "since he's accepted… there's no need to drag this out."
Zen shrugged. "Exactly. Just tell me where to start."
As he was being escorted to where he needs to go next.
Zen met the king's eyes.
"I'll fight," Zen said. "But if the Demon Lord's too strong… I'm not dying for a story I didn't write."
"And you're just lucky," Zen added, his voice cold now, "that my parents are still alive back home to take care of my sister.
Because if I'd been dragged here and left her behind—alone, scared, with no one—
Forget your Demon Lord. You'd have to worry about me."
He turned toward the war room doors.
"It's not just your world that matters… I had people too."