"What do you mean… find the hero?" I asked, my voice coming out more like a whisper than a question.
The pope looked at me as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Exactly as I said, Hero Lucien. You were summoned here to find the one who came before you."
For a second, I thought I misheard him. The words didn't fit together in my head. Find the hero? The one before me? That didn't make any sense.
Heavy footsteps echoed from the side, the sound of metal grinding against stone. The knight from earlier stepped forward. His armor caught the light, bright silver, sharp enough to blind.
"What's so hard to understand?" he said, scoffing like I was slow. "You're here to fetch one of your own. The last hero vanished on the forbidden continent and never came back."
My throat tightened. Another hero? Before me? This was insane. The whole thing was already insane, but this-this just made it worse.
Mogamon sighed, brushing a hand through his ash-colored hair. "Capaneo, must you always sound like you're trying to pick a fight? Try not to scare him off before he even understands what's happening."
Capaneo's glare could've cut steel, but he said nothing.
My throat tightened. Another hero? Before me? This was insane. The whole thing was already insane, but this-this just made it worse.
Mogamon sighed, brushing a hand through his ash-colored hair. "Capaneo, must you always sound like you're trying to pick a fight? Try not to scare him off before he even understands what's happening."
Capaneo's glare could've cut steel, but he said nothing.
Mogamon turned to me then, his tone softer, his eyes serious for once. "Listen, Lucien. What he said, it's true. The empire summoned someone before you. A man named Michael."
Michael?
"He was powerful," Mogamon continued. "Too powerful. He led the fight against the Dark… but two years ago, he disappeared in the Forbidden Continent. No one knows if he's dead or alive."
The air felt heavy. The echo of his words sank deep, settling in the pit of my stomach. So there was someone before me. Someone stronger. Someone who failed.
I swallowed hard, my palms cold and sweaty. Hana's hand brushed mine shaking, just like me.
Mogamon's gaze didn't waver. "That's why you're here," he said quietly. "Not to fight the war."
He paused, eyes flicking toward the veiled figure sitting on the throne.
"You're here to find the missing hero."
The words hit me like a punch to the chest. The hall went silent. Even the faint murmur of the crowd outside felt distant now.
Find the hero. That was my "calling." My reason for being dragged across worlds.
I didn't know whether to laugh or scream.
I just stood there, my thoughts a mess, the cold marble beneath my boots feeling too real, too solid. Hana clutched my sleeve tighter, like she was afraid I'd disappear next.
Mogamon's expression shifted his usual calm replaced with hesitation. He glanced at the emperor, then back at me, and stepped closer.
"A year ago…" he began quietly, his voice heavy. "A year ago, we summoned the first hero."
I froze.
The words hit harder than I expected. "The first…?" My throat went dry. "You mean—I'm not the first?"
He nodded slowly.
My mind scrambled for logic that didn't exist. "Then you can just… summon people like that? From other worlds?"
"Not quite so," Mogamon said, shaking his head. "The summoning ritual is complex, dangerous, and demands immense mana consumption. It requires the combined effort of dozens of powerful mages. And even then, the success rate is barely one point five percent."
"One point five?" I repeated, the number catching in my chest. "That's insane. That's basically impossible."
He gave a sad little smile. "You're right."
"Then how," I asked, my voice rising, "how were you able to summon two of us?"
Mogamon's eyes lowered. He looked almost… guilty. "Because…" He exhaled deeply. "Because we were desperate."
Before I could respond, the pope's voice cut through the air, calm yet absolute. "Indeed, Hero Lucien."
The man stepped between us, his silver beads clinking softly in his hand. The faint smell of incense trailed behind him.
"The evil that festers in the forbidden continent has begun to encroach upon our lands," he said, his voice echoing across the throne room. "A force too vast, too corrupt for any army to halt. Even the empire's strongest could not stand against it."
He turned slightly, the faint light of the stained glass catching the half-moon emblem on his chest.
"So we turned," he continued, "to the ancient legend. The Hero Summoning, a divine ritual that calls forth one chosen soul from another world. One who can save us from extinction."
Mogamon turned to me again, his expression softer now—as if he could see the storm running circles in my head.
"I know this must all be confusing," he said quietly. "But you will understand, in time. No one, not even the emperor himself can control who the summoning chooses. The spell does not obey command or rank. It chooses those it deems fit… those it believes can save this world."
His tone carried a strange reverence, like he was speaking about something holy.
I frowned, my voice cracking slightly. "Then what are the conditions? Why me? Why was I chosen?"
Mogamon's eyes lowered, his silver hair glinting under the light of the throne room. "No one truly understands. Perhaps it's the will of the world. Or the goddess. But… from what history tells us, those who are summoned often share one thing in common."
I waited, heart pounding. "And what's that?"
"They were tired," Mogamon said simply. "Of their old lives. Of the world they came from."
Something inside me lurched.
The memory of fluorescent lights flickering above my cubicle. The endless ringing of my office phone. Cold coffee sitting too long on the desk. My apartment, dark, quiet, empty.
A life I had long stopped calling living.
I blinked, staring at Mogamon. He noticed. His eyes softened even more. "I see that you understand what I mean," he said.
"I—I don't," I stammered, but my voice betrayed me. My throat felt tight. "I'm still… confused."
I tried to clear my head shake away the noise, the panic, the thoughts that screamed this can't be real. I forced myself to breathe, to focus on what was in front of me.
"So…" I finally said, my voice steadier than I felt, "you're saying you've done this before. You summoned someone before me."
Mogamon's smile faltered. The glint in his eyes dimmed, replaced by something heavier. Regret, maybe. Pain.
I took a half step closer. "What happened to him? This… first hero?"
Mogamon didn't answer. His gaze shifted, as if the floor itself was more deserving of his attention. It was the pope who finally spoke, his voice calm yet weighed with something deeper.
"It was a year ago," he began. "A night when the full moon hung above Noctyra, and the world trembled beneath its light. The darkness beyond our borders had begun to swell. The Forbidden Continent was lost overrun by the Dark."
His tone dropped lower, the echo of his words carrying through the vast chamber.
"The kingdoms of men every one of them gathered their might. The coalition army marched to stop the invasion. They sent their champions, their mages, their knights… all of them. And they were annihilated."
My stomach twisted. The word annihilated lingered like smoke in the air.
"The Empire," the pope continued, "stood as the last bastion. The only ones still brave or perhaps desperate enough to act. We knew that if nothing was done, humanity would be swallowed by despair."
He paused, turning his sharp eyes toward me.
"So… we did it. We called upon the power of the goddess. And from another world, we summoned him."
The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating.
"His name," the pope said, each syllable deliberate, "was Michael. Michael Vermos. The First Hero of Solmir."
The name hit me like a weight in the chest.
Mogamon's voice softened, carrying that strange mix of reverence and regret.
"Michael was a brilliant young man," he said quietly. "He too was shell-shocked when he first arrived just like you are now. But he learned quickly. He understood what this world faced, and what it needed him to become. The goddess showed her mercy on us that day."
I could only stare at him, words caught in my throat. My mind barely held together by disbelief.
Mogamon went on, pacing slightly, his staff tapping the marble floor in a slow, rhythmic pattern. "Our armies were crumbling. Cities burned. Even the knights who had once been hailed as champions couldn't stand against the tide of darkness. We knew then that only a hero one chosen by fate itself could turn the tide. And Michael… he was that hero. Powerful, righteous, unwavering. He came from your world and didn't hesitate to raise his sword for complete strangers."
The old mage's eyes seemed to drift somewhere far away lost in memory. His expression softened, the corners of his mouth curving into a small, melancholy smile.
"He was… kind," Mogamon said after a moment. "You could speak to him without fear of judgment. He listened, truly listened to everyone, even the lowest squire or servant. He never saw himself above anyone. It was strange… he had this way of making people believe things could be better just by being there."
He chuckled under his breath. "Even the knights who prided themselves on discipline and distance found themselves laughing when he was around."
Mogamon sighed, gripping his staff tighter. "The people loved him. The soldiers fought harder when they saw him on the field. The emperor himself would grant him audience at any hour, and the church declared his arrival a divine blessing. Even the children in the capital would run through the streets shouting his name. Michael Vermos—the hero of light."
The title hung heavy in the air.
Mogamon's gaze lowered. "But it wasn't just admiration. It was… connection. He started cherishing everyone he met. The baker who fed him, the knights who trained beside him, the mages who studied under him. He remembered their names. Their stories. He carried their hopes as if they were his own."
He looked back at me then his eyes glimmering with both pride and sorrow. "And we cherished him, too. To us, Michael wasn't just a savior. He became part of our world, part of our lives. It felt as though he was always meant to be here."
For a moment, no one spoke. The silence that followed wasn't empty it was full of something fragile, something sacred.
And all I could think was how impossible that sounded.
How someone could be brought into a strange world and fit into it so effortlessly.
How different I was from him.
I didn't know what to say.
That name Michael echoed in my head, carried by the crowd's cheers outside, by the scent of incense and the cold air of this enormous throne room. A part of me wanted to believe what they said to think maybe this Michael really was some kind of savior.
But another part of me… couldn't understand.
How?
How could someone wake up in a completely different world and immediately decide to fight for it? To bleed for strangers?
Was I supposed to be like that too?
The thought made my stomach twist. I glanced down at my hands still trembling from everything and a quiet thought crept in, one I couldn't shake:
If I were in his place… would I have done the same?
Would I even be capable of it?
The room went quiet after Hana spoke.
Her voice trembled, but her words cut through the air like a blade.
"If he was so strong then… why do you need Lucien to find him?"
The silence that followed was heavy so heavy I could hear my own heartbeat.
Even the knights, standing motionless by the walls, seemed to shift slightly.
Then came a scoff.
Capaneo.
The man smirked beneath his silver helm, arms crossed. "Simple. He vanished like thin air," he said, his tone sharp and unbothered. "For all we know, the great hero ran off."
Mogamon's voice boomed in anger, echoing against the marble pillars. "You don't know that, Capaneo! Don't speak so carelessly!"
"Carelessly?" Capaneo shot back, stepping closer. "He disappeared. No body, no trace. Tell me, what else am I supposed to think?"
"Enough!" The Pope's voice rose above them both, calm yet commanding, and even Capaneo backed away. The echo of his staff striking the floor settled everything back into stillness.
Mogamon let out a tired sigh, then turned to me. His expression softened again, the weight of what he was about to say clear in his eyes.
"When you asked what he meant," he said quietly, "I suppose it's only fair you know."
He looked down at the marble floor, as if searching for the right words. "Everything was fine at first. After Michael was summoned, the tides began to turn. His power alone was enough to push back the dark. For the first time in years, we had hope. Cities that were once lost were reclaimed. Soldiers began to believe again."
He paused, glancing at the Emperor's throne, then back at me.
"But…" He hesitated. "The dark did not fall. It grew. Every victory we had only seemed to make it stronger. The more we fought, the more… it adapted."
A murmur rippled through the court.
Mogamon drew a breath and continued. "Then Michael proposed a plan. After our scouts discovered that the dark had an origin point somewhere deep in the center of the forbidden continent he decided to strike it. End the dark from its heart."
He looked directly into my eyes now, his tone turning somber.
"It was a plan only the hero could achieve. You see, the forbidden continent isn't just infested with the dark. It has become a wasteland of chaos. Twisted lands where the sky itself bleeds and mana bends unnaturally. There are things there…"
He trailed off for a moment, his eyes darkening. "…things no ordinary human, no matter how strong, can fight."
I swallowed hard.
And then, in a quiet voice that trembled slightly, I asked,
"Then… what happened to him?"
The plan… was approved.
The words hung in the air, heavy and final. Mogamon's voice dropped lower as if the memory itself was sacred.
"The hero departed with the Empire's finest soldiers and mages," he said. "A legion blessed by the Moon Goddess herself. They marched for the forbidden continent, believing they would finally bring an end to this one-sided war."
He paused, his expression tightening. "But after a month…"
He didn't need to finish.
I could already feel the dread creeping up my spine.
"…All communication was lost."
The chamber felt colder. The cheering from outside faint and distant now seemed to die completely.
My stomach twisted.
I wanted to speak, to say something, but my throat felt dry. I was still just… me. A man who worked a desk job, who hated waking up early, who lived alone in a cramped apartment.
And they were talking about armies, heroes, lost expeditions into nightmare lands.
I wasn't a soldier.
I wasn't a hero.
I didn't even know how to hold a sword.
And yet… they expected me to go where even the strongest men disappeared.
I couldn't bring myself to ask what happened to Michael. The thought alone made my knees weak. If someone like him brave, powerful, chosen could vanish without a trace, what chance did I have?
But what Mogamon did next made the fear worse.
He reached into his robe and pulled out a small circular disk.
Its surface shimmered faintly, like frozen glass. Embedded in its center was a crystal, cloudy and cracked at the edges.
"This," Mogamon said quietly, his tone grim, "is the last recording we intercepted before the hero disappeared."
He placed it gently on his palm, then tapped it once with his finger.
The crystal flickered to life. A cold, eerie light filled the throne room.
A burst of static hissed through the air like the dying gasp of a broken radio followed by faint, distorted voices.
The static crackled and hissed, filling the throne room with a suffocating unease.
No one spoke. No one moved.
For what felt like forever, it was just that an endless, broken noise echoing faintly against the marble walls.
Then—
A voice.
Faint. Distorted.
But human.
> "...This is..Michael...".
The sound was warped, like it was coming from the bottom of an ocean, but the weight behind those words was unmistakable.
Mogamon's eyes widened. The Pope clasped his hands tighter, his lips trembling in a silent prayer.
> "The mission... failed..."
A ripple of dread spread across the room. Capaneo lowered his head, his jaw clenching, and even the other attendants—the ones who'd been so composed before—visibly paled.
> "The continent... is lost..."
My breath hitched.
I could hear something else beneath the words like distant roars, the shriek of wind, the low rumble of something alive and enormous.
> "The dark... is all..."
The voice began to break apart, dissolving into static again—but one final fragment came through, clear as a bell.
> "The hero... is no more."
And then silence.