The alley smelled like cigarettes, rain, and rust.
Ren Takahiro adjusted the tape around his bruised knuckles, the rough cloth stained with a mixture of blood and old sweat. The night was heavy with the hum of neon lights from the street beyond, casting pale blue across the cracked concrete walls. Three guys stood before him — local punks, not exactly dangerous, but loud enough to attract trouble.
"Come on, hero," the biggest one sneered, cracking his neck. "Thought you were done playing street savior."
Ren didn't answer. He never did. Words were useless here.
The first thug lunged, sloppy and predictable. Ren stepped forward, pivoting off his heel, and drove his fist into the man's gut like a piston. The impact echoed through the alley. One down.
The second swung a broken bottle. Ren ducked low, swept his legs out from under him, and sent the man's head cracking against the wet pavement. Two down.
The third tried to run. Ren caught him by the collar and slammed him against the wall, eyes locked — not with rage, but something sharper. Determination. Control.
"Don't pick on kids again," Ren muttered, his voice low and cold. The man nodded frantically before stumbling away.
Ren stood alone in the alley, breath fogging in the night air. His fists throbbed with pain, but he welcomed it. Pain was real. Pain meant he was still fighting.
But for what?
His job at the convenience store paid barely enough to cover rent. His college dreams were gone. The only thing he was good at… was this. Fighting. Standing his ground when no one else would.
He tilted his head up toward the sliver of starless sky between buildings.
"...This can't be it," he whispered.
And that's when it happened.
A pulse — like a heartbeat — rippled through the world. The alley lights flickered. The rain froze midair. Ren's vision blurred, and a strange, golden sigil bloomed beneath his feet, burning like sunlight on water.
A voice, distant yet clear, echoed in his mind:
"Chosen Hero… Ren Takahiro.
The world calls upon your strength."
Before he could even move, the ground disappeared. His body was weightless, pulled upward through the glowing circle. The city vanished below him like smoke.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
Ren awoke on cold stone. Above him stretched a cathedral ceiling lined with radiant glass mosaics. Ren coughed and pushed himself up on shaky arms. The stone floor beneath him was smooth, polished — nothing like the damp alley he'd just been in. His eyes adjusted slowly to the brilliance overhead: towering stained-glass windows depicting radiant warriors and winged beings, beams of colored light spilling down like holy fire.
A circle of robed figures surrounded him. Their robes were white and gold, embroidered with geometric runes that glimmered faintly as if alive. At the front stood an elderly man with a long silver beard and a gnarled staff, the crystal on its tip pulsing softly.
Ren's mind raced.
This is… not Tokyo.
"Summoning complete," one of the robed women whispered.
"Praise the Light," another breathed.
The old man stepped forward, leaning heavily on his staff but with a commanding presence. "Hero from another world," he declared in a voice that filled the hall. "By the will of the Radiant Sigil, you have been chosen. Our kingdom is besieged by darkness… and we call upon your strength to save us."
Ren stared at him. Then at the others. Then at the glowing circle still faintly beneath his feet.
"…You've gotta be kidding me."
The murmurs broke out immediately.
"Does he not understand?"
"Perhaps the translation spell failed—"
"No, it's working," Ren interrupted, standing to his full height. His heart was pounding — not from fear, but from something else. The same restless energy that always hummed in his fists before a fight.
"Look, old man," he said, pointing a thumb at himself, "I don't know what kind of cult cosplay this is, but I'm not exactly the 'save the world' type."
The old man's expression softened, not insulted but… almost sympathetic. "None of those chosen ever are. Yet fate chooses wisely."
He raised his staff. The glowing sigil flared again — but this time Ren felt it inside him. A warmth spreading through his arms, settling in his fists like fire being gently stoked. He gasped, stumbling back and looking at his hands.
"What… the hell?"
"The Hero's Gift," the old man intoned. "A power unique to each summoned champion. Yours has already chosen its vessel — your hands."
Ren flexed his fingers. The air rippled faintly, as if the space around his knuckles bent to an unseen force. It wasn't overwhelming, but it was there. Real.
For the first time in years, something clicked deep inside him — a quiet, fierce thrill.
This… this is real.
Two armored knights approached, dropping to one knee. "Your arrival gives us hope, Hero," one said. "The Demon Host marches closer every day. We humbly ask for your aid."
Ren looked around at all their expectant faces. It was absurd. It was insane. But underneath the disbelief, a feeling welled up in his chest — one he hadn't felt since he was a kid, shadowboxing in his bedroom and pretending to be someone who mattered.
He clenched his fists. The faint ripple flared again.
"…Fine," he muttered, a grin creeping onto his face. "If it's a fight you want… I'll give you one."
The hall erupted in cheers and relieved cries. The old man lowered his staff, smiling faintly. Ren stood in the center of it all, the scarred brawler from a back alley now basking in the light of stained glass — not as a nobody, but as a Hero.
And deep inside, a voice whispered:
This is your chance. Don't waste it.
The cheering died down as a new figure stepped forward — a knight in polished silver armor with a crimson plume streaming from his helmet. His presence carried a mix of pride and discipline, the kind that made soldiers straighten their backs just by being near.
"Forgive me, Archmage," the knight said, bowing slightly to the old man. "But before we entrust this man with the title of Hero, we must confirm his strength."
The Archmage nodded gravely. "Of course, Captain. It is tradition."
The knight turned to Ren, visor lifting to reveal a scarred but handsome face. His eyes were sharp, assessing. "Hero," he said evenly. "I am Captain Darian of the Royal Guard. Will you cross blades with my men, so we may witness the gift you bring to our kingdom?"
Ren blinked. "Cross blades? I don't have a sword."
The knight smirked. "Then use whatever you do have."
Two armored knights stepped forward into the center of the hall as servants quickly cleared the floor. A dueling ring of white chalk was drawn on the stone, glowing faintly with magic. Ren stepped inside, rolling his shoulders.
One of the knights tapped his sword against his shield and muttered, "This'll be quick."
Ren grinned. We'll see about that.
The Archmage raised his staff. "Begin!"
The first knight charged immediately, his steel boots thundering against the floor. His sword came down in a clean, practiced arc. Ren sidestepped at the last second, the blade grazing air where his head had been.
He ducked low, drove a quick jab into the knight's gut, then pivoted with a snapping hook to the helmet. The clang echoed like a bell. The knight stumbled backward, surprised by the sheer speed and precision of the blows.
Ren didn't give him time to recover. He surged forward, fists flying in a rapid barrage. His knuckles slammed against armor again and again — each punch sharper, more focused. A faint golden shimmer flickered around his hands with each strike, like invisible gauntlets snapping into place.
Iron Fang Combo.
The knight's shield splintered under the assault. One final punch to the chest sent him sprawling out of the ring.
The second knight hesitated, then raised his shield defensively and circled. This one was smarter. Ren mirrored his movement, eyes narrowed, searching for an opening. The knight feinted left, then lunged right — a textbook maneuver.
Ren stepped inside the lunge, grabbed the knight's sword arm, and twisted. With a quick spin, he wrapped around the knight's torso and slammed him hard into the stone floor. A glowing ripple spread from the impact, the magical ring responding to the force.
Heaven's Chain.
The knight groaned, armor dented, and tapped the floor in surrender.
Silence fell over the hall.
Then, slowly, applause began — hesitant at first, then swelling into full cheers. Even the stoic Captain Darian looked impressed, his lips curling into a thin smile.
Ren shook out his hands. They throbbed like they always did after a fight, but this time, he felt a strange surge — the Soul Gauntlets responding, alive beneath his skin.
"Not bad for someone without a blade," Darian said, stepping forward. He held out a hand. "You fight like a wolf — fast, relentless, and unorthodox. You'll be a nightmare on the battlefield."
Ren smirked and took the handshake firmly. "I'll take that as a compliment."
The Archmage raised his staff once more. "Then it is decided. The Hero shall receive his combat attire and training quarters immediately."
Two attendants approached with folded garments: a fitted combat uniform reinforced with leather and steel at the forearms, light enough for mobility but sturdy enough to withstand blows. Ren's eyes lit up as he ran his fingers along the material — a far cry from his tattered jacket and taped hands.
As he changed into the uniform, the weight of everything settled on him. The glowing hall, the cheering soldiers, the respect in Darian's eyes…
This wasn't a dream. It was the beginning.
Ren stood tall, fists clenched at his sides. The glowing sigil beneath his feet pulsed one last time — like a heartbeat echoing through stone.