The bells of the royal capital rang as if mourning had already begun.
Cold wind swept through narrow stone streets where citizens stood in silent prayer, their eyes fixed upon the distant palace towers glowing with sacred light. Tonight was not a celebration. It was desperation given form.
Beyond the northern mountains, demon armies were advancing like a living storm. Villages had vanished in a single night. Survivors spoke of monstrous soldiers that marched without fear and creatures that devoured entire battalions.
The kingdom had reached the edge of ruin.
Inside the Grand Summoning Hall, ancient magic pulsed with terrifying intensity.
Golden runes carved deep into polished marble ignited one after another, forming a massive ritual circle that hummed like a beating heart. Priests in ceremonial robes surrounded it, chanting words that had not been spoken for centuries. Their voices trembled under the weight of hope and terror.
At the highest step before the throne stood King Rodem Aurelis.
Heavy armor covered his broad frame, but it could not hide the exhaustion etched into his face. For months he had watched his nation crumble piece by piece. This ritual was not merely strategy.
It was his last prayer.
"This must succeed," he muttered.
Beside him, Princess Elmia clasped her hands tightly. Her long silver hair shimmered in the ritual light like frozen moonlight.
"The gods will answer us," she said quietly.
"They have to."
The High Priest raised his staff toward the vaulted ceiling.
"By divine covenant…
By the blood of this land…
We summon the chosen hero from another world!"
The magic circle exploded into brilliance.
Wind roared through the chamber, tearing banners from their hooks and extinguishing torches in violent bursts of smoke. The air itself twisted as power beyond human understanding tore open a path between worlds.
Nobles staggered backward. Knights struggled to remain standing.
Then something fell from the center of the light.
It was not glorious.
It was not majestic.
It was the frail, helpless sound of a body striking stone.
Silence swallowed the hall.
Slowly, painfully, the figure on the floor began to move.
A trembling hand pressed against the marble. White hair spilled across a deeply wrinkled face. His shoulders shook as he struggled to sit upright, breathing in shallow, uneven gasps.
"…Where… am I…?"
The voice was thin. Confused.
Old.
Whispers erupted instantly.
"This must be a mistake…"
"Where is the hero?"
"Did the ritual fail?"
King Rodem stared down at the man as if witnessing the death of his own hope.
"Check the divine crystal," he ordered.
A young priest hurried forward, clutching a sacred gemstone meant to reveal the truth of summoned souls. He knelt beside the stranger and brought the crystal close to his chest.
For one terrible heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then the stone erupted in blinding light.
The priest recoiled in shock.
"Your Majesty… the reading is absolute…"
"Speak."
"…He is the summoned hero."
The words shattered the hall.
The old man blinked weakly, fragments of another life flickering through his mind. A hospital bed. The quiet rhythm of machines. The peaceful certainty that death had already come.
He had expected darkness.
Instead, he found fear.
"I… I don't understand," he whispered.
"Was I… saved?"
No one answered him.
Princess Elmia stepped forward despite herself. Compassion tightened her chest as she saw the terror in his eyes. He was not a failure. He was simply human — dragged from the end of one life into the beginning of a war.
But the nobles were already panicking.
A hero who could barely walk.
A savior who might die before reaching the battlefield.
The kingdom could not afford such weakness.
King Rodem turned away.
"We cannot show this to the people," he said coldly.
"They are already losing faith."
The High Priest hesitated.
"The gods chose him—"
"The gods chose to mock us," the king replied.
He closed his eyes for a moment, then spoke the words that would shape fate itself.
"Take him beyond the frontier. Leave him there."
The old man's heart trembled.
"Please… wait… I don't even know this world…"
Armored knights lifted him without ceremony. His frail body offered no resistance.
Snow fell when they reached the wasteland.
An endless white desert stretched beneath a dying sky. Dead trees clawed at the wind like skeletal hands.
They left him there.
No weapon.
No food.
No hope.
For a long time he simply sat in silence.
"So this is how it ends," he murmured.
In his first world, death had come slowly. Here, it came with fangs.
Shapes moved in the darkness.
Monsters.
He tried to stand.
He fell.
Pain exploded through his body as claws tore into flesh already worn by time. Snow turned red beneath him. The sky above blurred into distant gray.
Yet he did not cry.
He only felt tired.
"At least… I was chosen for something…"
The monsters closed in.
And far beyond mortal sight, the system that governed heroes began to record an impossible event.