Akira's last memory of the real world was trivial: plugging in his phone, yawning, and sinking into his bed after another uneventful day. The familiar weight of sleep had barely settled over him when a sudden, piercing light tore through the darkness. It burned behind his eyelids, golden and unrelenting, filling every corner of his vision.
When he finally opened his eyes, he wasn't in his bedroom.
Marble pillars stretched high into a vaulted ceiling, their surfaces etched with intricate patterns. Banners emblazoned with a foreign crest hung from every wall, fluttering as if caught in an invisible wind. Soldiers in gleaming armor lined the edges of the hall, their spears held rigid, their eyes unblinking. At the far end, a throne carved from black stone and gold gleamed under torchlight, and atop it sat a man whose presence radiated authority. A crown perched on his head, not ornate but commanding, as if it alone were enough to bend the world to his will.
Akira's heart skipped.
No way… this is an isekai summoning, right?
He expected fanfare. He expected a party of heroes, a priestess, maybe even a talking familiar explaining the prophecy. He expected chaos, adventure, and maybe—just maybe—a dramatic call to arms against some mighty Demon King.
Instead, there was only him.
A robed man stepped forward, speaking words that shimmered faintly in the air. The tone was commanding, magical, alien. One of the people standing beside the throne—a stern-looking woman clutching a slate—translated to the King's voice:
"The Great King of Valoria welcomes the hero from another world. We are honored by your arrival."
Akira's grin appeared before he could stop it. "So I'm the hero who's going to defeat the Demon King, right? Where's the rest of the team?"
The translator hesitated, scribbling furiously on the slate. When the reply came, the King's brow was furrowed, lips tight:
"There is… no Demon King. Only the war. And you—will help us win it."
His grin faltered.
"Wait—what?"
The King rose, voice deep and resonant, echoing through the hall.
"You are the Hero of Valoria. Summoned to ensure our victory over the five kingdoms."
Five kingdoms?
The weight of his expectations crashed down. This wasn't the story he'd memorized from novels or anime. This wasn't a destined battle against a singular, evil tyrant. This was politics. This was war. And apparently, he was a weapon.
The King gestured for him to approach, and Akira stumbled forward, heart hammering. The King's voice, translated by the slate, rolled over him like thunder:
"Long ago, this world faced annihilation. A monstrous ruler arose—the Demon King of Ruin. His armies consumed cities, his darkness blotted out the skies. We—the five kingdoms—stood together to defend humanity."
Akira's mind raced. Classic… exactly what I expected so far. He let himself imagine a grand battle, heroes side by side, magic and steel clashing against the ultimate evil.
But the King's story continued, chest swelling with pride:
"Our greatest mages bound their knowledge to create a new magic—Summoning. From distant worlds, they brought champions. Heroes wielding powers beyond our understanding!"
Akira's smile returned faintly, a flicker of excitement. Here it comes—the part where I go all OP…
"Those heroes turned the tide. And the Demon King fell."
The hall fell silent in reverence. Statues and murals of "Valoria's glorious victories" seemed to watch him with judgment. Akira's chest tightened; this was no fairy tale pause, but the calm before a storm.
The King leaned forward, voice softening as if confessing a personal pain:
"But after victory… greed took root. The other kingdoms coveted the lands and power left behind. They betrayed the unity we once shared."
Akira's eyes narrowed. Every king thinks they're the "good guys."
"Our Valoria," the King said, pressing a hand to his chest, "sought only peace. But our neighbors forced us into war. Their ambitions would doom this world again."
The translator continued, each word heavy:
"Thus, the Summoning Magic was revived. Every kingdom now seeks a hero. And you—are ours."
Akira's stomach churned. Saving the world sounded fun when the enemy was obvious and evil. But this? This was choosing a side, picking a weapon, stepping into a war without knowing who the enemy truly was.
"…S-so," he stammered, "the other kingdoms also summoned heroes… right?"
The translator's slow nod sent a cold shiver down his spine.
"Yes. And if they win… they will conquer all."
His pulse raced. He wasn't a hero. He was a pawn.
When Akira finally admitted he couldn't take it all in, he raised a hand. "Um… I think I need to lie down. My head… it's spinning."
The translator passed on his request. The King's stern gaze softened, almost imperceptibly.
"Of course. Summoning strains the soul. Rest, Hero of Valoria. Tomorrow, your new life begins."
Two armored guards escorted him through vast corridors, their polished boots echoing ominously. The walls were lined with murals depicting battles, all glorifying Valoria. Akira's head throbbed harder with each step. Something was wrong—he could feel it in his veins, like fire crawling beneath his skin.
Finally, they reached a room—a small, elegant space with a comfortable bed, silk curtains, and a tiny table holding unfamiliar fruit.
Akira stumbled inside and nearly collapsed onto the mattress. Relief washed over him, fleeting.
Then came the sound he didn't expect: the subtle click of leather boots against stone.
Before he could react, the door creaked open wider than before. A figure in a hooded cloak slipped inside, moving with unnerving silence. Leather gloves glinted faintly in the torchlight. No servant. No friendly attendant.
Akira's heart thundered. He tried to sit upright, but his body refused, weak from exhaustion and summoning strain.
The figure leaned closer, studying him, checking his pulse with gloved hands. Akira's chest tightened.
A whisper, barely audible:
"Mana stabilization is progressing. Good."
Akira's eyes widened. Mana? Magic?
The figure's movements were precise, measured. A dagger flashed as it severed the bell cord by the bed—the only way to call for help.
Cold metal pressed against his ankle, magic thrumming in the air as it restrained him to the bed. The figure crouched, watching, silent.
"Do not move," the whisper came, calm and terrifying. "Corruption will not be tolerated."
The words chilled him more than the shackle's cold bite. Corruption? He didn't understand. And yet, the threat was unmistakable. This wasn't protection. This was containment.
The hooded figure remained in the shadowed corner of the room, perfectly still. Every instinct screamed at Akira: tonight, he was a prisoner. And if he failed…
The last thing he remembered before darkness swallowed him again was the flicker of a dagger, the whisper, and the thought that nothing about this world was what he expected.
A fantasy? No. A nightmare.