I stroll through the now familiar corridor, a high-ceilinged expanse of honed stone and rich tapestries, as I yawn. It is a week since our summoning, a week since our lives, previously mundane, were forever transformed by an unseen force and plunged into this magical world. I did say I have never lived life as wonderful as I live it here, and I still stand by my suspicions. The joy, the plethora of foodstuffs, the near-beauty of our temporary residence—it's a sharp contrast to the life I'd lived before this. But this golden cage has a cost, a understanding chipping away at my feeling of peace. I still practice until my muscles rip, forcing my body to its very limits, motivated by a primal dread: the dread of perishing on the battlefield. We may be being spoon-fed with silver, treated like royalty, but for how long? That is the question to be asked, and I do not wish to hear the response to it. The raw uncertainty of our future here, the unspoken danger of the war we are being bred for, casts a long shadow over this new comfort.
Each day arrives with a familiar routine, a carefully prepared timetable carried out for each of the called. My mornings start with the mundane but necessary work: I brush my teeth. I shower. And breakfast follows. Following nourishment, the serious business begins. We tackle the nuances of this world's tongue. Following that, we're tutored in etiquette, a complex web of social customs and courtesies that feels both antiquated and strangely elegant. And finally, history, a sprawling narrative of empires, heroes, and countless battles, each story a subtle reminder of the path we're being led down. Thereafter, lunch, a welcome break before the most demanding part of our day. Physical training follows, a rigorous course intended to sharpen our bodies into instruments of war. Then, of course, the weapon proficiency program, where we are introduced to a variety of weapons, from elegant, shiny swords to bows. Dinner, another chance to recharge, and then, finally, off-duty time, a precious few hours to rest, brood, or just be. Sleep comes next, a blissful oblivion before the cycle starts all over again. Wash and do again, day by day, every repetition wearing the routine deeper into our very essence.
For myself, I find this schedule acceptable, more so than most of the others. I have listened to their laments, their grumbled complaints about the incessant training, the incessant learning, the sense of being nothing more than pawns in a greater game. But for me, this ordered life, this ongoing quest for better, feels. correct. It gives me a feeling of purpose, a respite from the creeping fear of what's to be. As I speak out loud, my voice a soft whisper in the emptiness of the hallway, I step towards the dining room to retrieve my lunch. The high arches above resound with the far-off noises of other called men and women, their laughter and conversations a harsh contrast to my own silent monologue. Suddenly there is a cut through the background noise, a whisper that seems to stroke the very air I am in.
"Haru. I am here. Come to me. Do not be afraid. Haru."
The voice was soothing, sweet, calming. It was warm, like the hug of a loving father or a kindly grandfather. It was male, but not harsh or brutal; in fact, it wasn't much rougher than my own, a gentle pitch that vibrated deep inside me. I couldn't help being drawn to it, a force beyond reason or logic. I trailed the voice, my footsteps unconsciously hurrying, my sense of wonder and curiosity leading me along. As I accompanied him, an increasing sense crept over me: the sound was beginning to emanate behind a wall, a physical, seemingly impenetrable one much farther from where we were staying. It was part of the great complex I had not yet visited, a great stretch of stone that appeared to protect some secret out of sight. My steps grew slower as I reached the wall, my gaze sweeping over the imposing facade, searching for some means of access to the source of the entrancing noise. A door, a secret passage, something that would take me to what was on the other side of the wall. My hand ran over the cold, smooth stone, a slight shudder coursing through me.
Just as my focus grew more intense, a familiar echo came to my ears: Alisha's footsteps. Her steps were extremely recognizable from others', a special beat that I had immediately become accustomed to. They were boisterous but also quiet simultaneously, a paradox that precisely defined her being—strong but unexpectedly elegant. A fleeting glance told me she was coming, her insistent walk ringing through the spacious corridor. At any rate, the moment I heard her, adrenaline rushed through my veins. I automatically leapt into a bush, a conveniently located clump of overgrown plant life that provided an instant, though temporary, refuge. I stood frozen, holding my breath as her footsteps passed closer, then disappeared in the distance. When she had moved out of sight, the way clear, I sprang out of the bush, a soft huff of leaves giving away my precipitate departure. In a split second, I dashed to the dining room, the fading echoes of the enigmatic voice still ringing in my head. I had decided, a resolute determination settling within me: I was going back here, late after midnight, when everyone would be sleeping. The fascination of the voice, the enigma of the wall, had become an unstoppable attraction.
Following this event, I went about the rest of the day as usual, engaging fully in the assigned regimen, the earlier experience a nagging undercurrent of my mind. I went to my language lessons, sparred using the dulled practice sword, and sat through the demanding physical drills. The hours dragged, each minute a slow plod towards midnight. As soon as the great clock in the entrance hall tolled its twelve sonorous strokes, announcing the witching hour, I started to get ready. I with the black muck, an odd, gluey substance which I had taken to calling Vaac, coated myself in it, a fine, even layer seeping onto my skin and clothing, so that it would be more difficult to see me at this hour of the night. The Vaac sucked in surrounding light, allowing me to blend perfectly into the shadows. I also applied light stealth magic, a quiet spell which further distorted any surrounding light, and even offered a second layer of guarantee of not being seen. In conjunction with this, I applied low-level light magic, enough to light up my path within the ubiquitous darkness without attracting unnecessary attention. It's not that I haven't perfected the mid-grade magic; I can cast even stronger illumination spells quite effortlessly. But I specifically employed low-grade magic because Alisha, who had exceptionally acute senses, might be able to follow me by detecting the Mana turbulence that's clearly created when higher-grade magic is utilized. Her instincts were uncannily acute, and I could not afford to expose my covert outing.
Once out of the room, moving with the practiced silence of an accomplished ghost, and fleeing undetected from the slumbering guards who paced the corridors, I once more stood before the wall I had stood in front of hours earlier that day. The hush of the late evening was deep, punctuated only by the faint vibration of my own heart. The air was charged, waiting. As if in prearrangement, the voice came back, stronger this time, less of an intermittent whisper and more of a stern directive, echoing not only in my ears but in the depths of my soul.
"Walk through the wall, Haru."
The command was straightforward, yet utterly impossible. My logical mind protested in horror, but the attractive warmth of the voice, the unaccountable draw of it, overrode all skepticism. Not hesitating for a second, driven by some unseen energy, I moved towards the wall. My hand extended, anticipating the chill of the unyielding, rigid resistance of stone, for the wall to shatter my way. But somehow, amazingly, I passed through. No impact, no feeling of collision, only a brief glitter, an instant loss of balance as if moving through a ripple in existence. When I regained my senses, my vision acclimating to the radical shift, I found myself in a brightly lit room.
I looked around the room, taking in the minutiae. The room was bathed in tube lights, their clinical white light a radical contrast to the torchlight and magical radiance that usually lit this world. Though something to which such light would have been routine to me a fortnight ago, the ordinary view in my former existence, I looked upon it now with as much curiosity as I was able, my mind wrestling with reconciling this familiar technology and the fantastical environment within which I now stood. The room itself was minimalist, yet functional, with a few metallic tables and chairs, and several large, glowing screens displaying unfamiliar symbols and diagrams. It felt… anachronistic, a jarring blend of worlds. But then suddenly something… No, cut that. Someone came infront of me. My breath hitched in my throat, a wave of shock washing over me, quickly followed by an overwhelming sense of recognition and disbelief. He was my father. The original hero. Kenshiro Yoshida. He was here, in this impossible location, in this impossible room. The puzzle pieces started clicking into place, or more accurately, splintering into a thousand new questions.
"Father?"