Prologue
They said the summoning would only call one person.
That was what the priests announced.
That was what the prophecy promised.
That was what the Kingdom of Ragnafiore had prepared for, again and again, every ten years.
So when the light faded and two figures stood in the summoning circle, the cathedral froze.
One of them stood tall.
Symbols glowed behind him, precise and beautiful. Power clung to his body so naturally it felt like the world itself approved of his presence.
The Hero.
"The Hero," someone whispered.
"Kraust Arkwright."
Cheers erupted.
I was the other one.
I lay flat on the marble floor, lungs burning, rainwater still dripping from my school uniform.
My head rang like I had been dropped from the sky.
This was wrong. Everything about this was wrong.
People noticed me slowly, like they were trying to understand a stain on clean fabric.
"There was only supposed to be one," a noble said.
"A residue?" a mage asked.
"No. The circle is complete."
The king stepped forward, smile stiff.
A crystal was pressed into my shaking hands.
Nothing happened. Then it shattered.
Cracks spread like screaming veins of light before collapsing into dust.
Silence crushed the room.
"There is no blessing," the High Priest said.
"No class. No divine role."
He hesitated.
"This one is not recorded."
The murmurs came fast.
"A failed summon."
"So the records were true."
"I thought that was just superstition."
Even the Hero froze for a moment. His golden eyes blinked rapidly, the light behind him flickering.
He looked… confused, as if he too could not understand what had just happened.
I tried to speak. No one listened.
"Remove him," the king said, turning away.
Hands grabbed me.
As I was dragged across the floor, my mind caught a sudden glitch under my feet. The marble beneath seemed to shiver. The color drained from the world for a heartbeat.
Everything slowed. Even the cheering of the crowd became distant, hollow.
A voice echoed in my thoughts.
"You must live."
I blinked. The world snapped back to color.
The Hero's confusion vanished. His face returned to calm, but I noticed him glance at me once, a flicker of uncertainty in his expression. Then it was gone.
I was shoved down a stone corridor and slammed into a small cell. Cold pressed against my back as I slid down, shivering.
And then it hit me.
I was just walking home in the rain. My school bag heavy on my shoulder, the asphalt slick beneath my shoes. The water ran down my hair and dripped from the hem of my coat.
I had been thinking about homework I hadn't finished, about dinner waiting at home.
And now this? How had it all gone so wrong? Why me?
I could feel panic rising, hot and suffocating. My chest ached. My legs shook. My fingers dug into the stone floor. Nothing made sense.
It didn't make sense at all. Then something fell from inside my coat pocket.
A journal.
It landed flat on the marble floor, opening perfectly. My own name, Iria, was written across the page in letters I didn't recognize at first—but then my mind clicked. I could read it. I could understand.
The priests didn't notice. To them, the pages were blank.
I stared. My heart skipped. The air around me buzzed with sound—the voices of the nobles, the priests, the king—but at first it was unbearable.
Eerie, static-laced, like a thousand needles in my head. Their words were nonsense. Painful, irritating.
And then the journal responded.
Words appeared on the page, translating everything they said into something I could understand.
The voices stopped stabbing my mind, and clarity bloomed. It was like the journal had built a bridge between them and me.
I read. I understood.
The priests and nobles muttered in shock.
I heard phrases like "fate cannot allow this," "the oracle never spoke of a second," but now the meaning was clear without effort. The journal had done it for me.
It was my first lifeline in this world. Then everything went wrong again.
The cell door creaked open.
The guard stepped in, but his eyes were empty. Not angry. Not focused. Just hollow, like someone had reached inside and turned him off.
He raised his sword. I scrambled back.
"Wait! Stop!"
Text flickered again in my vision.
--ERROR
UNREGISTERED ENTITY--
--ANOMALY DETECTED
CORRECTION REQUIRED--
Images flooded my mind. A ruined village with no name. Stone tablets scraped clean.
Priests arguing over missing records.
Someone saying, "This never happened," too quickly.
Then I saw her. A girl standing in white fog. Her hood hid most of her face, but long white hair spilled down her shoulders.
She looked calm, sad, like she had already accepted everything. Our eyes met, and I knew, somehow, I would meet her again.
The vision shifted.
The same girl, lying motionless on cold stone. Blood spread beneath her like ink in water.
Her death was inevitable.
But a sharp, throbbing pain burned deep in my chest. I wanted to save her.
"No," I whispered.
I tried to fight the hollow guard, but my body failed. Pain exploded, darkness swallowed me.
—
I gasped. My body slammed into marble. Cheers filled my ears.
I was lying flat on the summoning circle. The ceiling of the cathedral stretched above me. The Hero stood unharmed beside me.
I couldn't breathe.
This time I remembered. The girl. The first death. The journal. The hollow guard. The world had tried to erase me.
And now I knew it.
--EXISTENCE EXCHANGE ENABLED--
Above me, the kingdom celebrated its Hero.
And somewhere beneath gods, prophecies, and false records, the world had begun trying to erase me.