The dizziness, headache, and chiming of that distant clock abate slowly, replaced by a chorus of chanting which in turn peter off into silence.

I crouch at once, minimizing my presence. Three on the platform. Twelve on the ground, obscured in cult robes more suitable for winter than the temperate atmosphere of the round chamber. The source of the recent voices. They are kneeling with a near worshipful reverence, heads bowed and faces obscured.

One of the men reveal their face from beneath the hood. Messy hair, brown eyes, strong jawline.

“Welcome, Great Heroes.”

“...The Hell?”

One of the humans on the platform. Brandishing a sword and a very aggressive demeanor, the teenager spits his words with an authoritative, arrogant cadence. He is not the only one on the platform armed, unfortunately. But he is apparently the only one unaware to be holding a weapon.

While the twelve on the ground remain passive, these three take priority. If necessary, I can disarm the stupid one for his sword, but a blade might be frivolous against whatever these cult members are capable of.

The teenager next to him, dressed in a formal school uniform with a tie and collar, shrugs. He slots his wooden staff into one of the grooves of the platform, playing with the angle as bored children tend to do. “I was just hit by a bus,” he supplies helpfully.

An arrow spills from the quiver of the third, adding to an already sizeable pile. Clutching his bow with the grip strength of a security blanket, the kid shuffles behind the uniformed student and buries his face beneath his curled bangs.

The brown hair, brown eyed cult leader continues talking, slipping into a pre-rehearsed customer sales pitch for the unwitting audience members. Despite aggressive interruptions and pushback from the teen with a sharp instrument, the man manages to eke out three relevant details in the largely derailed and fruitless dialog:

1. The twelve cult members are responsible for this abrupt transmigration

2. These people acted at the behest of a "King"

3. We have to visit the King for the Quest Details

It is at this point that I discard the twelve as a threat and tune out of the conversation to focus on more important things, like the super suspicious circle and shapes carved into the stone of the platform beneath my feet.

The grooves are neatly carved, an even depth throughout the intricate design. Two elements exist within the pattern; sanskrit-like characters and deliberate curves and lines connecting each facet of the circle. There is a smaller circle at each of the points the three had manifested. What strikes me most about the text and design, however, is its similarity to the tattoo on my hand.

Eventually, the teenagers agree to meet with the king and step down from the platform. The anxious one trails behind them reluctantly. Following a straight path from the steps to a set of double doors, they step into the hallway and beyond line of sight. The collection of nearly fifty arrows littering the platform vanish.

The robed figures collectively sigh in relief and plop down to the ground, producing loaves of bread and other pastries from beneath their robes.

All twelve pause in their eating when I descend from the platform and onto the first step. Sitting on the last step, feet on the polished stone ground, I offer a hand to the representative.

He fills it with a roll of bread.

“...Thank you.”

He nods, stuffing his face with another roll and procuring two more from beneath his robes.

The bread is flaky and soft, the kind typical of a patisserie. Nibbling on the buttered bread, I lean back against the platform and size up the chamber. Despite the only noticeable entrance being the double doors at the end of the path, the air feels fresh. Blue particles dot the space, languidly floating and bumping into one another in much the same manner as air particles. While the majority seem to be trickling down, one trails a path towards the ceiling, disappearing into the darkness before reaching the top.

“The blue particles,” I say, catching his attention. “Are they dangerous?”

He gulps down his bite and glances about the room. He shrugs. “Depends on what you use them for. It’s just mana.”

“Oh? Is this mana visible everywhere?”

“Only where there’s a concentration of magic. Usually more of them, but it needs to replenish.”

“A high cost - summoning people from other worlds.”

He nods, then runs a quick calculation on his hands. “About triple our number unaided.” He decimates another loaf. “Not that you’ll find them; not easily, anyways.”

“I would imagine so. You all seem to be quite accomplished in your field.”

A smirk of pride. “We like to think so.”

“How does the mana replenish? They look so energetic; I imagine the particles would leave the first chance they got.”

“This is an artificial chamber.”

“An artificial chamber?”

“Yes. There are runes inscribed into the outer wall that encourage magic into the space.”

“That’s pretty interesting. And are you responsible for maintaining the runes?”

He puffs out his chest.

“The lines are nice and even on the platform. I can tell they’ve been well-cared for.”

“It’s the only one in the kingdom. We have to take special care of it.”

“Good work.”

He beams.

I nibble on the bread some more. One of the other robed figures nudges him and tilts their head towards the doors.

“Will you be catching up with the other heroes?” he asks.

“Catching up with the other heroes?”

“To speak with the king.”

“Political speeches tend to be the same; an ounce of deflection sprinkled with a spoonful of truth and some legal nonsense to back their claims and promises.”

“He’s a good man.”

“Most are.”

He bounces his weight between his crossed legs, staring at the half-eaten bread in his hands.

“Do you enjoy your work in the castle?”

“Most of it happens outside.”

“Outside?”

“Inspections, transportation networks… that kind of work.” He is about to say something else, but stops himself at the last moment. Most likely classified; pertaining to espionage or secret work.

“Both very important work.”

“They are. I was on inspection when the first wave hit… the king granted me a bonus.” His voice dims at a flash of recollection, filling with a touch of recalled exhaustion.

The first wave, huh? Is that why we were transmigrated?

I clean the crumbs from my gloves and stand. Bending in front of him, I offer my hand again.

“It was a pleasure meeting you. Please, call me Ryan.”

He takes my hand. “Ivans.”

You have successfully befriended the person known as Ivans. Please set up communications.

That’s curious.

Ivans cocks his head, seeming oblivious to the voice. I offer a placating smile.

“Better go listen to your king. Is the path easy to follow?”

He nods.

“Thank you for the conversation, Ivans.”

“May your journey be blessed and bright.”

“May your journey be blessed and bright; we’ll talk later.”

Exiting the chamber, I take stock of my inventory. Pen, phone, pocket watch, running shoes. Since this transmigration occurred post-return home, only one concealed dagger for weapons strapped at my back. This world has bread, so at least some of the ingredients must be aligned between worlds. I could possibly lace my cufflinks with poison for a backup. Not much use at the moment though beyond a minor distraction.

The others are engaged in animated chatter when the door to the throne room is opened. The king, slouched over his seat and massaging a headache, straightens promptly.

Naturally, the two teenagers are still chatting between themselves as the king declares them to be on official record and welcomes them to the kingdom as official and protected citizens. The piercing gaze he awards them and their blatant disrespect suggests how deeply he cares for the sentiment. He flicks a side glance to his advisors, who have developed a sudden unease.

“You do the raid, then the sidequest.” Mr. Swordsman slices the air with his hand as he speaks. Switching it into a fist, he slams it into his other palm to emphasize the word sidequest. Lifting it up into a finger gun aimed at Uniform, he finishes his lecture. “That’s how you find the statue.”

“And the princess?”

“What about her?”

“She’s a big part of the main quest.”

“Forget the princess. The queen is what matters.”

“Yeah, but– ”

“She’s manipulating you anyways. Just a Chess Master trying to move her pawns to the other side of the board. It’s a waste of time. Just humour her while you handle the plot that actually matters.”

Cutting Uniform off with words and a handwave. The teenager shrugs off the interruption, but cocks an eyebrow with a challenge of convince me.

“Just watch.” He finally turns his attention to the king. “So?” he says to the king and person of respect in the room, “What do you want?”

The king glances again at his advisors. One of the advisors offers him a thumbs up. He sighs.

“Welcome, Great Heroes.”

“Skip the cutscene.”

Another glance. Another motion to continue. “In thirty days, a rift will appear. Kill the bastard and the wave of monsters keeping it open.”

“And?”

“What? Was that not short enough for you?”

The advisor who had offered the thumbs up facepalms. Two begin whispering between each other. The scribe at the king’s feet takes a note. The teenager, wholly unaware to the concepts of listening or dialog exchange, pushes his agenda without batting an eyelash.

“What’s in it for us?”

He gestures with his sword. Two knights reach for their weapons. The king stays them with a hand. “Fame. Riches. You will of course be branded as heroes and granted the title of Friend of the Kingdom.”

The two teenageres return to their animated chatter, missing the most telling part of the king’s words:

“Not that any of it’s worth much.”

Thumbs Up motions the king to stop talking. The scribe continues taking notes. The king grumbles to himself about Rena and that damned queen. Arrow squirms uncomfortably. Staff eggs Sword on for amusement.

When the two teenagers finally deem themselves prepared to continue the audience, the king awards them a sharp scowl.

“Companions will be assigned to each of you tomorrow. Tonight there will be a meal and rooms prepared for your comfort. Please state your names for the official record.”

Sword, of course, speaks first. “Bryant Riordan.” His boastful chest deflates, a quizzical frown tainting his smirk. Seems he finally noticed the compulsion weighing the air, courtesy of the caster meditating behind the king, wand gripped between both palms. A hood obscures their gender, but a lock of hair, strands pale white and delicate, has slipped free.

The scribe at the king's feet records the name, then turns his attention to the student with the staff. He answers slowly. Last name, then first.

“Tsuruga, Yuki.”

“J-just Arty will do...” the third one squeaks.

“Baths have been prepared, along with an assortment of outfits for your convenience. These servants will escort you. Dinner at half-bell. Dismissed.”

Four servants bow and herd the three from the room. Bryant sighs and complains about cutscenes padding his gameplay. Yuki offers a dry remark in turn, delighting at the idiot’s lack of awareness.

Half-bell, huh? Somehow, I already know the answer: one hour. A piece of information that is separate from the translation ability that has been transcribing the spoken words for my ears this entire time. I sensed it after observing the discrepancy of sound to lip-movement; a block in the back of my mind resembling a complex Rubik’s cube that is constantly shuffling its colours.

This strange object is also responsible for the complete lack of awareness from passerby. When I was in the first room, Ivans only recognized me upon briefly interrupting the circuit. Further testing pending.

The king deflates the instant the three are through the door. Signing paperwork and listening to reports with a half-assed diligence, he continues with his work under a pained countenance. I sidestep a purple and white uniformed staff who rushes past me to kneel before the king.

“Your Highness, the lead proved false.”

He curses at once, crippling the document in his palm. The aide at his side swoops it out of his grasp in an instant, passing it to another who hastily fixes the creases.

“And there has been no contact?”

“None, Your Highness.”

“Take a night to rest. Resume the search at dawn; I refuse to be a chess piece for that damned woman.”

He bows and retreats at once. Scoffing at the paper restored to his hands, he waves a side door open. Two commoners file in and step up to waiting podiums.

“An entire court of justice, and your bickering has brought you to me. Final statements?”

The two start arguing over each other. He silences them almost immediately, then returns to his documents. There is a bead of sweat on his forehead, and his furrowed brows crease deeper with pain.

“You both perjured yourselves and lied under Truth Oath. The crown has every reason to dismiss your case outright. However, I have decided to give you each exactly what you want. Troy will accept ownership over the bull. Kerinth the cart.”

Both launch into objections at once, but the king ignores them to stamp a seal upon three documents. One is passed to his aide, the others to the protesting commoners. While one wisely shuts up to read the paper, the other mumbles something dangerous underneath his breath:

“Her Majesty wouldn't be this stupid.”

The king’s glare turns frigid. The advisors balk, adopting a pale palor. “Then make your appeal. Your final appeal. Dismissed.”

Both commoners are dragged from the throne room. The king lurches to his feet. If not for the aide's swift reaction, the steps would have quickly followed. Upon mention of the banquet, he grimaces and waves the aide away to lean on a knight instead. With court no longer in session, the spell caster breaks his meditation.

The compulsion weighing the throne room lifts.

As the staff take their various exits, the aide stops two and assigns each a task. They tap something into their respective screens and take off.

That sword-holder, Bryant, was treating this world in terms of videogame mechanics. Though I am mildly curious to his compulsion, it’s best to learn the environment from the people who live there. Time to tour a castle.