Happy to Help
Marcus's vision was swimming as he was dragged down an unknown corridor, his hands bound by some unholy magic that crackled like a cigarette in the dark. He was pissed, and rightfully so.
Vincent, that snake in the grass, had pushed him right into the demon's clutches. And what was that nonsense he'd whispered in his ear? Something about facing it head-on. "Just my luck," he muttered, bitterness dripping from every word. "Stuck with bottom-tier stats and doomed to croak in a day. What a fucking joke."
He had only been at that damned party because of his brother, trying to play the good sibling card for once. The invitation had been a chain around his neck, and now, here he was, battered, bruised, and on his way to more bad luck.
The hallway seemed to stretch forever, shadows leering at him like old, unwanted acquaintances. Each step felt like a march to the gallows, and he couldn't help but think how he'd trade all this other world hero crap for a stiff drink and a pack of smokes.
"Heroes, what a joke," the Marcus muttered under his breath, blood painting a crooked line down to his chin. And that princess, not even a glance my way. Her eyes were glued to Vincent like he was some kind of silver screen heartthrob, instead of the backstabbing rat he really was.
As consciousness flickered in and out, Marcus's mind spun back to that cursed night, the night everything went sideways. The echoes of his brother's voice, loud and insistent, buzzed in his ears like a swarm of angry bees.
"Come on, Marcus, you never leave the house. This'll be a good chance for you to socialise. You might even find a woman," his brother had said, his grin more of a jeer than a genuine smile.
Marcus had grumbled his assent, the words tasting like cheap liquor on his tongue. Exceptions could be made, he figured. His favorite video game's seasonal event had wrapped up, leaving him with time to kill and a gnawing emptiness that his brother's proposition seemed to momentarily fill. The promise of a woman? Well, that could always spark a fire under a man's feet.
He'd only been at the party for an hour when it happened. Not even a chance to spark a conversation with anyone worth pursuing. One minute he was nursing a lukewarm beer, the next, a blinding flash seared through the room, and suddenly, he was standing in a grand hall.
His head buzzed, a chaotic symphony of confusion and realization. He knew what was happening. Who wouldn't? It was a popular genre amongst his crowd, a twisted fantasy brought to life. The people, the scenery, it was straight out of a fantasy game.
A rippling pain shot through his arms, snapping his thoughts back to the grim present. One of his captor's nails dug into the flesh on his arm. His legs had given out from sheer fatigue, leaving him no choice but to be dragged along like a sack of forgotten goods.
Right now, nothing made sense. It was all a blur, a chaotic whirlpool of pain and confusion. But one thing was crystal clear in the fog of his mind, Vincent was going to pay. Marcus swore it to himself, each heartbeat echoing the promise like a relentless drum.
So Vincent wanted to play the hero that bad, huh? Of course he did. He had the stats, the charm, and the eye of the princess. It was obvious he saw Marcus as an obstacle in his grand, self-serving narrative. Fine. Two could play at that game.
Marcus's mind was set, he would claw his way out of this hellhole, no matter what it took. The searing pain, the humiliation, the fear, they were all just fuel for the fire burning inside. He'd endure it all, push through the agony and despair, just to get his hands on Vincent.
---
The morning light had sharpened into the harsh midday sun by the time I made my way to the training grounds. The stone walls of the castle loomed high, casting long shadows over the yard where soldiers and guards trained and sparred.
A note the maid had slipped me while we talked lay crumpled in my pocket, a scrap of paper with a scrawl that was as desperate as her eyes had been. I'd read it enough times to memorize the details, but I kept it anyway. A memento.
Her fear had been palpable, her desperation so thick you could cut it with a knife. It drew me in, like a moth to a flame. How could I have resisted such a tempting offer.
The absorption was smooth as silk, the body and any trace of what happened vanishing like a pleasant dream whisked away on the morning breeze. But the status glossed over one hell of a detail in its seductive pitch.
Switching systems was sheer torture. Every fiber of my being screamed as it felt like it was shredded into confetti, only to be pieced back together, nerve by nerve, from the inside out, a rebirth wrapped in barbed wire.
Yet this agony was fleeting. In its ghastly wake, the new system unfurled like a diabolical offering, a twisted gift from the deepest pit of perdition. It heralded a more sinister game—three ominous additions to the status slate: Corrupted, Converted, and Adherents. Each marked at zero.
As I approached the training grounds, I could hear the clatter of weapons, the grunts of exertion, and the barked commands of instructors. I stepped through the archway, my eyes scanning the area. Men and women in armor practiced with swords and shields, their movements disciplined and precise.
Among them, I noticed a woman in a commanding position, her voice carrying above the din. She was tall, with short-cropped blonde hair and a face that spoke of years spent in the field rather than behind a desk.
I approached her, adopting a look of casual curiosity. "Excuse me," I said, loud enough to be heard over the noise. "I was hoping to observe the training today."
She turned to me, her eyes narrowing slightly before softening. "Of course," she said, her voice surprisingly warm. "We can always use more eyes on the field. I'm Lieutenant Marella."
I nodded, offering a slight smile. "I'm one of the summoned hero's, Vincent. It's a pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant."
Her eyes widened slightly, a flicker of surprise and something else, interest. "Ah, one of the heroes. It's an honor to have you here. Please, feel free to observe. Our men can always use the motivation of an audience."
"Thank you," I replied, my tone dipped in a calculated respect. "I value the chance."
Marella's stare clung to me with a deliberate intensity, her gaze sharp and calculating, before she swept it back across the ranks of training soldiers. "These soldiers," she said, her voice laced with a dark, commanding allure, "are honing their craft, sharpening their edges for the unseen horrors that skulk in our future."
I nodded, my eyes scanning the soldiers, looking for the guard the maid had described. "It's good to see such dedication. The threat we face is formidable, and every bit of preparation helps."
She glanced at me, a hint of curiosity in her eyes. "You seem quite knowledgeable about combat. Have you been in many battles?"
"Battles…" I let the word linger, heavy with a shadowed past. My voice took on a weary timbre, thick with unspoken tales. "Mine were more intimate, more... personal, I suppose."
She seemed to soften at that, her expression turning more sympathetic. "I understand. War is never easy, even for those who are trained for it."
As we spoke, I kept my eyes moving, watching the soldiers. It didn't take long to spot him—the guard from the maid's description. He was a burly man with a scar running down one side of his face, a cruel smirk playing on his lips as he sparred with another soldier. The way he moved, the brutality of his strikes—it was clear he enjoyed inflicting pain.
"Lieutenant," I said, my tone casual. "Who is that man over there? The one with the scar."
She followed my gaze and frowned slightly. "That's Sergeant Dalmar. He's one of our more... aggressive trainers. Gets results, though his methods are a bit harsh."
"I see," I said, filing away the information. "He seems quite skilled."
Marella nodded. "He is. Though, sometimes I think he enjoys it a bit too much. But in times like these, we need every edge we can get."
"Indeed," I said, my eyes never leaving Dalmar. "It's good to know we have such capable people."
Our conversation continued, Marella growing more comfortable as we talked. She was clearly out of the loop when it came to the hero summoning, her infatuation with me growing more apparent with each passing moment. Her eyes lingered on me, her tone becoming more personal, more inviting.
"I'm curious," she said after a while. "What brought you to the training grounds today? Surely a hero like you has more important things to do."
I shrugged, maintaining my casual demeanor. "The king deferred our grand induction until tomorrow, so here I am, taking the measure of those who'll stand shoulder-to-shoulder with us in the fray. It's vital to know the mettle of our allies, wouldn't you agree?"
She smiled, a genuine warmth in her expression. "Oh, of course. Thats understandable. It's refreshing to see someone of your status taking an interest in the soldiers. It means a lot to them, and to me."
"Thank you, Lieutenant," I replied, mirroring the warmth of her tone. "It's an honor to be here."
As our conversation drew to a close, a sudden shout broke through the air. I turned just in time to see Dalmar deliver a brutal blow to his opponent, sending the soldier sprawling to the ground. The smirk on Dalmar's face was one of pure sadistic pleasure.
Chaos erupted as soldiers rushed to help the fallen man, but Dalmar just laughed, clearly enjoying the turmoil. Marella's expression darkened, a mix of anger and frustration.
"I need to deal with this," she said, her tone hardening. "Excuse me."
"Of course," I replied, watching her stride away to confront Dalmar.
As the scene unfolded, I remained on the sidelines, observing. Marella was shouting at Dalmar, who seemed unfazed by her anger. The other soldiers watched nervously, unsure of what to do. It was clear that Dalmar held some sway over them, his brutality a tool of control.
In the chaos, I saw my opportunity. I moved closer, my eyes locked on Dalmar. The soldiers parted for me, their expressions a mix of respect and curiosity. I approached Dalmar, who finally noticed me, his smirk fading slightly.
"Who the hell are you?" he growled, his tone challenging.
"I'm one of the summoned hero's," I said, my voice calm and steady. "And you are Sergeant Dalmar, correct?"
"Yeah, that's right," he said, his eyes narrowing. "What of it?"
I glanced at the fallen soldier, then back at Dalmar. "I've heard about your methods. Effective, but perhaps a bit too... enthusiastic."
Dalmar's smirk returned, more vicious this time. "You got a problem with how I do things?"
I edged closer, my voice dropping to a venomous whisper reserved for his ears alone. "Hardly, Sergeant," I hissed, the words slicing through the stale air between us.
"You simply suffer from a deplorable lack of creativity, a woeful dearth of passion. There's no beauty in your methods, no art in your execution."
I pivoted smoothly, locking my gaze with his, the usual vibrant blue of my eyes now shrouded in a hollow void, an abyss stripped of light. The transformation was stark, and it struck him like a fist to the gut.
Dalmar's cocksure demeanor crumbled into dust, supplanted by a mask of bewilderment and fear. He recoiled, his face paling, eyes ballooning in their sockets as dread crept up his spine.
He knew of the hero's summoning, every child did. It had been a millennium since the last conclave of heroes had been called, their powers legendary, their deeds etched in the annals of history. But something about this man stood in front of him was off, skewing the age-old narratives, and even a hardened soul like Dalmar felt a chill of unease. This wasn't just another tale. This was something far more sinister, and it unnerved him to his core.
Without another word, Dalmar turned and retreated, his earlier swagger dissolved into a subdued, almost servile posture. Words clung to his lips, heavy and unspoken, while a whispered echo of "Demon" repeated endlessly in the depth of his mind.
Marella watched him go, her expression a mixture of confusion and curiosity. "What did you say to him?" she asked, turning to me.
I offered a casual shrug. "Just reminded him of the importance of respect and discipline."
Her eyes searched mine, looking for some hidden truth. "Well, whatever you said, it worked. Dalmar's been a thorn in my side for a long time."
"Happy to help," I said, giving her a charming smile.
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