Chapter 2: Chapter 2: Arrival

They weren’t dead – not in the conventional sense, anyway. How long had it been? An instant? A day? The last thing he remembered was gunfire, Miles wanting to fuck his sister, and a mob of zealots chasing martyrdom. Now, it was silent stone underfoot, the sudden absence of the Jadiran chaos both disorienting and, oddly enough, a relief. That, and a strange pressure point along his spine that hadn’t been there before.

Just as he’d figured, they’d been isekai’d. Of course, it could be one of those FUBAR versions where being summoned was a fate worse than death, but even that beat their last stand at the garage. Better odds for him and, thank God, for Mack. He’d still need real treatment, but here, at least, they had a shot.

Cole took in the room. Stone walls, bare, save for the glowing inscriptions carved into the surface. Runes, if he had to guess. They didn’t mean much to him, but they were obviously more than decoration. Likely some kind of defense?

The guards were another story. They wore scaled brigandine armor, reinforced with composite layering that looked built to absorb impacts as much as deflect them. Half knight, half riflemen, they were equipped for both close combat and ranged attack – odd, but perhaps even necessary given the evidential existence of magic. Above all, their gear had the unmistakable look of standardization: identical armor, rifles of the same model. Somebody had clearly put some serious thought into this setup.

“Yo, what the actual fuck?” Miles muttered beside them. His voice sounded tense as shit, but the lack of reaction from the guards suggested he’d at least kept most of his cool.

Apparently, the guards had prepared for the summoning quite well. They stood in a loose formation, hands on weapons but pointed down; ready, but not aggressive. The guards struck a balance: vigilant enough to manage any unexpected hostility, yet restrained to avoid provoking it. Their numbers and firepower rendered any thought of forcing an exit futile. But then, given their stance and respectful demeanor, it didn’t seem Cole would need that option anyway.

Cole kept his stance mirrored to theirs: rifle at the low ready, not aiming. A quick glance confirmed Ethan and Miles had caught on as well, following his lead. Discipline kept them sharp and ready – as much as possible for guys who’d just been isekai’d. No doubt fighting through shock worse than Cole’s, they spread out to form a loose cordon around Mack.

Directly before them stood a man who didn’t match the guards. Middle-aged, dressed like some court official from a bygone era, he projected a calm authority. His stance was open, hand visible and empty, almost like a police negotiator sizing up a standoff. A diplomat, maybe, or something similar.

From the lack of hostility, it seemed like they were about to be crowned heroes. But Cole knew better than to buy into the pageantry; he’d seen enough isekai to know settings like these had a habit of chewing up saviors and spitting out scapegoats. Sure, letting anime guide his thinking felt a bit absurd, but the caution was sound – and his instincts backed it up. “Identify yourselves.”

“Sir Fotham Fallamore, Director of Thaumaturgy, at your service, gentlemen.” The man gave a light bow, answering in English. Naturally. After all, what was an isekai without a built-in autotranslator? The man’s lips synced perfectly with the words, oddly enough. So many questions, but Cole could pick it apart later; top priority was getting a read on this situation.

He continued, “On behalf of the Kingdom of Celdorne, I welcome you to the planet of Tenria. I shall trust that you will pardon this sudden change of scene – though I must think, given the peril you left behind, that it might yet prove something of a reprieve.”

A reprieve. So he knew. That meant this wasn’t some blind summoning ritual; they were handpicked. How flattering. And the way Fotham spoke, with that polished, genteel elegance? Well, Cole could appreciate the nuance. It took skill to convey gratitude and expectation all in one breath.

“His Majesty, King Armonde Celdor, as you might expect, extends his deepest gratitude for your timely appearance here, though I imagine you find yourselves drawn in rather less willingly than you would prefer.”

Cole felt a scoff bubbling inside him. Less willingly was a hell of an understatement, but he had to admit, they were alive. While he could see the framing of this gratitude – a gambit in diplomatic parlance – it was hard to deny that they owed some thanks. There was a debt here, however unasked-for.

“Nevertheless, here we are, bound together by circumstance, improbable though it may be. We shall, of course, see to your companion’s recovery without delay – a small token of goodwill, if you will. One which, I daresay, you might recall when we speak further on matters of service you may render to the Crown. And once he is settled, rest assured, I shall gladly explain all that has transpired to bring you hither, as far as knowledge permits.”

So that was the game: a gesture of goodwill, coupled with a request dressed in decorum. How convenient they had to get summoned at the paradoxically worst and best time possible. Still, Cole respected the finesse. They’d bought his team’s lives with magic, and now the tab was due. But for Mack’s sake, he could play along, let them do their ‘token of goodwill’, and then get the lay of the land. Gratitude wasn’t blind, after all, and he’d make sure they held onto enough leverage to navigate this.

But… how exactly were they gonna ‘see to’ Mack’s recovery? Magic? It sounded great in theory, but there was no way he’d trust it implicitly; too many variables. He had no idea how they handled the basics of wound care. Maybe they had germ theory. Maybe they used magic in place of disinfectants, or maybe they didn’t bother at all, assuming the spells took care of it.

And what about debris? The bullet that hit Mack passed straight through, but if it hadn’t? If they thought ‘healing’ meant just sealing the skin, that might trap all sorts of foreign particles inside. Past that, being able to heal tissue didn’t mean they’d catch internal issues like bleeding or damaged nerves. A quick fix wouldn’t do Mack any favors if they missed something deeper.

“Alright,” Cole conceded. “Let me clean the wound first. I ain’t letting you do a thing, either – not until I know exactly what you intend to do.”

Fotham offered a slight smile. “Our healing, I grant you, may appear unconventional to you. But I assure you, it’s quite comprehensive. We address the wound in its entirety – both seen and unseen harms, if you will. But by all means, tend to your companion as you see fit. I’d think no less of it.”

Cole peeled back Mack’s bandaging. Blood started seeping out again, filling the air with the scent of iron. At least it wasn’t bright red; no arterial spray. He pressed gauze over it, applying enough pressure to slow the bleed but not too much to cause more damage. Grabbing the saline, he flushed the wound.

Everything seemed fine so far – aside from the clear shock and blood loss. He then applied the disinfectant, which elicited a short cough from Fotham. Cole ignored it, focusing on the wound. After coating the area thoroughly, he removed the bloodied bandages, clearing the way for the healers.

It was risky, trusting them to this extent, but there was no other option. Cole understood first aid as well as any other operator, but he was no medic, and he was certainly no surgeon. The only viable option, as much as he disliked it, was to gamble with magic. He stepped back, giving Fotham a nod.

The two healers approached: an older guy who looked like he’d seen his fair share of battlefields, and a blonde girl with pointy ears – an elf, if he was seeing things right – who looked just out of her twenties. Then again, if she was an elf, who knew what that meant. Cole figured the older guy was the lead, but it was the girl who moved in, hands aglow with a soft white light. She held her hand over the cleaned wound while the older guy kept the region isolated with barriers. Small particles floated upward – dead skin, debris that the flush missed.

It was a small detail, but it at least showed they had protocol. Thorough, yes – a comfort of sorts. But that didn’t mean he could trust the process. No gloves? Concerning, but maybe they didn’t need any.

As the light shifted from white to green, the skin around the wound began to knit itself together.

“Jesus Christ,” Ethan breathed, turning slightly away, yet still drawn to it – like watching a LiveLeak video.

Miles, apparently, wasn’t spared from it either. “Hell, that ain’t right.”

The process was far from the clean, antiseptic affair of sci-fi or the pleasant warmth of the fictional magic he’d been exposed to. Shit, this was biology laid bare, accelerated to a nauseating degree. Tendrils of red snaked through the wound, layers of tissue writhing and fusing over them like hateful flesh.

He’d seen his fair share of gore – hell, he’d caused plenty of it. But this little foray into body horror easily took the cake as some of the most grotesque shit he had ever seen. And the kicker? Where moments ago there'd been a gaping wound, now there was only unblemished skin.

Efficient? Sure. Effective? Terrifyingly so. Easy on the eyes? Fuck no. What unsettled him even more was how easily magic dismantled the laws of physics. It’d be less disturbing, of course, if Cole could do the same. Could he?

The glow faded from the girl’s hands, magic dissipating like mist. Mack’s chest rose faintly – breathing, but barely. His abdomen looked good as new, yet he lay there, still looking one foot in the grave.

Logic dictated that if they could conjure new tissue, new blood shouldn’t be an issue. Cells were cells, after all. So why did Mack look like he was running on empty?

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The despondent look on the younger healer’s face landed hard. She quickly suppressed it, but the truth was already laid bare.

Cole gauged his teammates’ reactions, then turned back to the blonde. “How long is he gonna be like this for?”

“I cannot yet say. The procedure taxed his body greatly; it’s not unheard of for patients to lapse into such states after surviving injuries as severe as his.”

The healer continued, apparently catching his frown. She explained, “Regrettably, it is not without consequence. It shall take some time ere he is restored in full. His faculties have thus… receded, as it were. Yet fear not; these episodes of profound lethargy are oft attendant upon recovery from injuries nigh unto death.”

Profound lethargy? The linguistics of this place struck Cole as a bit strange, possibly archaic, but he could parse it well enough. To his knowledge, there was only one condition that matched that description.

Cole looked down at Mack. He looked worse than he had in that cafe, sallow and sunk into himself. “A coma, then? So all we need to do is just… wait? And he’ll be fine?”

The woman nodded. “Most recover within a month. Might we bring him to the infirmary?”

As if he had any other choice. “Lead the way,” Cole sighed.

The two healers lifted Mack with an ease that bordered on the absurd, 200-odd pounds rendered inconsequential. The older guy especially; he shouldn’t have been able to manage it, not without straining. Instead, they barely shifted their stance, the only clue a faint glow outlining their bodies as they set Mack on a stretcher. Some sort of strengthening magic, maybe.

Cole signaled Ethan and Miles, and they fell in behind the procession as guests, with Fotham and a handful of knights escorting them. They exited the barren summoning chamber, a structure so fortified it might as well have been a citadel unto itself. The sheer concentration of guards and magical devices spoke volumes about the Celdornians and their caution, playing several roles – a show of force, intimidation, and especially containment. It was real prudent of them, given the inherent risks of yanking unknown entities across realities.

The winding corridors, all lacking windows or any external reference point, only validated the idea further. True, it was a damn fine display of defensive architecture, but it was hardly conducive to building trust with one’s interdimensional guests. It was hardly the ideal backdrop for diplomatic discourse, either. Still, beggars couldn’t be choosers, and Cole had to start somewhere.

“So, Sir Fotham, looks like you’ve held up your end. Let’s get straight to it, then. Why’d you summon us? Anything you’re allowed to tell us for this little tête-à-tête.”

Fotham smiled. “Your perspicacity does you credit, Hero. Rest assured, I’ll be as forthcoming as circumstances allow. To answer you directly, we face an existential threat – a demonic incursion. They seek the destruction of mankind. We’ve several years to prepare, to ready ourselves.”

Summoned as the kingdom’s personal deus ex machina, brought from one battle to the next. He almost wanted to ask if it was optional; if he could spelunk away. But hoping for a slice-of-life at this stage was, admittedly, wishful thinking. “And that’s where we come in, I take it?”

“Indeed,” Fotham replied. “Every century, a new Demon Lord rallies his hordes against us. Our preparations this time required additional assistance.”

Cole felt his lips curl into what probably came off as a rather unpleasant smile. “Huh, and you just so happened to procure arguably the best fighting force on Earth. What, did you get us on sale, or are we just that good of an investment?”

“I suppose one might contend so. Quality, after all, oft surpasses mere quantity, no?”

Cole eyed Ethan and Miles, searching for a read. Ethan’s response was restrained as usual – a tight-lipped nod, like he was agreeing to a bad bet. Miles, though, jumped right in. “Hell… I’m guessin’ a ‘thanks, but no thanks’ ain’t exactly on the table neither, is it?”

“Oh, I suppose we could see you returned, if that be your inquiry. Though I dare say you’d find yourselves precisely where you began, with nary a moment’s difference. One wonders if that would truly satisfy your curiosity – or merely prove an exercise in futility, no?”

Right. So, basically a death sentence. It was a Hobson’s choice in the purest sense – not that he’d expected otherwise. Cole studied Fotham’s face for any hint of deception. “Got it. Stay here and fight your demons, or go back and die immediately. Hell of a choice, I must say.”

Was he lying? Maybe, maybe not. That was the one thing he hated about diplomats and spooks alike – they didn't just have the best poker faces around; they showed the world exactly what they wanted it to see. It was impossible to get reliable intelligence out of them; no lie, no truth, not even a half-truth. Just a whole lot of nothing.

Fotham tilted his head in acknowledgment, but he clearly had a comeback ready. “Yes, I suppose it might seem a touch dramatic from your perspective. But I assure you, you’re at liberty to decline our proposal, should you desire.

Ethan finally spoke up. “So we can just walk away? No obligations, no strings attached?”

“Oh, you may walk away if you like,” Fotham replied, waving a hand with what looked like indifference, though Cole doubted he was half as relaxed as he wanted to seem. “You’re welcome to live as you please here in Celdorne. I’d only caution that when the demons arrive – and they will – they shan’t be selective in their slaughter. You’d be fighting for survival in a world reduced to ashes, but do feel free to opt for that quaint sort of freedom.”

Cole frowned. It seemed like they really did have no other option. “Fight for a world that could still be saved, or wander off and watch it burn around us.”

“Same shit, different toilet,” Miles grumbled. “Hajis for demons? Hell, just another fancy way of sayin’ we ain’t got a choice.”

“Think of it less as an ultimatum and more as a… courtesy. We offer you the chance to make a difference, to prevent the demons from leveling every last corner of this realm. Should you refuse, of course, you’d be left to brave the aftermath. But I’d wager you wouldn’t much care for the scenery.”

Spotting the first window they’d seen since their arrival, they reached the infirmary at last. Fotham and his guards stepped to the sides, permitting their entry.

A chill met them as they entered, drawing Cole’s gaze upward. Spheres lined the walls, smooth and linked by copper pipes that led to a box mounted outside one of the windows. A cooling system, evidently – pretty damn pragmatic for a world seemingly enamored with the arcane. At least they understood the value of keeping things cool. Great for infection control, and not a bad perk for summer and food storage, either.

The floor of the infirmary itself was lined with cots, all etched with runes, likely enchanted for healing. Well, if it worked, it worked. Most of the tools looked familiar enough – the scalpels and vials, anyway. Cole could hardly guess at what the fluids in said vials might be for, or what the crystalline rings on a corner table were supposed to do.

The healers eased Mack down on one of the cots, the older guy leaving to tend to another patient while the blonde elf immediately checked his eyes with ungloved hands. Honestly, it still felt off, a jarring deviation from ingrained protocol. But hey, maybe they really did know what they were doing. Their earlier performance – the magic cleansing, the isolation barriers, hell, even the cooling and ventilation in this room – all pointed to a grasp of germ theory that, while primitive by modern standards, was functional enough.

Ethan walked up, standing over Mack’s unconscious form. He looked at the elf. “You said he just needed a month of rest, right?”

The girl gave a reassuring smile, the same kind doctors used to calm a worried relative. “Yes, and fear not, he will have our full attention as he recovers. Our healers attend at all hours. Should there be any change, you’ll be informed without delay.”

Cole glanced down at Mack. It was all up to his body and the healers now. “Alright,” he sighed, returning to the elf. “Thank you, Doctor uh…”

“Elina Gracer,” the girl said, offering a smile. “Just call me Elina.”

“Yes, thank you, Elina,” Cole said, giving a nod to Miles and Ethan.

As they regrouped, Miles addressed Fotham. “Alright. So what’re we in for with this King of yours? Fair warnin’, I ain’t got the slightest clue about all that noble etiquette business. I’d rather not get myself axed on my first day here.”

“You have little to worry about, provided you observe even the slightest modicum of civility. His Majesty, you see, appreciates frankness – by all means, speak freely. Of course, do not neglect proper decorum. Hence, it is proper to address him as ‘Your Majesty.’

“Got it. Anything else?” Cole asked.

“Should you accept the King’s proposition, you shall find Celdorne quite prepared to cultivate your talents. You will be trained not only in combat, but in the use and control of your latent magic. Further, you’ll be instructed in the fundamental aspects of our kingdom’s culture – its customs, currency, written language, and other necessities that will enable your adaptation. All will prepare you for your role as Slayers under the Office of Threat Assessment and Control.”

Cole cocked an eyebrow. Well, that wasn’t too bad, all things considered. Fotham’s little info dump was as revealing in its omissions as its admissions. Generosity was just a veil. If they were willing to invest this much in them, the demons must be quite the shitshow. At least the JNI killed their targets quickly. No doubt they’d soon be wishing they’d taken the offer to return home.

“And if we say no?”

Fotham shrugged. “Well, my offer of citizenship was entirely sincere. You would receive a reimbursement sufficient to establish yourselves comfortably. You would, of course, be at liberty to pursue a life of your choosing, though without the resources and stature accorded to Slayers.”

After a pause, Fotham continued. “Regardless of the path you choose, rest assured, your man shall receive our full care until he is entirely restored.”

Quite the info dump to process, and with those opulent double doors looming ahead, time to let it sink in was at a premium. Par for the course, really – overload the new arrivals with exposition, then whisk them off before they could reason it out. Cole could only hope His Majesty would deign to give them at least a day to reflect.

Though that, of course, hinged on the rather optimistic assumption that the King gave two shits about their thoughts on the matter. After all, why risk the new heroes getting cold feet? Far simpler to present their glorious destiny as a fait accompli.

One small concession at a time – that was Fotham’s game. Heal the dying friend, earn the trust, then oh-so-casually suggest they might want to look less like a blood-spattered death squad before their royal debut. Fair enough. Cole could definitely respect that.

The military-style garments were a nice touch. Practical enough as a replacement for their fatigues, proper enough for court, and just happened to make them look like they already belonged. They’d keep their tactical gear, naturally – that wasn’t up for negotiation, and their gracious host knew better than to push that particular envelope. The opportunity to wash away all that blood, on the other hand, was an offer Cole readily accepted.

And naturally, their little makeover funneled them into whatever Fotham had orchestrated. Look the part, play the part, become the part – all before they’d officially agreed to anything. Well, at least they wouldn’t have to fuck up the first impression by looking like murder hobos from some edgelord’s manhwa.

As they arrived, two sentries stepped forward, pushing the doors open.

“Gentlemen,” Fotham said, stepping aside, “His Majesty awaits.”