The Desire to Return
Someone once said something along those lines.
If a prediction emerged that a major event or issue would strike humanity and plunge the entire world into chaos, the public would be given advance warning about the matter.
Through science fiction films, television dramas, novels, comics, and other cultural and entertainment media, measures would be taken beforehand to soften the blow, guiding people toward a soft landing.
As for how anyone could foresee such a future, the conversation inevitably drifted into the realm of the fantastic, as it always did. Prophecies, the transmission of alien knowledge, warnings delivered from another world, or occasionally a message brought by a messenger of God.
Yet those tales often gained credibility by tying themselves to real individuals or works, layering on enough embellishments to sound entirely plausible.
The theory that aliens truly existed, that Steven Spielberg had revealed their general appearance to the world through E.T., and that he had received government assistance to make the film after personally viewing actual alien corpses.
The theory that two films with nearly identical themes about asteroid impacts had been released at the same time because a real asteroid crisis was looming, and the movies were meant to ease the coming psychological shock.
Of course, such claims were clearly nothing more than conspiracy theories or idle gossip that could be believed or dismissed at will. Anyone who showed genuine interest beyond mild curiosity was likely to be laughed at by ordinary people who did not share the same fixation.
That was why the recent flood of Hollywood movies about alien invasions or incursions from another world, along with the countless novels, comics, and games that repeatedly borrowed the same motifs, met with the same reaction.
People simply grumbled about the creators’ lack of imagination, claiming that material so similar it bordered on plagiarism was the result of laziness—an inability to invent anything new.
The writers themselves were no different. Commercial authors had no choice but to follow the trends that sold, so they usually chased themes that had already proven themselves. But at some point, when the market became flooded with nearly identical concepts, even they began to sense that something was wrong.
It was almost as if an unseen hand was guiding everything from behind the scenes. The stories were so alike that they seemed like countless people who had heard the same tale simply rewriting it in their own words.
Yet in the end they dismissed it as nothing more than a passing fad. They had no other choice. On the surface, there was no other explanation that fit.
Then one day, it happened.
That event—no, those events—actually occurred.
Just like in the movies, the games, the novels, and the comics.
Something so absurd it defied belief had become reality.
Only then did people remember the words someone had once spoken: before an event large enough to shake all of humanity, entertainment media would be used to minimize the societal shock, reducing the psychological impact to prevent chaos.
But movies did not kill people.
Novels were nothing but paper pages or a few kilobytes of text. They did not collapse buildings or rip utility poles out of the ground to use as weapons.
The gap between entertainment and reality was simply too vast.
The culture and achievements humanity had built over thousands of years, along with the pride of being the lords of creation, began to crumble in an instant, as if to prove it had all been nothing but arrogance.
The one fortunate thing was that among the strange phenomena sweeping the world, there was also information concerning humans themselves.
“What did he say?”
Atop the lofty throne, a middle-aged giant of a man radiated both dignity so absolute that no one dared lift their gaze and an oppressive aura of equal weight. He looked toward the woman who had turned her head in response to his question.
The magnificent crown resting on his head made it clear he was a man to whom no one could demand deference, yet he addressed the young woman—who appeared young enough to be his daughter—with careful politeness.
Anyone who knew the two were roughly the same age would not have been surprised. Beyond their similar apparent ages, the woman standing before him was the Saintess, the highest-ranking figure among the messengers of God. Even a king could not speak to her casually or treat her lightly.
She was also a longtime comrade who had fought beside him on countless battlefields for many years.
Yet in this moment the king’s eyes held neither reverence for the Saintess nor respect for an old ally—only simple curiosity about one man.
Even though she was nearing her hundredth year, the Saintess’s voice remained clear and lovely. It flowed softly, yet it sank deep into the ear so that no one could possibly miss a word.
“Hmm.”
The king made a quiet sound, his expression unreadable, and released the armrest he had been gripping. He tapped the rounded ornament at the end of the armrest twice with his index and middle fingers.
At that moment, the soldier standing at the far entrance of the audience chamber straightened his posture and struck the butt of his spear against the floor twice.
Thud. Thud.
The Light of the Kingdom! The Will of Protection! The Shield of the Battlefield! … requests entry to the grand audience chamber!
“Let him enter.”
The king spoke with the same polite tone he had used with the Saintess and granted permission. Only then did a figure appear from the corridor beyond the entrance.
What was surprising was that, despite the long string of titles, only one person had come.
Step. Step.
“…….”
The man was unarmed. He was not particularly large, nor was he wearing any heavy armor. His light cloth garments were torn and frayed in many places, so worn that they revealed the skin beneath. The body inside was covered in countless scars and surgical suture marks, making it difficult to find any unblemished skin.
His shabby attire before the king could have been called disrespectful, yet none of the ministers seated in the chamber, nor the guards lined along the walls or the knights of the royal guard, dared to rebuke or restrain him.
Rather, the king rose from his throne and descended the high dais himself to greet his guest.
The man facing the king stood only about 170 centimeters tall. No matter how muscular or scarred his body was, he looked small and shabby compared to the king. Yet despite the nearly fifty-centimeter difference in height, the aura each of them radiated was so evenly matched that neither seemed to yield an inch.
“Was it that obvious…”
At the man’s first words after seeing his face, the king looked slightly embarrassed and rubbed his cheek and the back of his neck.
“I ate some fairly strong poison. It gave me a bout of diarrhea.”
“You still haven’t let go of your attachments, I see.”
“It’s nothing more than the final death throes before the end. By the way… have you made your decision?”
The king saw no need to discuss the everyday matter of someone poisoning his meals here. His eyes remained fixed on the man, whose head barely reached his chest.
The scarred man, bearing the full weight of that burning gaze, gave a small nod and then turned his eyes toward the Saintess standing behind the king.
“Ah…”
He had expected it. Yet when the words actually left the man’s mouth, the king closed his eyes for a moment and let out a sigh that sounded like a groan.
“Is there no room for reconsideration?”
At the king’s question, the man quietly lifted his head and looked up at the great man standing before him—the man who had become great in his eyes.
“……”
When he had first fallen into this unfamiliar world, he had heard that the person before him was the son of a poor farmer. When he had adapted somewhat to this world and first met him, the man had been a low-ranking mercenary in a shabby band.
Many things had happened after that.
There had been many battles and many deaths. There had been comrades and enemies. There were countless faces he could no longer remember.
“When I first arrived here… they told me it was a mistake.”
The man spoke while looking at the Saintess. She knew there was no trace of reproach in his eyes, yet her face still flushed red and she slowly lowered her head.
The one who had brought him to this world was a high priest of the temple to which she belonged—a man now dead and gone from the world. It had been a time of monster rampages and hellish chaos between humans and non-humans. They had prayed to the gods for a hero to save the world, but the gods had given no answer.
Unable to endure it, the priest had resorted to a forbidden method and summoned a being from another world. But something had gone wrong. What arrived was not a hero but an ordinary person—no, someone with even less physical strength and build. The priest’s power had not been enough to send him back.
So the frail young man from another world had been forced to adapt to this one.
After the temple that had tried to help him was destroyed by monsters, he had wandered without destination.
Yet he had never once spoken the word “give up.”
Even when comrades fell, even when he suffered injuries that could have left him crippled, even in situations where death should have been inevitable, he would scream in pain and despair but never surrender.
Many comrades had come and gone at the king’s side, but those who remained now were the Saintess beside him, a few individuals engaged in personal research or training in distant lands, and this man.
If one were to name the oldest among them, it would be this very man.