(Yokohama, Japan)
Rain poured down in relentless sheets, drenching the city of Yokohama in a cold, unforgiving downpour. Juxen trudged through a narrow backstreet, his feet sluggish, dragging through the puddles that had pooled in the cracks of the uneven asphalt. His messy light-brown hair clung to his forehead, soaked and matted, while his dark red eyes flicked cautiously from side to side, searching for a place to rest. His thin, scarred neck was exposed to the cold, a reminder of fights long ago, and his gray hoodie, tattered and full of holes, clung to his body like a second skin, offering little protection from the biting wind. His baggy sweatpants, heavy with rainwater, stuck to his legs, and his sneakers squelched with each step, barely holding together after months of wear.
He shivered violently, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps, the cold air stinging his lungs. Every exhale was visible, warm puffs of vapor in the freezing night. His hands, wrapped in dirty white bandages, trembled as he stuffed them into the front pocket of his hoodie, trying to preserve what little warmth he could muster. His nose twitched, sniffling from the cold, and his chapped lips murmured silent curses under his breath. The street was empty, save for the occasional car splashing through the puddles, sending waves of icy water over his feet and legs. Juxen winced as each splash hit him, though he barely had the energy to react beyond a flinch, his body too numb, too tired.
The rain had a smell—petrichor mixed with the grime of the city. It clung to everything, soaking the air with the scent of wet asphalt and old metal, a smell that somehow grounded him in this miserable reality. His heart raced, a constant beat of anxiety thrumming in his chest, though he wasn't sure what he was afraid of anymore. Maybe everything. Maybe nothing. The cold, the hunger, the uncertainty—it all weighed on him.
He kept walking, his mind wandering as much as his feet. His breath hitched, his anxiety rising with each passing minute. The wind howled between the buildings, and he pulled his hood tighter over his head. His shoulders hunched forward, trying to make himself as small as possible, as if the rain wouldn't notice him if he disappeared into his own misery.
Then, suddenly, headlights pierced through the darkness. A large truck, its engine roaring like a beast, barreled down the street toward him. The lights blinded him for a moment, and Juxen's heart lurched in his chest. He stared, frozen, before instinct kicked in, and he dove to the side, his body hitting the wet pavement hard.
"What the hell… he almost hit me," Juxen muttered, his voice shaky, more from shock than anger. He pulled himself to his feet, his clothes now completely soaked through and clinging to him like dead weight. He shook his head, trying to clear the fog of confusion as he stumbled forward, continuing down the street.
But the truck wasn't done.
The low growl of the engine came back, louder this time. Juxen glanced over his shoulder, his blood running cold as he saw the massive vehicle reversing at an unnatural speed. It skidded, tires screeching on the slick road, then swerved, turning to face him again.
"No way…" Juxen whispered, his breath catching in his throat.
The truck lurched forward, accelerating straight toward him. Panic surged through him, and he bolted, his feet pounding the pavement as he sprinted through the narrow alleyways. He could hear the truck's engine roaring behind him, the sound growing closer with each second. His heart pounded in his ears, his breath coming in short, desperate gasps. The rain blurred his vision, but he pushed forward, his legs burning as he wove through the streets.
"This can't be happening! What did I do?!" he screamed, his voice cracking as the truck smashed through a nearby fence, sending debris flying in all directions. The sound of destruction echoed through the neighborhood as the truck relentlessly pursued him, crashing through walls and houses as if they were made of paper. Glass shattered, brick crumbled, and the ground trembled beneath Juxen's feet.
He darted down another alley, his body moving on pure adrenaline now, his muscles screaming in protest. He leaped over a fallen trash can, narrowly dodging the truck's front bumper as it tore through a row of parked cars. The force of the truck's passage sent the cars flipping through the air, crashing into buildings and exploding into sparks.
Juxen didn't stop. He couldn't. The truck was gaining on him, its headlights casting an eerie glow on the rain-slicked street. His breaths came in shallow, panicked bursts, his chest heaving as he sprinted up a small hill in the neighborhood. His soaked sneakers slipped on the wet ground, but he pushed on, his legs moving faster than they ever had.
As he reached the top of the hill, the truck right on his heels, something impossible happened. The truck launched itself into the air, and for a brief moment, everything seemed to freeze. Juxen's eyes widened in horror as the truck began to shift, its metallic frame twisting and contorting, parts folding and snapping into place. The once-white truck transformed into a massive humanoid figure, its eyes glowing an ominous red. The rain bounced off its gleaming surface, and the sound of grinding metal filled the air.
Juxen skidded to a halt, his heart slamming against his ribcage as the mechanical giant hovered above him.
"Whooooo the FUCK are you?!" Juxen shouted, his voice trembling with disbelief.
The massive robot's eyes glowed brighter, and its voice rumbled like thunder. "Truck-Kun. That is who I am. You will be isekaid."
Juxen's mind raced, his pulse pounding in his ears. "This is a dream. This is a dream. I-I should be waking up any moment now!"
But it wasn't a dream.
Truck-Kun lunged at him, its massive fists swinging with deadly precision. Juxen barely managed to dodge, his body twisting in mid-air as he avoided the first punch. The wind from the blow ruffled his hoodie, and he could feel the sheer force of the attack. He landed on the balls of his feet, but before he could react, Truck-Kun was on him again, delivering a barrage of punches and kicks. Juxen moved with instinct, dodging and weaving through the assault, but he knew he couldn't keep this up. His muscles were screaming, his body barely keeping pace.
Then, one blow connected.
The punch slammed into his side, sending him flying through the air. His back hit the road with a sickening thud, and he tumbled, rolling over and over, his body bruised and battered. Blood dripped from a fresh wound on his forehead, mixing with the rain as he struggled to sit up. His vision blurred, and pain radiated through every inch of his body.
As he slowly looked up, Truck-Kun was descending upon him, one massive fist raised, ready to deliver the final blow. Juxen's eyes widened in terror as the robot's punch connected with his face.
Everything went black.
The blow from Truck-Kun's fist hadn't just knocked Juxen into unconsciousness. It had sent him spiraling deep into his mind, where memories he had long buried came rushing back with overwhelming force.
He was a child again, no older than six, standing in the middle of a cold, empty street. The night sky above him was cloudless, yet it felt darker than any storm. His hands were small, trembling, the bandages on them absent. His clothes—an oversized jacket and torn jeans—were stained with dirt and blood. He called out, his voice hoarse and fragile, but no one answered. His parents had vanished, like ghosts in the night, abandoning him without a second glance. He could still see the silhouette of their backs as they walked away, their footsteps getting softer and softer, until all he could hear was the eerie stillness that followed.
The streets of Yokohama had become his home, but there was no warmth in them, no safety. He could recall the endless nights where he curled up in alleyways, the cold seeping into his bones as his stomach growled, the hunger gnawing at him like a wild animal. He had survived by stealing scraps, by avoiding people's gazes, by disappearing into the shadows. The scars on his neck—marks from fights he had barely survived—had been his only companions. The world had forgotten him, and he had learned to forget the world in return.
The rain from his past mingled with the rain of the present, and for a brief, cruel moment, he wondered if he had ever really left those streets. Was he still that scared little boy, waiting for someone who would never come?
But just as the memory was about to consume him, a hand—large and abrupt—grabbed him by the shoulder and yanked him out of the flashback.
"No need for flashbacks," a voice said, casual but firm.
Juxen blinked, disoriented, his mind still reeling from the sudden shift. He looked up, his eyes widening in disbelief. "DON'T RUIN MY FLASHBACK SCENE!" he shouted, his voice cracking with a mix of frustration and confusion.
"Don't care about your past, you're not here for a therapy session."
"F-Fuck you! Whoever you are!"
He was no longer lying on the cold asphalt. Instead, he found himself sitting on a dark platform, suspended in some void-like space. The platform was circular, its surface smooth and cold, with no walls or visible boundaries, only endless darkness stretching out in every direction. Around him, seven other people sat, all equally confused, their eyes darting around nervously as they tried to make sense of their surroundings.
The first person to catch Juxen's eye was a tall, muscular man with a shaved head and a thick, dark beard. His skin was a deep, rich brown, and his eyes were a piercing green. He wore a suit of armor that shimmered with a dull silver glow, though it was scuffed and dented in places. His hands rested on the hilt of a massive sword, which lay across his lap. His name was Halbrecht, and the role written on the back of his hand in strange alien symbols read:
⟢⍜⧫⟒⋏⟟ ⟒⎅⟟⍜⧫⋏
Knight.
"What the hell is this?" Halbrecht muttered, his voice deep and gravelly, as if he had spent his entire life barking orders on a battlefield.
Next to him was a shorter woman with wild, curly red hair that framed her freckled face. Her eyes were an intense blue, and she wore a patchwork of leather armor, tools, and gadgets hanging from her belt. There was a reckless energy about her, the kind that made you think she was always one step away from blowing something up. Her name was Mira, and the word on her hand read:
⎅⟟⍀⍜⟟⍀
Engineer.
"I don't know, but this is some seriously weird shit," Mira said, squinting at the alien symbols on her hand. "Why can I even read this? What is this, sci-fi bullshit?"
Sitting a bit farther away was a tall, slim man who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else. His pale blond hair was tied back into a low ponytail, and his gray eyes darted around nervously. He wore a black cloak that seemed to absorb the light around him, with daggers strapped to his waist and chest. His name was Rovan, and the title on his hand read:
⍀⍜⍜⎅⍜⟒
Rogue.
"I don't like this," Rovan muttered under his breath, his fingers twitching as if he was already planning an escape route. "None of this feels right."
Next to Rovan sat a woman with dark skin and long, braided hair that fell over her shoulders. Her eyes were a striking golden color, and she carried herself with a quiet authority. She wore robes of deep green, embroidered with golden patterns, and her fingers were adorned with rings of various shapes and sizes. Her name was Selene, and her title read:
⍙⍜⍙⍀⏃⍀⟒
Oracle.
"I agree," Selene said, her voice calm but steely. "This place… it's not natural. There's something watching us."
Juxen glanced down at his own hand. The strange symbols glowed faintly on his skin:
⍙⍜⍜⎅⟒⍀⟒⍀
Blood Assassin.
Of course. It was oddly fitting. He had always been good at blending into the shadows.
'Blood Assassin..roles…an empty space..what the hell is going on? And my teeth, why are they sharp? Is this hell?'
Sitting next to him was a man with a towering frame, his hair a shock of white that stood out against his dark complexion. His eyes were a cool, stormy blue, and he wore heavy armor that clinked when he shifted. His name was Eirik, and the word on his hand read:
⏃⍜⟒⍀⏃⍀
Berserker.
Eirik growled, flexing his massive hands. "I don't care what this place is. If someone put us here, they're gonna regret it."
Another man sat cross-legged near the edge of the platform, his black hair cut short, with a long scar running across his cheek. His eyes were a deep, unsettling red, and he wore dark robes with a hood pulled up over his head. His name was Kaelen, and the title on his hand read:
⍀⍜⎍⟟⏁⟒
Warlock.
"Great. Just great," Kaelen muttered sarcastically. "I finally get away from the real world, and I end up in… wherever the hell this is."
Finally, there was a woman with short, silver hair and pale blue eyes. She wore simple, flowing robes of white and gold, and she had an air of calm about her, though her expression was one of confusion. Her name was Lirael, and the word on her hand read:
⏃⍀⍜⎍⟒
Healer.
"I think we're all wondering the same thing," Lirael said softly, her voice soothing despite the tension in the air. "Why are we here? And why these… roles?"
Juxen glanced around the group, his head spinning. None of this made sense. One moment, he'd been fighting a truck—an actual truck—and now he was sitting in some strange void with people he didn't know, playing some bizarre role-playing game.
Before anyone could say more, there was a sudden flash of light above them. Juxen's eyes snapped upward, and he saw a group of figures standing on a raised platform. They were cloaked in shadow, their faces obscured by hoods, but strange talismans hung from their necks, glowing with an eerie light.
One of the figures stepped forward, their voice echoing through the void. "Attention."
The word rang out, sharp and cold.
Halbrecht, ever the warrior, stood up, rage flashing in his green eyes. "What the hell did you do to us?" he shouted, his hand already on the hilt of his sword.
Juxen joined him, "Why did you bring us all here?! Answer us! Why did you send some fucking transforming truck robot after me?!"
Everyone with roles looked at Juxen, asking, "You got that too?"
Juxen sighed, "Yes, sadly."
The hooded figure didn't answer.
The silence that followed was deafening.
But then one of them answered, "This is the Trial Of Kings. The world of Erdralor is in a crisis, dealing with the demonic pantheon of devil gods, elves, you name it. Surviving the trial of kings will make you apart of the king's subordinates, whom the king desperately needs leaders and warriors by his side with unique roles that can aid him."
'This is a dream, it has to be.' Juxen thought.
Mira, nonchalantly said, "Yeah, whatever. Just tell us what we need to do."
Juxen looked at Mira, saying, "How can you be so calm…?"
"Just wanna get this over with, pretty boy."
Juxen blushed, looking away fast.
'I've never been called that. Yeah this is a dream.'
One of the hooded figures smiled under the talisman on his face, saying, "Your lives are in our hands. In order for you to be assigned to a king's side in our world, you must be able to kill a goddess."
Gasps shot through the room.