Handsy Maid Girls (And Other Royal Treatments)

I can understand the grandeur of welcoming a newly summoned hero into the world but being summoned inside of a stadium type thing?

Really?

What's with the evangelical-megachurch-audience?

Aren't hero summonings supposed to be clandestine, royal, occult secret society, behind-closed-doors, well kept secrets?

Maybe I'm reading into it wrong.

Maybe I should be happy I'm getting this much inverse notoriety right out the gate.

Maybe I should try my best to soak up all the national and/or continental attention like a reluctant sponge.

This is what's on my mind as I stood atop one of the platforms set out below me and looked up at the thousands upon thousands of faces peering down at me expectantly.

All eyes turned towards me.

Oh gods, this is going to be a disaster.

“Welcome Takumi Sato, to Caeloria's Grand Royal Amphitheatre, it’s an honor and a pleasure to welcome you to our world." A very kingly man approached me.

I say kingly because his robes trailed behind him and seemed to stretch on for ages.

He had a white beard, a regal crown, and an aura of authority.

If that doesn't scream 'king,' I don't know what does.

I'm just taking wild-ass guesses at everything.

It's too early to tell what this is.

I took a deep breath and tried to compose myself.

It won't kill me to be polite.

At least, I hope not.

"Thank you very much for letting me participate in today's festivities." I nodded politely.

"My, what a sense of humour on this guy." The king bellowed.

I laughed, nervously because I couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic or not.

"Yes, uh, it seems everyone here is enjoying my presence very much."

"You Takumi, will do great things for the people of Caeloria and its lands." The king declared.

I stared blankly.

A few armored knights approached me.

“Sir Sato, if you’ll follow us,” one said, bowing just slightly.

I braced myself. This was it. The part where they sit me down and tell me I’m actually cannon fodder, or parade me through the city on a donkey like that one Jesus Christ guy.

The knights escorted me with honor and dignity… which was impressive, since they forgot to tell me where we were going.

They marched me back through winding corridors into the palace itself.

Somehow this amphitheatre was also a castle? Part of one?

Whoever drew the blueprints wasn’t on the payroll—he was on mushrooms. The magic kind.

The air was cooler inside, the walls lined with golden sconces and oil paintings of people way more important than me.

At the end of the hall, the royal costumerie, as one of the butlers put it.

“Mister Hero sir, if you’ll please allow us to disrobe you,” one said, bowing slightly.

“Disrobe me?” I croaked.

They were already closing in with measuring tapes, silk gloves, and other instruments of monumental embarrassment. My fight-or-flight instinct stuttered its way in, except instead of fighting or fleeing, I stood there like a deer in headlights while two maids tugged at my sleeves and another one circled me with a tape measure.

I wanted to die all over again.

And yet… somewhere in the back of my mind, a part of me—tiny, horrible, male—was very okay with this.

They whispered among themselves as they worked.

“Unusual musculature for a summoned hero.”

“Very… developed.”

I caught one blush before she ducked away.

Great. The one time girls actually notice me, it’s because they’ve been trained under royal protocol not to laugh.

“Uh, listen,” I muttered, trying to keep my dignity. “How about we… skip the royal garb? I keep the tracksuit, you slap on a fancy sash, and we all go home early. Yeah?”

They looked scandalized. One of the seamstresses dropped her quill. But after a moment, they all nodded hesitantly and got to work layering on a sash over my still-zippered tracksuit.

The result? Imagine if a subpar F-tier Olympic athlete accidentally got knighted.

“Perfect,” I said. “Ten out of ten. Totally king-worthy.”

Next stop: the king’s court.

You’d think they’d want me rested, fed, maybe given a pep talk. Nope. Straight into a room packed with nobles in powdered wigs and armor so polished it could double as a mirror.

The only reason it probably looks as good as it does is likely because none of them have seen a lick of real hardcore battle.

Bureaucracy truly outlives, persists and always weasels its way into every world it seems.

The king introduced me with booming pomp. I bowed, nodded, smiled—like a bobblehead with anxiety—and tuned out everything else. Titles, treaties, prophecies… none of it mattered.

I didn’t give a single flying duck about the difference between "House Whatever" and "Duke Whomever."

All I caught was “hero, savior, chosen, blah blah.”

I clapped politely when they paused, like I was at a play I didn’t understand.

Finally, they dragged me out to the training yard.

And there they were: my new “party.”

A swordsman with hair so spiky he might as well use it as a flail.

A cleric who already looked like she hated me.

An archer with an expression that screamed “comic relief,” and a tank so massive he probably bench-pressed siege engines for fun.

They turned, saw me—saw the royal items slapped awkwardly over my tracksuit—and tried not to laugh.

They failed.

The swordsman smirked. “Nice outfit, Hero. Did the gods summon you straight from gym class?”

Normally, I’d let that roll off me. But for some reason, this time, it stung.

Still, I remembered Altherion. Fiora. Running my mouth. Dying stupid. Resetting the board.

I nodded plainly.

"Glad to see you owning it at least, whatever it may be." The swordsman smirked.

"I actually kinda like it! Functional!" The tank bellowed out.

The cleric didn't say anything like if she was wary of me, and just sighed deeply as they led me around and showed me around the yard.

I saw the king overlooking us.

He saw me looking at him looking at us.

He then proceeded to break his kingly facade with an enthusiastic thumbs up.

I gave him a wave then followed my new crew.

The swordsman and tank took me to the armour rack and got me suited up.

It was clunky, stiff and made me very rigid and not as dextrous as I should be but I made it work somehow.

"Think fast!"

The tank chucked a rock at my chest.

It absorbed the blow and bounced right off without making a dent!

"Still works!"

Still works!?

"Let's see what you can do with a sword, Sato."

A duel for fun.

Fancy.

What could go wrong?