I Should Have Ran Away

“What do you mean by that?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you saying that you got these test answers wrong on purpose!?” Mr. Johnson had asked. To be honest, I don’t remember what specifically I said to give him that idea. It was a pretty heavy accusation for a teacher to throw at a student! But it still feels like a lot has happened since the time that I had an argument with my 12th grade Social Studies teacher. I got grabbed by some big shadowy hands and pulled into some alternate reality…

But I’m pretty sure this was probably the cause! If people wanted to fight about causes of causes, I’m sure they could pull that chain all the way back to the Big Bang. I have a pretty strong feeling this is the most important place on that chain, connecting the “then” I used to know and the “now” before my eyes. I’m not entirely sure what exactly makes that true, but that’s why I’m going over it now in my head.

Mr. Johnson had ordered me to come to his office during my lunch break to review my test. I tried avoiding it by playing up my forgetfulness and hiding in the library while ignoring the principal’s voice over the school loudspeaker. Of course, the librarian Ms. Rachel had found me and told me to go. Getting out of a lunchtime detention was definitely not worth the chance of being seen as a troubled student by Ms. Rachel. At least, that’s what I told myself in order to follow along. Though, that reasoning is probably made-up.

I remembered one time that me, Cass, Molly and Megan finally got caught after coming to play games on the library computers at basically every lunch for almost three straight marking periods. I don’t think any of us cared about causing trouble for Ms. Rachel then. It was especially silly for me to pretend like I cared, when I was the one who suggested the library in the first place. On the other hand, after Cass and Molly graduated, I did start using the library in a more intended way, and I had more friendly conversations with Ms. Rachel because of it. She happens to be really knowledgeable about animals, and her house basically sounds like a bit of a barn! What kind of librarian raises chickens in her basement? It was hilarious!

Now, as for my social studies teacher… Mr. Johnson, I think, has not been my favorite high school teacher. I’ve been trying really hard not to hate him, but he doesn’t make it easy. Assigning homework on breaks and demanding that students spend money on arts and crafts projects were bad enough, but he also decided to have a grudge against me for literally no reason! It’s the end of senior year, and he’s still demanding that students act like there’s some reason to try hard in his class. His charade of a kingdom, where his authority is only recognized by himself…

When I put it that way, maybe I really did do something to earn his ire. The way I carried myself in class probably subconsciously communicated my perception of his lack of real authority and importance. That’s a pretty mean way to view someone, especially a teacher. Basically, I’m saying that I see him as a narcissist. And sure, he does seem like that to me from my perspective, but what if I try and consider things from his perspective?

“Question 13 and 24-B both ask about which representatives from each of the Allied countries attended the Yalta conference. For question 13 you selected Harry S. Truman for the US representative, while in the short answer question you clearly wrote that the US representative was Franklin D. Roosevelt,” Mr. Johnson furiously pointed out while stabbing at the test paper with his finger. “When a student’s answers on the multiple choice and written responses contradict one another, that is usually a clear sign of cheating without real understanding of the subject.”

I wondered if that was really the case. Nerves can get to a person and effect their performance on a test, and cause them to mess up on questions they otherwise would get right. If a teacher tells me that such a case is negligible, that test performance is an acceptable representation of the accumulated knowledge of a student, he must have pretty good reasons to think that. Either way, it’s all moot. I didn’t cheat or mistakenly put down a wrong answer anyway.

“The part I couldn’t understand is that it was the multiple choice part that you got incorrect. It’s easier to cheat by just copying one answer instead of a full paragraph, so most people caught this way are cheating on the multiple choice.” he reasoned. That seemed reasonable enough. So what was his explanation? “So, you must have been cheating with that new AI thing.”

Absurd. On a paper test? Did he think I pulled out my phone during the test without anyone noticing?

“I always see you reading something on your phone or laptop during class. You’re looking up the answers to tests beforehand with AI, aren’t you?”

How is that even supposed to work? Does he think I knew all the test answers beforehand and memorized all the answers? Or, if he doesn’t think I knew what questions were on the test, does he think that I’m memorizing all the possible answers to all the possible questions he could give? That’s even more ridiculous! And trying to remember a series of facts just sounds a lot like just regular studying anyways…

“Well,” Mr. Johnson growled, “Do you have anything to say for yourself? Or are you just going to sit there staring like a fish?”

“I…” the single word of reaction was drawn from my mouth before I could stop it. I had flinched as his eyes narrowed. Like a faulty computer program, my thoughts loaded a half-formed argument before reaching a fatal error and crashing. Again and again, I could not think through a single thing to say that would not make him angrier. My throat closed and my sealed lips trembled. I knew that every moment I couldn’t find a reply was another moment his anger grew.

“Maybe I read the question wrong,” I said, sounding unsure. Every answer I could give was wrong, and not answering was also wrong… so why not just make up an excuse? I’m not sure when, but at some point, my brain had switched into survival mode. I stopped looking for desirable outcomes to this situation, and started looking for ways to just leave. Or, maybe I was already doing that. Maybe I’ve always been doing that. I think from that point I was checked out, or maybe I was already even before that…

Okay, I’m spiraling again.

Deep breaths.

Focus on the facts.

Stop interpreting.

Stop speculating.

The time was just past noon, and my teacher was angry with me. He told me that he thought I was cheating. I lied. He didn’t believe me. He said that he would be contacting my parents and the principal about this. I nodded, and asked if that was all. He was confused, so I asked if I could have his permission to leave. I didn’t know that a man’s face could turn so red with anger. It was actually pretty purple, with a vein bulging on the top of his bald head, but also on the sides of his roughly shaven neck! Focusing my eyes on details like that made it easier to breathe than looking him straight in the eyes or taking in his expression.

Somehow or another, I managed to survive the encounter with the angry man and proceeded with my daily classes as normal. Social studies was a morning class, so I did not have to worry about seeing Mr. Johnson again. That was no consolation to my stomach, which was like rumbled like a bubbling pit of acid. I wasn’t sure whether I was relieved or pained by the fact that I skipped lunch. I was distracted for the rest of the day, stuck wondering if eating something would have been enough to let me vomit. Instead, I just sat there, physically uncomfortable and emotionally disturbed.

I asked myself familiar questions on the way home. Why didn’t I run away? Am I afraid that I would look weak? Is there a difference between what I’m doing now and running away? Stoic philosophy teaches that the only thing that a person really has control over is their own reaction to the world. No matter how bad things are in the external world, it’s up to the individual person whether they will react with anger. In that respect, I’ve been doing pretty well at controlling my responses. Yet… I feel like something’s gone wrong. There are so many things that are wrong.

Bit by bit, I’ve controlled and reduced my reactions. To stop making mistakes, I pulled back. I’ve stayed my hand, slowing down and rooting myself in place. To run, to try and change my life, would be to admit my own inability to emotionally handle a situation. By changing how I feel internally, I can survive any external circumstances—that is the true meaning of “strength” in my eyes. Survival. Adversity.

Maybe that is why those hands found me.

--

Arriving home from school, everything had felt normal. My mom was home from work a bit earlier than usual, but I remembered that she had a doctor’s appointment scheduled earlier today. There was no reason to put any significance on the fact that she was home before me. When she greeted me like normal, I figured that I had easily survived the test fiasco. She either didn’t get the message from Mr. Johnson and the principal on her phone, or she did not care. I had quite the convenient imagination.  

“I’ve heard that you’ve been cheating on all your social studies tests.”

It was only at lunch that she dropped the bombshell. Without prompting, after I had already swallowed several bites, she dropped that bomb right onto my plate. My stomach immediately rumbled as all the thoughts I had about escaping classes swam to the surface. My optimistic imaginings were wrong, of course. My mom had known about this minor scandal the whole time, greeting me, making dinner and then sitting down to eat dinner, all before deliberately bringing it up while eating. It was hard for me not to feel betrayed.

What kind of mother treats her only daughter like that? If she really trusted me, would she intentionally blindside me like this? It was deliberate, right? And she said tests? From what was relayed to the principal, the far-fetched idea that Mr. Johnson had that this pattern is repeated in other tests for the class was even more speculative than me cheating on this one test. There was a pattern among tests that I had taken in social studies, of missing multiple choice questions that also contained information that I wrote in short answer segments. The list of tests that could even apply to is very short, too short to even make something that could be called a real list. But she said—

“What do you mean all?” I asked. It was absurd. It was illogical. What kind of cheating pattern is that? Who would cheat in such a weird way? The fact that someone would make the same extremely weird mistake three times while cheating over the course of the year is absurd. When I made those “mistakes”, I thought it would be obvious to anyone who might discover it that it would be nearly impossible to be done accidentally. A pattern of extraordinary misbehavior. Something that should raise flags and provoke deeper investigation.

“So, you’re not denying cheating then?”

“No, I—” I had flinched as her eyes met mine. I looked down, unable to stand the look on her face. The truth was that I had been doing this kind of intentional self-sabotage on my tests when applicable for almost four years at this point. It was something of a private game, an in-joke that only I understood. When a test had separate questions that asked for the same information in two places, I would answer in contradictory ways. I didn’t expect anything to come from it…

But if something did come from it, it shouldn’t have been this. I made this game so that it would be obvious if someone noticed the pattern that they would understand that the rules only function to hurt my academic performance. There is no world that this pattern should have been interpreted as cheating. It’s so obvious! And yet, my mom doesn’t see it that way. Despite all I’ve done, throughout all my years as her child, she thinks that I would cheat on a test in such an illogical way.

“… I see,” my mother said after some time. There was a tiredness in her voice, the same one I often heard when a chore was left undone. I knew then that she had interpreted my silence as a profession of guilt. She rested her silverware against her plate and raised her hands to her face. “Clearly this is my fault… as a parent.”

My stomach quickly dropped, and my world began to spin. The truth was that she hadn’t cared what my words would be. Like with Mr. Johnson, this was not a fair discussion or even a trial. This was a judgement, one where I had been found guilty before I even had a part to say. She had prepared this rant while I was still at school. Her tone was one that was all too familiar.

“If you were struggling so badly with school you could have let me know. If you felt uncomfortable talking with your mother, you could have talked with your uncle. William went to college for economics, and he’s pretty smart. I’ve told you this, but how many times have you reached out to either of us? I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed… that you have so little trust in your family.”

I clenched my fists and did everything I could not to react to those words. At what point could I even start to argue with her? There is nothing even remotely reasonable about anything she said. My uncle did go to college for economics, but why would that make him any more helpful than anyone else for American history? It’s just because he was part of a “smart” major, and then got a successful white-collar job. It’s never been a question that that’s the future I have to follow.

“You know what this means, right? You know what I have to do, as a parent, right?” She asked, making a small gesture as if she expected me to answer. Knowing that there was no right answer, I shook my head. She shook her head right back at me and said, “You’ve shown yourself to be incapable of handling the responsibility and independence you’ve been given, so I unfortunately am going to have to take things into my own hands.”

And with that, the conclusion comes into focus. On my phone and laptop, she installed a monitoring app. From my door, she took my doorknob. She had threatened the latter several times before, having gone so far as to take it for three days before. The device monitoring was a bit new, but I wasn’t totally surprised. The point of taking the doorknob is that my door could no longer be closed or provide any semblance of privacy. Just walking by my room, she could stoop down and stare inwards. The idea had given me nightmares before.

But this was not so bad, I told myself. Curled up in the corner of my room, in the space between my bed and the wall, I was safely out of sight from any prying eyes. I didn’t put my head in my hands or anything dramatic like that. I had left my light off and just stared blankly into the familiar darkness. My hands slowly opened and closed as I worked through my anxieties. I remembered that years ago I had been afraid of the dark, but the darkness in my bedroom now felt like an old friend. To anyone who might have tried to watch me from my door, the room looked unoccupied.

Similar to now, I ran through the events of today, trying to find reasons for why people acted the way they did. Over and over, I tried to find some hidden meaning in my mom’s actions. Some justification that made these actions acceptable. Well, that’s what I tell myself I was doing. Instead, my anger flowed out. No matter how long I follow her wishes, no matter how long I try to be the person she wants me to be, none of that effort ever meant anything to her. I would never be trustworthy to her. She would never take my side in anything.

Growing up I was told that family would stick by each other’s side more than anyone else. Everyone else is out to take advantage of you, but not family. You can trust blood, they said. Sickening, I thought. Does the coincidence of me being born into this family really make us any closer than any strangers? What do any of my family really know about me? That I’m a good student? Do they think I’m shy or do they think I’m rude?

I don’t think that they think of me at all. I’ve never been more than an obstacle with the potential to be an emergency contact. The closeness of my family is something that only rises to that level. I’ve already wasted years of my life pursuing their interests. Time that I can never get back were wasted on baseball, billiards, bowling—seemingly all the sports that started with a B, while being barred from having any interests of my own.

I could learn sewing, but I could not have comics or they would rot my brain. I could learn cooking, but I could not play video games or they would make me lazy. I could read textbooks, but I could not read fiction or they would hurt my academic growth. I could take dance classes, but I could not watch anime or they would hurt my sociability. Everything they wanted was good, useful. Everything I wanted was evil, useless. It was just coincidental that all the things lined up so that the useful things were all on their side, they said. They couldn’t think of a single different reason that the lines were drawn as they were. I wondered if they lacked imagination.

Maybe love too was just a matter of imagination. Being unable to imagine living without a person, being unable to imagine being betrayed by this person, being unable to imagine them being any different or more complex than your simple idea of them. That’s the common meaning of “love” in the way that people actually experience it. Maybe I was lacking in that kind of love, because I could easily imagine people being crueler than they appear. The idea of hating people like that came very easily.

It welled up from within me, a familiar feeling of hatred. A feeling I absolutely could not hold onto. A feeling that I absolutely had to deny. A feeling that I always had to deny. Lena is a kind girl, I reminded myself, and I would never hate the people around me. Yes, that was harder to imagine. For better or worse, ease is not a criterion for what’s good or not. What monster grows up wanting to do something because it’s easy? Such a person would be quite easy to hate…

With thoughts like that, feelings such as that, I became aware of a clattering sound. The loud rumble of shuddering glass. My first reaction was to focus my senses on the useless door on the other side of my bed. If anything was to make a sound in this room, it would be from there. But no, that wasn’t it. Sound also could come from the window on the wall just above my head. The ends of tree branches tapping against the house… but that wasn’t the source of the sound either. Focusing on the wall behind me helped me to realize that I was looking in the exact opposite direction from the noise.

On the opposite wall, past the foot of my bed was a desk and past that was my closed closet. Was there something in the closet? Years ago, a bat had entered through the attic window and made its way into my bedroom closet. It had made a lot of noise, as it flapped around. But this rattling sound I was hearing was not from the closet, but actually coming from the desk just past the foot of my bed. To be precise, the sound was coming from the mirror mounted on the wall behind the desk.

I must be experiencing auditory hallucinations, was the first coherent thought I had. There was no sensible reason that my mirror would shake so violently. Sitting on the floor, it was obvious that there were no vibrations that could cause such a sound. That was enough to rule out every reasonable explanation. I considered whether my mom could have planted some sort of vibrating object behind the mirror to scare me, but that was obviously incorrect. The only conclusion for an illogical event without reason is that my perception of the event is what is wrong.

Deep breaths.

Calm down.

Focus on the facts.

Focus on my other senses.

Feelings, the carpet underneath my toes, the floor supporting my weight, my curled posture. Focusing on all that made it easy to drown out the rattling glass. At the time, I thought this reaction was reasonable, despite having no prior experience with hallucinations. I was too trusting, I think, in my own reasoning ability. Yes, that too, was probably a matter of imagination—

Because I never could have imagined that the mirror would shatter, spewing forth a sea of powerful shadowy arms. Like streamers, they shot out in an upwards arc before crashing into the floor and becoming jumbled. I blinked at this sight several times, but my actions did not erase the strange sight before my eyes. The arms pulsed, the fingers at their end wildly spasming.

My addled mind recognized with some amusement that the arms moved and folded a bit like the arms of inflatable tube mascots used at gas stations. They seemed to tangle and unwind themselves as if there were no fixed bones or musculature underneath. Whatever made them move that way was probably from a source behind the mirror that they stayed connected to, I assume. Of course, I was not thinking anything like that at the time, I was sitting there like an idiot trying to figure out how to make the hallucinations go away.

The arms gradually began spreading their conical search area to either side. An arm reached up and grabbed the front edge of my bedframe. In one motion, it tore right down the wood with a horrific crack. Another hand grabbed the bed post and yanked it right from the rest of the frame, the bed screeching as it jumped a few inches from the force. The bed post was flung at the opposite wall. Soon another hand grasped my bed, and then another. Rapidly, the bed was torn to shreds, wood, colorful cloth and stuffing all scattered into the air.

The frenzy of arms continued, seemingly completely disinterested in the destruction they caused. The area the hands reached was now closer to a 60-degree radius in front of the mirror. They still hadn’t found what they were searching for. They grabbed hold of the metal closet door, and tore it from its hinges. What an absurd sight, I remarked to myself.

I could feel that the arms were not a hallucination. I was not dreaming or having a nightmare. I understood watching the violent display in front of me that this was reality. I also was acutely aware of the fact that the only way for me to escape was through the window behind me. If I ran for the door, already well within the range of the arms’ random movements, the speed and power of the arms would certainly crush me like the rest of the objects in my room. With the way they grasp at everything, it’s possible I could shield myself from at least one arm with a pillow like the one by my side—but nine arms had invaded my arm through that mirror.

I had concluded that the arms did not use vision to guide them, so it was unlikely that if I stood, that the arms would react in time to grab me before I could unlock and throw myself from the window. One problem is that I had never actually opened my window, and was not sure which way the window unlocked or exactly moved… though that probably didn’t actually matter, the idea that it might slowed me down for an extra five seconds. Hesitation, refusing to make a decision, running away—

Even as the wildly flailing arms swung all around, the farthest ones from the center now hitting the wall that I had my back against. There was no path from here to the door that didn’t intersect with the writhing hands… so why did my eyes keep going to that door? Why did the hands, which indiscriminately destroyed and grabbed everything in the room, never seem to even impact the door which was not even able to fully close without a handle? What was I looking for? That wasn’t my way out…

I could see nothing through the empty slot where the door handle was supposed to be. Was I hoping to see an eye there, like I had seen so many times in my nightmares? Did I want my mom to watch me get torn apart by these hands? Did I hope that the presence of another person would end this supernatural occurrence? No, I don’t think so. I don’t think that is a plausible interpretation of these events.

Because, to my surprise, the door began to swing open. Unimpeded by the assault of arms, new light spilled in from the hallway as the door opened. At the door was my mother, holding some kind of paper tightly to her chest, with a concerned look on her face. Had she come to save me? It was an impossibility even greater than the existence of arms made of shadows breaking through my mirror…

Without thinking, before I could control my reaction as a proper stoic would, my body moved towards her. I stood. “M—” the sound began to form in my throat as my hand reached out towards her. But the one my hand reached was not hers. A hand of shadow blasted past the space in front of my hand and my palm touched the shadowy blackness. My hand slipped an inch deep into the arm’s length, feeling no resistance. And then my entire body froze.

Every muscle in my body contracted all at once, an incredible pain like being crushed from the inside out. I would have screamed, but I had no control of my vocal cords. For a moment that lasted an eternity, I was hyper aware of the complete loss of control of my body. The pain that swallowed my ability to move or do anything. And then, the real agony started.

By the time I had regained my senses, I had fallen over. It was probably less than two seconds that I was utterly disconnected from the world. I couldn’t feel the impact of the fall. While not as bad as when I touched the arm, my body was still aching and all my senses were on fire. My eyes were stuck open as I stared at the ground underneath, trying to make sense of it. It didn’t work. I didn’t work. I could not even look where I wanted to.

I saw the arms continue to move around me. I don’t think they noticed my presence immediately. It was almost a relief when a searing pain wrapped around my left forearm. Soon, I would be free from the pain, torn to pieces like the items all around my room. The one thing that rose to the top of my head was hoping that my mom was safe from whatever this thing was. My body was slowly regaining other sensations, but I knew there was no way I would be able to fight off or even delay these shadowy arms.

Another arm grasped me by my other shoulder, allowing the arms to lift my body from the ground. There, suspended by the arms, I was able to clearly see my mom still standing there in the doorway. She had the same expression as before, and was mouthing my name. Well, I’m sure she was probably saying my name quite loudly, my ears just could not decipher the sound over all the pain. More hands grabbed my other limbs, and they quickly began to push inward. I noticed that the actual process of being crushed by the hands was not painful. It didn’t feel like anything to be compressed. The only pain was from the contact with the hands themselves.

The final thing I saw before the hands completely crushed me and pulled me back into the mirror was probably the only thing that was easy to understand. Without looking at me, or seeming to notice the state of the room, she passed through the arms walked over to where my bed used to be. She reached out and moved her hand in the space above where my bed would have been. She was acting as if everything was normal. As if none of this supernatural stuff was occurring. And maybe to her, it wasn’t.

The world she saw was different from mine. The reality she lived in was one where I was still fine. She probably still saw me lying in bed, in a totally intact room. She was a concerned mother, and I was a rarely troublesome kid that needed to be looked after. It was comforting to know in the end, I guess, that part had never changed. Other realities may exist where magic is real, and magical arms may come through my window to drag me into another dimension, but the idea that there could be understanding between me and my mother is not even fantasy. It’s just delusion.

With that realization, I was pulled into another world.

--

The journey between worlds was supposed to be one that I was not conscious for. As my soul was separated from my body, it was supposed to be overwhelmed by direct contact with the shadow hands. My soul should have no experiences from the time in between entering the mirror and waking in the throne room. However, that is not the case. Somehow, I—I mean one of the mages had probably messed up the ceremony in some way. It’s truly shameful, for whoever made a mistake of that level.

Because of their mistake, the subject ended up seeing things that could have damaged their, my, soul. Thinking about it makes me frustrated at their ineptitude. If they had done things properly, then I wouldn’t have absorbed so many of their feelings like this. The more I think about the time I spent touching the hands, a magical extension of the mages’ souls, the more their feelings bleed into the subject. It’s honestly annoying and makes it hard for me to think straight.

That damn king figured that it would be better to bring a troubled teen to play hero instead of making the most out of his court’s most talented mages. But it was hard to deny the results. The moment I awoke and put my hand above the magical crystal, it was clear that the subject’s magical proficiency far surpassed the limits of any human. From a more intellectual standpoint, it could be argued that my mistakes as a mage in performing the ritual could have given me extraordinary power even for someone summoned through the hero summoning ritual.

Though there’s not actually much logic forming that “intellectual standpoint”. It’s just another of many intuitive feelings that invaded my mind when I absorbed parts of their experiences. I don’t know how much I can trust any of these old farts’ intuitions, especially outside the realm of magic they understand. Especially worrying are the feelings they have towards the king.

Locking eyes with the young king, the first impression I had was of someone untrustworthy, powerful and dangerous. On the other hand, the moment I doubted that feeling, I found myself thinking that he was youthful, inexperienced and naïve. It was enough to drive a person mad. I hoped that going over my past experiences would provide a firm baseline that I could use to identify and isolate foreign thoughts and feelings. For example, I know that this guy next to me is the second person summoned. That is not a conclusion I came to on my own, but knowledge that I took from the other mages.

Ugh, I keep catching myself thinking of myself as a mage already. Because of their knowledge I more or less understand what they want from me and the nerd. The two of us will be forced to train for combat with the hopes of becoming a primary asset in the ongoing war against… Well, I don’t know who the enemy is. I have the abstract feeling that they are dangerous and not human, but not much more was transmitted to me through the ritual. What I did get, was that we would probably be killed if we were not useful to the kingdom. Pleasant. Real pleasant.

I apologized to the poor fellow standing stiff next to me. He was probably a bit older than me physically, but with all the experience imprinted onto me, it was hard not to see him as a kid, still naïve to all the suffering that he will go through. I stole the show from him completely accidentally. I was really just trying to escape the hell of subjectivity my soul was stuck in during interdimensional transit, but somehow my body interpreted that as “stick my hand out”. I should really be more careful about sticking my hand out so boldly in the future…

“D-do you speak English?” he asked, stammering slightly.

“Of course,” I answered, unsurprised by the stupidity of his question. Catching my own condescension, I was surprised to notice that was probably a feeling from the mages, since it really didn’t fit with how I normally thought and felt. If I don’t pay attention to them, these feelings could turn me into a real asshole. “It’s not like I know the language they’re speaking here.”

The guy looked around nervously. It was probably alarming for him to suddenly appear in this crazy fantasy world with burning mages and everyone speaking a totally foreign language. While I didn’t get any detailed knowledge like language, I did feel like I had a pretty decent understanding of what was going on. The only thing that really scared me were the king and his armed guards. The king is probably the fickle type—was a thought that I tried to not let influence me.

While I thought to myself, they brought forward a spare crystal ball. Chris put his hand above the ball, and it gleamed with a blue light with the strength of a small lantern. Pretty disappointing results, I figured. If he was any less talented, he might have been able to be let free considering the power that I demonstrated. With that level of power, he won’t be able to escape working hard for the kingdom. I guess my hopes that the second summoning was botched were pointless.

Next in the process, the king ordered some men standing to the side to bring forward two necklaces. I noticed that three had been prepared, which confirmed my feeling that the summoning ritual was supposed to bring a maximum of three heroes into this world. If someone hadn’t ruined the ritual with their incompetence, then maybe there would be a third person standing beside me. I didn’t know exactly what the necklaces did, but I understood that they were an important item in the process of summoning a powerful hero from another world.

Still, what could that purpose be? If neither me nor the king’s men could communicate with each other, then maybe I could act as if I did not understand their intent for me to wear it. By playing dumb, I could possibly provoke them to act in ways that would increase my knowledge about the situation—And then the nerd kid decided to wear the necklace anyway. Idiot…

“The collar can magically translate between English and Verdian,” he said.

“What the hell is Verdian?” I muttered under my breath. While it was clear that I didn’t speak the local language, it was less clear whether they had the capability to translate things I said in English.

“The language that they speak here. You’ll understand their words when you hear them, and they’ll understand your words when you say them.”

Huh. Well, that does seem pretty helpful. As a correction, this guy seemed like he could be pretty helpful, contrary to the instincts that were forced onto me. I’ll have to try not to ignore any biases that might cause me to be unfairly mean to him. Speaking of which I don’t know his name yet. While securing the clasp of the necklace with one hand, I hold out the other towards the man besides me.

“Hi, my name is Lena. What’s yours?”