Chapter 1: We're Back In Japan

“This is worse than that time we were devoured by that desert worm.”

Renji’s voice cracked—half-joking, half-hollow—as their shared body screamed.

A wet, acidic splash hit the void behind them as Masayuki soon retched. Luna shrieked, her voice echoing through the dimensional tear, claiming the filth had stained her shoes.

“This is like a never ending fun slide…” Minami spread her arms up like wings, the only one who seemed to relish the chaotic descent.

Then—impact.

The portal spat them out as if they reached the end of a slip and slide.

Limbs tangled. Breath stolen.

Kyle hit the asphalt hard, the back of his head striking a soft, fetid bag of discarded clothing. He tasted hot, bitter tar mixed with the faint copper of his own blood.

“We’re back,” he rasped, voice thin. “The real world.”

He blinked.

Fluorescent streetlamps buzzed overhead, casting a sterile white glare that felt too clean, too sharp. The sound was a high, grating clinical hum that immediately replaced the deep, resonant mythic sounds of the citadel.

The air was thick with exhaust fumes and dust. It smelled like cheap, artificial detergent—nothing like the grave-rot and ozone of the Demon Lord’s Domain.

Kyle tried to catalog the environment. He focused on the concrete, tracing the precise, painted white line of a zebra crossing. In the old world, markings meant warding or a sacred boundary. Here, they seemed to denote only mundane speed and direction.

A scooter whined past, high-pitched and shrill.

“Hey, watch where you are going buddy!”

The casual, angry shout, devoid of honor or magic, was more shocking than any battle cry. The sheer pettiness of the rage silenced the heroic noise in Kyle's mind.

Only then did he tried to reach inward.

No Chi. No divine torrent.

Just silence. An absolute, freezing void where his power should have roared. His chest tightened—not from injury, but from a sense of hollowness and shame. The emptiness was colder than the Demon Lord’s claw.

Beside him, the smashed half of Sunbreaker lay on the concrete. Once the focal point of a world-saving epic, it remained still—a tacky, dull piece of scrap metal reflecting only the sickly yellow haze of neon.

Kyle finally managed to look for his friends. Around him, the others lay scattered across the road. Their bloodied, scorched robes looked sticky and strangely tacky under the cold light, like discarded props from a forgotten play.

They were breathing. Alive.

But utterly disoriented.

***

The crowd had already formed. Not with terror.

With invasive curiosity.

“Is this a promo?” someone asked.

Their phones rose like weapons, blinding flashes directed at the enchantingly beautiful foreigner. The blood on the heroes' robes, sticky and metallic in the humid night air, looked like cheap dye under the neon glare. It was a Monday night in Tokyo, yet this was a prime spectacle.

“She’s so beautiful,” another whispered, filming.

Luna’s breath hitched. She felt physically exposed, like the white, sterile light was burning through her skin, stripping away the last vestiges of her divine sanctity. The sound of the dozens of camera shutters clicking was a relentless, high-speed tick, tick, tick, counting down to a crisis.

The pressure of the swarm—the horns, the heat, the stares—was suffocating. She blinked—Once. Twice.

Her vision betrayed her. Suddenly the phones directed at them started turning into flickering torches. Umbrellas stiffened into pitchforks. Laughter twisted—too loud, too sharp, a grotesque sound of judgment and accusation.

It wasn’t a crowd but an unruly mob.

“Unhand me, you unwashed peasants!” she shrieked, her voice thin and archaic, the sound of her old identity failing to translate. “This is not the way to treat a princess!”

The crowd flinched. They paused, perplexed by the strange, theatrical outburst. Then they laughed—not from fear, but with the easy mockery of an audience judging a poor performance. The sound was edited and looped in her mind, sounding exactly like the tribunal that sentenced her.

The pressure sent a wave of nausea through her. Luna’s knees buckled. She didn’t see Tokyo. She saw the gallows.

“Please, Father…” she whispered, voice cracking. “Don’t let them execute me…”

She was a scared child, paralyzed by the weight of her trauma, her divine power utterly useless against this civilian malice.

A man stepped forward, grinning. “Hey cutie, you single?” His hand reached out—casual, unthreatened, and invasive.

Luna froze, a statue of panic.

Renji fought back. A muscle in their shared neck twitched uncontrollably as his will crashed violently against Luna’s panic-induced paralysis. A wave of painful, wrenching tension seized their chest as the two minds wrestled for dominance. He seized control in a desperate spasm, their shared body jerking sideways.

It was an ugly, reckless shove, violating the princess's form, but it forced the body away from the invading hand.

The man stumbled back, cursing in annoyance.

Renji’s breath came in ragged gasps. Their hands trembled.

“Don’t touch us,” he growled, the word choked with raw fury. He was fighting the urge to defend her sacred dignity, even if he didn't believe in the sanctity himself. “Don’t you dare.”

The body shook—caught between divine terror and pragmatic rage.

The crowd didn't understand the threat. They reacted with perplexed annoyance, shifting their weight. Many checked their phones, annoyed that the raw dramatic moment might have been missed by the auto-focus.

They filmed. They laughed. They watched a desperate, dual-soul breakdown and saw only a street performance losing its momentum.

***

To the other side of the road, Kotaro and Kokoro huddled by the curb, wrapped in each other like a frayed thread. The city pressed in—too loud, too fast.

Kotaro whispered the invocation for his blessing, his voice trembling. He focused on the familiar pressure of the Cait Sith magic, expecting the surge of agility.

No response.

Just the cold sweat on his brow and the agonizing silence where his power once resided. The simple failure confirmed his greatest fear: he was trapped, vulnerable, and powerless.

Kokoro’s eyes widened. Reflected in them—a massive truck roared toward them, horn blaring, tires shrieking.

“Kyle!” she screamed, arms raised instinctively.

The sound was swallowed by the grinding gears and the malignant, low vibration of the truck horn. The noise compounded Kyle's paralysis. He tried to move. But the instant he tried, he realized his legs were not just lead; they were anchored by the sheer, unyielding physics of a world without magic. His body fought him; every muscle contraction was a conscious, agonizing effort.

His fingers twitched toward the broken blade beside him, but anything he did would be too slow. The hero was defeated by time and simple friction.

That was when Masayuki reacted.

He didn’t recognize the “truck.”

But he recognized a siege engine.

The air felt thick, corrosive, laced with invisible toxins. The grotesque, roaring steel beast was bearing down on his companions, its proximity shattering his professional discipline.

“You dare charge at children, unclean beast!"

His child-sized frame shot forward, his presence suddenly absolute. He drew his katana, roaring his battle cry—tragically out of place in the urban night.

“Begone, minion of the Demon Lord.”

The blade arced downward in a perfect, disciplined stroke—aimed at the front axle.

A shower of blinding sparks erupted as steel kissed steel. The truck’s steering column shrieked, a sound pathetic and weak compared to armored warfare, tearing metal on metal. The steering column tore as the vehicle slammed sideways into the median.

Then: 

Crunch. 

Crunch. 

Crunch.

Three cars collided in a chain reaction, metal folding like paper. Alarms blared as the people screamed. The hero party went from costumed curiosities to public menace.

Masayuki stared at the wreckage. He slowly lowered his katana, and for the first time, saw not a broken siege engine, but a mundane, totaled truck. His perfect, disciplined strike had created not a glorious victory, but a horrific financial and legal disaster. The crunch of reality—the sheer expense and inconvenience he had wrought—was louder than the collisions.

Kyle staggered to them, his body trembling from the physical and emotional cost of his shame and paralysis. He was just in time to see the crowd retreating—not in awe of a swordsman, but in genuine, immediate fear of police sirens and consequences.

Phones still raised but eyes now wide. Masayuki had acted, and now they were criminals.

***

From the quiet edge of the intersection, Minami watched the spectacle.

“Sebastian. I’m going to need you to bring the limo.”

As she disconnected the phone call, she smoothly discarded her torn, filthy robes—a final, deliberate gesture shedding the persona of the adventurer. Her expression remained unreadable, but her posture was impeccable.

And just like on cue, a police car pulled up. Its lights flashed an aggressive red-blue rhythm. Two officers emerged—sleek uniforms, cautious posture. They were armed, but not threatened. Not by these costumed people.

“Hands up,” one said, voice clipped and procedural.

Slowly, the officers rounded everyone up. Their hands were clean, gloved, and entirely unthreatened as they approached the heroes' bloody, scorched forms. Minami watched as Masayuki flinched, the seasoned warrior submitting to the officer's quiet, unthreatened procedural authority—a system that could crush him without raising a sword.

Kyle stood stock-still, confirming his emotional surrender. Why fight when he had nothing left to fight with?

As they were led to the police cruiser, Minami met Kyle’s eye. For a brief, agonizing beat, a tiny war crossed her face—a flicker of pity, quickly deemed an "unnecessary plot expense." Then, she locked down her expression. Calculation returned, absolute.

She looked away, her mind already moving, scheming.

“Multi-car accident. Vandalism. Assault with a deadly weapon. Damage to the median… and the uninsured, totaled value of a three-car pile-up.”

Her eyes widened—not with fear, but with cold, strategic anticipation. The price of this prologue was perfect.

She whispered the new arch-nemesis, her voice reverent and tight with cold, intellectual thrill:

“Oh my. At least ¥22,500,000 in property damage.”

Like many isekai novels, the premise is simple: Hero gets summoned, build harem, defeats the Demon Lord.

However, the real question authors struggle with is: What happens next?

“One chapter ends, a new, far more expensive one begins.”

Her face just could not contain itself.