The Whispering Wind: The Torchbearer Hero

The doubt still throbbed in my mind like a frightened heart. The impact of the fall was dry, a violent jolt that woke me from total darkness. For a few seconds, my body registered only a dull pain in my lower back and the strange smell of incense and dust. The factory, the smell of damp cardboard and oxidized iron, the irritating hum of the refrigerators, that whole heavy and purposeless routine dissolved, disappearing like a forgotten dream upon waking.

Slowly, forcibly, my brain began to process the new environment. The walls were gray stone, heavy, worked in blocks that seemed to have defied time for millennia. Enormous tapestries, hanging like war banners, displayed scenes of battle against creatures that existed only in books. Torches, fixed in supports of oxidized iron, cast a warm, dancing light that contrasted violently with the cold and sickly light of the fluorescent lamps that gave me a waxy tone in the factory stockroom.

The floor, a polished marble that reflected the light of the flames, gleamed. Everything screamed the same thing, in a language I understood perfectly: Medieval Fantasy.

And right ahead, at the focal point of the hall, seated on a wide throne carved with lion heads, was a man. He wore a scarlet red cloak, the crown was heavy and golden, and his well-groomed beard reached his chest. He looked like he had stepped straight out of an anime opening.

I was summoned.

It’s an Isekai.

The phrase exploded in my mind with the force of a thunder, an epiphany that erased all the pain and all the worries. The shame of the factory, the exhaustion of a worker, none of that mattered anymore. I was free. Free from inertia, free from mediocrity, free from my useless self.

An involuntary, almost hysterical smile took over my face. It was a smile I couldn’t hold back, the smile of someone who has just won the lottery of life and, on top of that, the prize of being the protagonist.

But the euphoria had to wait. I was smiling, yes, but I realized that my companions of luck, or misfortune, and the important figures in the hall had expressions that would make any tense anime protagonist uneasy.

Beside the royal throne, the hostility was palpable.

To the King’s left, there was a dwarf, short and broad, with a thick beard braided with silver rings, and eyes like burning coals. His scowl was natural, but when his eyes met mine, the only one among the newcomers who was smiling, his hostility simply doubled. It was as if he were looking at a miscalculation, a flaw in the forging.

Beside him, a woman who took my breath away: an elf. Her beauty was ethereal, but her gaze was sharp. Beautiful, pale, greenish eyes and long hair of a perfect gold that seemed to flow like silvery silk under the light of the environment. When she looked at me, her eyes narrowed. It was a look of aristocratic repulsion, as if I were an insect crushed on the ground.

Further to the left, there was a man who appeared to be young, although his posture was that of a veteran. He wore an impeccable military uniform, a white cape too clean for someone who should be on a battlefield. He held his sheathed sword, his hand resting on the pommel as if ready to draw it if necessary. His gaze was neutral, but so focused, what a strange guy this is, I thought.

Then, the King stood up. His deep and powerful voice filled the hall like a polite thunder, a majestic sound that would make the hum of the factory refrigerators sound like a meow.

— My dear heroes, I ask forgiveness for having brought you here without prior notice. However, it was of extreme necessity. A prophecy…

I almost smiled again. Exactly like in the animes, we would have a monologue about why we were summoned and so on.

But before the real monologue could continue, a voice cut through the air like a dagger blade.

— Who are you?

A woman stepped forward, her posture radiating a frightening confidence. She did not seem afraid.

The guards reacted immediately. The friction of the metal of the spears raised in our direction was so intense that it echoed through the entire hall. The atmosphere changed instantly, from solemn to lethal. One wrong move and a massacre would begin.

I swallowed dryly, feeling the cold sweat on the back of my neck.

The woman did not even blink. She wore simple but functional training clothes: a black tank top that highlighted the definition of her abdomen and loose shorts. Her hair was tied, and the fresh sweat on her body was visible, indicating that she had just come from an intense training.

— Lower your weapons. — ordered the King, in a brusque and impatient gesture.

The guards obeyed immediately, stepping back with military rigidity. The woman remained still for a few seconds, her face firm, the look of someone who was less afraid of the threat of death than I was of the idea of working on a Sunday.

The King took a deep breath, trying to maintain his composure.

— I ask forgiveness for my lack of tact. I am the King of Unthor, Castran Valongo III. And this is my wife, Queen Elunnara.

The queen made an elegant curtsy, a movement so light that it seemed to float like crystal-clear water.

— It is an honor to receive you… despite the tragic circumstances.

The King continued, introducing the allies.

— And those to my left are the oldest allies of the kingdom of Unthor. Allow me to present them. This is Thurgan, the King of the Western Mountains, the Dwarf King.

The dwarf took a step forward and made a gesture that looked more like a disdainful grunt.

— I am Thurgan. Know that I was completely against bringing people we have never seen before, to place our fate in their hands. I hope all of this has been worth it.

He returned to his position, the hostility radiating from his short and broad body.

— Beside him is Lady Carey de La Vontana, Matriarch of the Elven Kingdom.

The beautiful elf with the arrogant gaze made a curtsy that, although polite, exuded superiority.

— It is a pleasure, Heroes. May the light of Archangel Zarieh guide your paths.

She turned to the Dwarf King, Lady Carey smiled in a malicious way.

— Your Majesty Thurgan, this is how one gives a proper greeting to heroes, showing the minimum of civility and manners. Not like a savage like you.

The Dwarf King let out a curse, at least I believe it was a curse, and snarled at the elf:

— You skinny one! You think that a useless flourish of words is better than the honesty of a dwarf?! I am not the savage here! — he says looking directly at me.

I swallowed dryly. Is he talking about me? The Dwarf King seemed to hate me particularly.

A young man intervened, his calm voice cutting through the tension between the two.

— Please, King Thurgan, Lady Carey. Do not start this. We are in front of the Heroes.

King Castran nodded and took the opportunity to introduce him.

— And this is our Master Knight of Unthor, Sir Provolon Porstre II. He will be the main link between you and the army of the kingdom.

Sir Provolon gave a brief, but firm, military bow.

The woman who had challenged the guards, however, did not back down from her questioning.

— My name is Cecília Kurogawa. And before you continue: where are we? And why were we kidnapped?

The word “kidnapped” was an anchor of ice in the middle of the hall. The other summoned began to murmur, frightened, irritated, confused.

I was trying to keep up with the chaos, but my mind could only think: A real Isekai. Seven people. Magic. King. Prophecy. This is too perfect.

The King raised his hand again, restoring silence.

— Silence. I will explain everything.

And he explained. The story was of a tragic and epic beauty.

The twenty-year war. The supreme evil: the Demon King Astaroth, an entity of pure destruction that had covered the continent with a dark mist of chaos. The fall of the allied kingdoms, one by one, turned into strongholds of monsters. The abandonment of the gods, who had silenced their oracles and closed the celestial gates. The slow, but inevitable destruction that was approaching.

King Castran had tears in his eyes as he narrated the despair.

— The only thing we had left was faith in the Prophecy of the Seven Heroes.

Everyone fell silent. The air was heavy. Fear. Anger. Confusion.

And me?

I was smiling like an idiot.

I was finally the protagonist.

Magic. Adventure. A mission to save the world. The exact opposite of my previous life, where my only purpose was lifting damp boxes under fluorescent lights. My chest felt like it was going to explode with excitement.

I am going to learn magic. I am going to gain abilities.

I could feel the fervor of an anime protagonist burning in my veins. It was an inappropriate happiness, but completely genuine.

And then, I noticed the looks around me.

The other six summoned were not excited. They were not happy. They were suffering, shocked, disturbed by the sudden and brutal loss of their lives.

And I… I was the only one with a smile on my face.

That was when I noticed that someone beside me was staring at me, a young woman with brown skin, large and bright eyes, and a beauty so striking that even among nobles of a fantasy world she would stand out.

Her gaze, however, had nothing enchanting. It was repulsion. And a lot of confusion.

— Why are you so excited? — she asked, her voice melodic, yet cold as steel.

There was judgment, the kind of look you give someone who is laughing at a funeral.

I tried to answer without sounding like an idiot, but the excitement was a river overflowing.

— Well… we are in a new world… and with magic! This is going to be fun! — I said, my voice choked with happiness.

Her face immediately hardened. She looked like she had bitten into a sour lemon.

— Fun? It is extremely rude of him to bring us here! I had a life, a career in progress. I was about to achieve my dream!

— Career? Of what? — I asked, without thinking, driven only by curiosity.

She lifted her chin, with the posture of someone who was born to be admired.

— My name is Amélie Fontaine. I am an actress. And I was about to debut in the series Le Secret de la Mer… which, by the way, is a colossal success.

— Never heard of it. — I replied, too sincere. The shock on her face was satisfying.

— What?! What do you do with your life?! It is the most watched series in France!

— Brazil — I corrected, shrugging slightly. — I am from Brazil.

She frowned, confused.

— But… you speak French fluently.

— I am speaking Portuguese… and so are you.

— Impossible. I am speaking French! I do not even speak your little language.

The argument only did not continue because a deep voice cut through the air.

— Actually, you are both speaking English.

We turned toward the voice. It was a man, short, very short. The dwarf-policeman, probably the same height as that Thurgan, the Dwarf King. What stood out was his police uniform, completely disproportionate to the current size of his body. The hem of the pants covered his feet. The shirt looked like a tarp.

— English? — I repeated, trying to listen again. But all I could hear was my good old Portuguese.

— Incredible! — I exclaimed, already excited. — It must be a skill of the summoned heroes! Like… automatic translation! Damn, this is really cool!

King Castran intervened, taking advantage of my enthusiasm to regain control of the hall.

— Yes. To us, all of you are speaking the human language of Unthor. It is a skill granted only to heroes to facilitate communication.

Amélie sighed, impatient, but I was thrilled like crazy.

Little by little, the other summoned also began to introduce themselves. The environment, once tense, turned into a strange gathering of strangers.

— I was on my way to a very important game of my career. Championship final. I was going to win my fifth title in a row. — The deep voice came from a huge, bald man, with shoulders as wide as barn doors.

The dwarf-policeman stared at him.

— Wait… I know you. You are the NBA star, Anthony “A.J.” Beaumont!

Anthony smiled sideways.

— I see I have a fan.

— I do not really like basketball, actually. — replied the dwarf, with painful sincerity.

— You can tell by your size, hahaha! — mocked a freckled redhead, with a mocking expression.

The dwarf-policeman turned to him, his brown eyes sparking.

— For the record, in my world I was not a dwarf. I was quite tall, actually. I am a police officer from New York. I was working on patrol when — he gestured, irritated, to his tiny body — I ended up here like this.

The redhead narrowed his eyes.

— So you were a cop… just that?

— “Just that”? — the dwarf-policeman snorted. — Kid, I already know what kind you are! You must be a spoiled brat who thinks he can do whatever he wants and does not obey the law. I have had to chase many of your kind, rich daddy’s boys.

— Shut up, you… you… you miniature cop! — the redhead retaliated.

Then he turned to the redhead again, analyzing him.

— And you look like the Champions League trophy with those long ears.

The redhead paled. His vanity was an armor, and the dwarf had just found the gap.

Then he began to touch his ears with the tips of his fingers.

— My… ears?! What happened to my ears?! A mirror, quick, give me a mirror!

A servant quickly brought a silver mirror. The redhead looked at himself, took a deep breath and sighed, relieved.

— At least my face is still perfect.

Cecília, always serious, commented:

— It is not just you. It seems that among the seven of us there is another elf as well.

— Another elf? Where, where is it? — I asked, curious and excited.

She moved her chin, pointing at me.

Everyone looked at me. The blush rose quickly. I took the mirror from the redhead’s hands, who protested immediately.

My reflection did not lie.

Same skin. Same face. But… white, messy hair, pointed ears, bright blue eyes.

— Wow… — I murmured. — My face is the same… but the rest…

— My turn! — the redhead snatched the mirror from my hand.

— Sorry… — I whispered, shrugging my shoulders.

Amélie approached, now less arrogant and more curious, the actress in analysis mode.

— So your hair and your eyes changed when you arrived? I have never seen someone dye so badly to the point of becoming… like this.

— They changed when I arrived — I confirmed. — I think I became… a type of elf.

— Hmph. — She adjusted her hair. — Well, nice to meet you, what did you say your name was again?

— Well, actually I did not say — I replied a bit awkwardly. It was hard to talk to her, not only because she was extremely beautiful, but because of the way she looked at me, as if analyzing everything in me, like someone ready to criticize me at any moment. — My name is Arven.

— Nice to meet you… mine is Amélie.

We exchanged a small nod. Strange, but… almost friendly.

— Nice to meet you, Amélie and Arven.

I looked to the side and saw a young man with white wings approaching with a gentle smile, extending his hand. Wow, how had I not noticed those wings before!

— Lucian Atreide, law student… twenty-six years old. I am from Greece. — He opened his wings a little, almost embarrassed. — Well… I did not have this before. They appeared when I fell into this place.

All of us fell silent for a moment.

The wings were enormous, white like freshly fallen snow. They were angel wings.

— Wow! — escaped from me. The nerd inside me jumped. — Man… this is WAY cooler than pointed ears!

Lucian laughed and shrugged, shy about the fascination.

Cecília then turned to the group, arms crossed:

— Well, since the introductions are following a certain pattern, I will introduce myself properly. Cecília Kurogawa. Twenty-eight years old. English. Female self-defense instructor. — Her posture was so firm that it seemed like she was standing on an invisible tatami.

Amélie adjusted her hair and lifted her chin, theatrical:

— My turn. Amélie Fontaine, nineteen, French actress… and yes, a brilliant career was blooming. — Her voice had the rehearsed sweetness of an actress, but the arrogance of someone who already imagines her own poster in a cinema.

Anthony gave a slight nod, casual, as if he were being introduced in a sports interview:

— Anthony Beaumont. Twenty-six years old. United States. Professional NBA player.

The dwarf policeman almost clapped.

— I saw your face on the news last month, you assaulted a reporter! — He said seriously, ignoring the fame.

Anthony clenched his jaw.

— So that is why you know me, Officer? Well, that reporter deserved it, for accusing me of harassment against a fan, a huge lie he made up to advance his career.

— Well, we can only know it is a lie when there is proof otherwise, Mr. Beaumont. — he replied, crossing his arms.

— What is your problem, man? Who are you?! — Anthony questioned, his voice rising an octave.

— I am Marcus Doyle, thirty-six, New York police officer. And you are speaking to an authority, do not raise your voice.

— We are not in the U.S.! Do not give me orders, officer!

Before the fight between the dwarf and the giant could escalate, Lucian intervened, moving his large white wings between them, in a calm gesture.

— Please, we need unity, not conflict. Remember what the King said: the war.

I laughed quietly. Seeing an American cop as a dwarf trying to pick a fight with a basketball player almost two meters tall looked like the beginning of a comedy scene.

Finally, the redhead stepped into the center, pushing his own hair back as if he were in front of cameras:

— Leandro Malan, twenty-five, South Africa. My father owns Malan Mining and Oil. — He puffed out his chest. — So, naturally, I have always stood out wherever I was.

Cecília rolled her eyes so hard she almost fell backward.

Then the King raised his hand, calling our attention back to the purpose of being there.

— You will have time to get to know each other better. Now, it is time to discover what each of you will bring to our world.

The mage beside the throne stepped forward. His face was marked by deep wrinkles, but his eyes shone like burning coal. He held a velvet cushion. On it rested a gray orb, completely opaque, the size of an apple.

— This is Archmage Rufus Ardentus, responsible for the summoning — announced the King. — He will guide the identification ritual.

Rufus bowed his head with respect. His gaze toward me was one of strange curiosity.

— You will place your hand upon the orb. It will reveal your magical affinity or your unique gift. Do not be afraid.

My heart jumped. The class system was beginning. My Isekai was truly beginning. The chance to be something more than a corporate worker.

Anthony, the NBA giant, was the first.

He placed his hand on the orb with the naturalness of someone holding a basketball. The orb did not explode in colors or light; instead, steel runes appeared like rising embers, firm, heavy.

Rufus opened a proud smile.

— Extraordinary! His body is completely immune to magic. No offensive or defensive magic can touch him. And his physical strength surpasses human limits!

Anthony flexed his arm, surprised.

— Makes sense… I felt stronger since I woke up here.

The crowd burst into applause, a chorus of relief and hope.

Cecília was the second.

She touched the orb with the firmness of someone about to strike. Runes as sharp as metal blades appeared on the orb. The light was cold and silvery.

— Extremely rare ability! — declared Rufus, his voice trembling. — She can create temporary weapons from any solid object, shaping it. Destructive. Adaptable. Perfect for combat!

Cecília only raised an eyebrow, satisfied.

— Interesting.

Leandro was the third. He was already confident, as if he knew he would be the best.

When he touched the orb…

— BOOM! —

The orb reacted with an explosion of colors: blue, red, brown, green. A magical chaos, yet harmonious. The mages almost fell backward. The energy was palpable.

— Affinity with the four elements! — Rufus looked like a delighted child. — Water, Fire, Earth, and Wind… and a gigantic mana reserve! He will be an excellent mage.

Leandro opened his arms as if he were receiving applause at the Oscars.

— I was already extraordinary before… now I am even more so.

I wanted to hate him for being so arrogant, but I admit: it was epic.

Amélie stepped in front of me.

The orb lit up in a warm, soft gold, like the morning sun.

The mage sighed with reverence.

— Divine magic. A priestess! Gift of healing and blessings… essential for any group.

Amélie smiled like someone receiving an award.

— Divine magic for a diva like me… it fits perfectly.

Applause. A lot of applause.

Marcus placed his hand.

The orb reacted with repeating patterns, like sound waves of an exact frequency.

— Fascinating… — said Rufus. — A gift of physical duplication. He can create multiple copies of himself.

Marcus widened his eyes.

— Creating copies? That is weird as hell… But I will get used to it.

Lucian was the sixth. The air changed. His wings opened instinctively, as if responding to an invisible force.

When his hand touched the orb, a torrent of wind swept through the hall. The torches flickered, the curtains moved, and knights held onto the columns. The wind was not destructive, but overwhelming.

— By all the gods… — Rufus murmured, impressed. — The highest affinity with wind magic I have ever seen! His potential is… incredible.

Lucian closed his hands, determined, the shyness fading under the weight of responsibility.

— I will do my best. For you. For this world. For the freedom of all who suffer under the Demon King.

The hall exploded. He already looked like a hero, worthy of those wings.

Finally… it was me.

The last one.

The least impressive.

Arven.

I took a deep breath, feeling the heat on my face. The inertia of my former body, the weight of my useless past, was like a specter on my back. This was my chance to exorcise it.

I placed my hand on the gray orb.

The orb lit up.

Weak. Yellow. Almost faded, like a match that has just been lit. The light was so pale that it could barely compete with the glow of the torches on the wall.

Rufus stopped. He took a deep breath, trying to hide the disappointment. The silence was so dense that I could hear the crackling of the torches.

— Magic… of light.

My eyes shone with hope.

— Light? Like… the magic that defeats darkness?! Like an angel?!

Rufus shook his head, saddened. His voice was low, almost a lament.

— No. Only… illumination. The light of a flame. It is a simple ability. A flame that can be lit and maintained, like that of a torch.

The ground sank beneath my feet. The euphoria that had been holding me up collapsed in a millisecond.

Leandro laughed so loudly that it echoed through the walls.

— HAHAHA! The torch hero! The kingdom’s secret weapon: a human lantern!

The laughter spread among nobles and soldiers. It was a nervous laugh, mixed with the despair of having invested everything in a failure.

My chest tightened. The heat of shame rose up my neck, the same heat I felt when Leo mocked me in front of everyone in the cafeteria. That moment hit me with the force of a punch.

Marcus tried to comfort me.

— Hey… do not mind them. Every power has a purpose.

But his voice betrayed the concern.

Before I could respond, the King declared, without any emotion, in the tone of someone accepting the inevitable:

— Very well. It is what we have.

And that was it. My fate was sealed in that moment.

Me, the torch hero.

King Castran turned to the hall, his red cloak waving in a firm gesture.

— It is best for all of you to go rest for now. Tomorrow we will have the war meeting. Lionel.

From the side of the hall, a servant approached. He was the perfect image of a veteran butler: tall, thin, gray hair combed back, thin mustache, serious expression and impeccable posture. His presence was as controlled as Cecília’s.

The servant bowed in an elegant gesture.

— At your service, Your Majesty.

He turned to us.

— This way, my dear heroes. I will have the honor of accompanying you to your chambers. Excuse me.

We formed a natural line, almost like students being guided by a strict teacher. As we passed by Lionel, his gaze evaluated each of us with neutrality…

…until it reached me.

When I was the last to pass, his eyes changed. There was not only disapproval, there was deep repulsion. As if I were an unwanted stain in the impeccable palace, a mistake he would have to clean before morning.

I swallowed dryly and followed the group, trying to shrink my body.

Lionel guided us through wide corridors, illuminated by torches and adorned with tapestries that told stories of kings and ancient battles.

Each opened door revealed luxurious rooms, with enormous beds, lit fireplaces, and windows overlooking gardens illuminated by the moon.

The other heroes entered smiling, enchanted by the opulence.

When we reached Amélie’s room, she turned and offered me a smile, I blushed immediately.

— Have a good rest, Arven, it seems we will see each other tomorrow.

— she then enters her chambers.

Soon after, only Lionel and I remained walking through the silent corridor. The old butler did not hide it: his gaze upon me was pure disgust.

I tried to start a conversation, desperate for information, for company, for anything that was not that weight of uselessness.

— Wow, it is hard to believe I ended up in another world! Uh… is there any magic book in the palace?

Lionel answered without even properly looking at me. He looked straight ahead, fixed on the infinite, as if I were a piece of furniture to be ignored.

— Yes. However, they are allowed only to authorized people and, more importantly, to people who will be capable of understanding and using the knowledge.

I laughed, trying to break the ice. It was my defense mechanism.

— Hahaha… well, I am a summoned hero, so I guess I have authorization, right?

My laughter died when I saw his expression: a mixture of disgust and disapproval. The way he looked at me was the materialization of all my fears about myself.

He sighed, a sound of pure boredom and disdain.

— Certainly you will have formal authorization, Hero Arven. However… to be honest… I believe it will not make much difference. The library is vast and arcane knowledge is complex. A power as… basic as yours will not require, nor benefit from, deep study. Your magic is, let us say, of little use, compared to that of your companions.

The blow was dry and direct, like a well-delivered slap. The butler had just done Leo’s job. My face heated up, my throat tightened. I simply nodded, without strength to react or even breathe.

We stopped in front of a door at the end of the corridor.

Lionel asked coldly:

— Do you need anything else, Hero... Arven?

Before I could form a sentence, he was already saying, impatient:

— If you do not need anything, I will take my leave. My duties call me.

— Y-yes… thank you, sir. — I murmured, feeling like the most unwanted intruder in the history of isekai.

The door closed with a dry click, isolating me from the rest of the world.

The room was enormous, a cruel contrast to the cubicle I shared in my apartment.

The smell of cedar and silk dominated everything, a clean and fresh fragrance that had nothing of the damp cardboard and diesel oil of the factory. The bed was the size of a small car, with a canopy and white curtains, worthy of a king. A thick carpet warmed the floor, and a marble bathtub shone in the corner, reflecting the soft light of the candles.

— Wow… how rich this kingdom is… — I murmured.

It was too much luxury for someone like me.

I threw the backpack onto the bed. Its weight seemed heavier than before, now carrying not only my things, but recent shame.

I was in a magical world, the dream of every dreaming otaku. But my magic was only that of a flashlight.

Discouragement fell over me like the cyclone I had seen on the horizon. I was not the master of the elements. I was not a hero like in the stories.

I was just… Arven.

The guy who, when the light in the room goes out, can keep it illuminated.

I sat on the edge of the bed.

The soft touch of the silk brought something inside me to the surface. I took my phone from the backpack. The screen was black. I tried to turn it on. Nothing. The technology of my world was useless here. The object, once an anchor for inactivity, was now just dead weight.

I lay back on the bed. The silk was fine and warm. The silence was enormous.

I put the phone and the earphones at the bottom of the backpack, carefully, as if I were burying my last link to the old world. It was a silent burial.

I touched my white hair and my pointed ears, the only signs that I had changed.

— The hero the people want… is not me.

But… I am what they have.

I felt the need to do something, anything, to prove to everyone, and especially to myself, that I was not a summoned failure.

Changing life was heavier than many things.

I needed to start over.

— So… I must try. Be brave. Be useful. Be… something.

I looked at the ceiling, for the first time since I arrived, the silly smile had disappeared, replaced by a silent, bitter determination.

— Tomorrow will be a new day… Arven.

Let’s try again.

And I closed my eyes, falling asleep.