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 nothing but a dull pain in my lower back and the strange smell of incense and dust. The factory, the scent of damp cardboard and oxidized iron, the irritating hum of the refrigerators, that whole heavy and purposeless routine dissolved, vanishing like a forgotten dream upon waking.

Slowly, forcibly, my brain began to process the new environment. The walls were made of gray stone, heavy, built 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 rusted iron brackets, cast a warm, dancing light that contrasted violently with the cold, sickly glow of the fluorescent lamps that used to give me a waxy complexion in the factory stockroom.

The floor, polished marble reflecting 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 had been summoned.

It’s an isekai.

The phrase exploded in my mind with the force of thunder, an epiphany that erased all pain and all 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 had just won the lottery of life and, as a bonus, the prize of being the protagonist.

But the euphoria had to wait. I was smiling, yes, but I noticed that my fellow lucky ones, or unlucky ones, and the important figures in the hall had expressions that would make any tense anime protagonist uneasy.

Beside the royal throne, hostility was palpable.

To the King’s left stood a dwarf, short and broad, with a thick beard braided with silver rings and eyes like glowing embers. His scowl seemed 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 casting.

Next to 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 perfect gold that seemed to flow like silvery silk under the ambient light. When she looked at me, her eyes narrowed. It was a look of aristocratic disgust, as if I were an insect crushed on the ground.

Further to the left, there was a man who appeared young, although his posture was that of a veteran. He wore an impeccable military uniform, a white cape far too clean for someone who belonged 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, how strange, I thought.

Then the King stood up. His deep, powerful voice filled the hall like a polite thunder, a majestic sound that made the hum of the factory refrigerators seem like a kitten’s meow.

— My dear heroes, I apologize for bringing you here without prior notice. However, it was of extreme necessity. A prophecy…

I almost smiled again. Exactly like in anime, there would be a monologue about why we were summoned and so on.

But before the royal 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 look afraid.

The guards reacted immediately. The friction of metal as spears were raised toward us was so intense that it echoed throughout the entire hall. The atmosphere changed instantly, from solemn to lethal. One wrong move and a massacre would begin.

I swallowed hard, feeling cold sweat at 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 back, and fresh sweat was visible on her body, indicating she had just come from an intense training session.

— Lower your weapons, — the King ordered, with 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 gaze of someone who was less frightened by the threat of death than I was by the idea of working on a Sunday.

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

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

The queen performed an elegant curtsy, a movement so light it seemed to float like crystal 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 introduce them. This is Thurgan, King of the Western Mountains, the Dwarf King.

The dwarf stepped forward and made a gesture that looked more like a disdainful grunt than a greeting.

— I am Thurgan. Know that I was completely against bringing people we have never seen before to entrust with our fate. I hope this has all been worth it.

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

— At his side is Lady Carey of La Vontana, Matriarch of the Elven Kingdom.

The beautiful elf with the arrogant gaze made a bow 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 and smiled maliciously.

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

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

— You skinny witch! Do you think useless flowery words are better than a dwarf’s honesty? I’m not the savage here! — he said, looking directly at me.

I swallowed hard. Was he talking about me? The Dwarf King seemed to hate me in particular.

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

— Please, King Thurgan, Lady Carey. Let us not start this. We are before the Heroes.

King Castran nodded and took the opportunity to introduce him.

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

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 Cecilia 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 ones 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 one of tragic and epic beauty.

The war of twenty years. The ultimate evil: the Demon King Astaroth, an entity of pure destruction that had covered the continent in a dark fog of chaos. The fall of the allied kingdoms, one by one, transformed into monster fortresses. 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 hopelessness.

— The only thing we have left is faith in the Prophecy of the Seven Heroes.

Everyone fell silent. The air was heavy with weight. 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 about 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 ones were not excited. They were not happy. They were suffering, shocked, intrigued 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 realized someone beside me was staring intently at me, a young woman with tan skin, large bright eyes, and a beauty so striking that even among nobles in a fantasy world she would stand out.

Her gaze, however, held nothing enchanted. It was repulsion. And a lot of confusion.

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

There was judgment there, 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’re in a new world… and with magic! This is going to be fun! — I said, my voice choked with happiness.

Her expression hardened immediately. She looked like she had bitten into a bitter 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? Doing what? — I asked, without thinking, driven purely by curiosity.

She lifted her chin, with the posture of someone born to be looked at.

— 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, far too honestly. The shock on her face was satisfying.

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

— Brazil, — I corrected, shrugging slightly. — I’m from Brazil.

She frowned, confused.

— But… you speak French fluently.

— I’m speaking Portuguese… and so are you.

— Impossible. I’m speaking French! I don’t even speak that silly little language of yours.

The argument only stopped because a deep voice cut through the air.

— Actually, you are both speaking English.

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

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

— Incredible! — I exclaimed, already buzzing. — It must be an ability of the summoned heroes! Like… automatic translation! Damn, that’s so 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 an ability granted only to heroes to facilitate communication.

Amélie sighed impatiently, but I was vibrating like a madman.

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

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

The dwarf cop stared at him.

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

Anthony smiled to the side.

— I see I have a fan.

— I’m not really into basketball, actually, — the dwarf replied, with painful honesty.

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

The dwarf cop turned to him, brown eyes flashing.

— For the record, in my world I wasn’t a dwarf. I was quite tall, actually. I’m a New York police officer. I was on patrol when — he gestured irritably at his tiny body — I ended up here like this.

The redhead narrowed his eyes.

— So you were a cop… that’s it?

— “That’s it”? — the dwarf cop snorted. — Kid, I already know your type! You must be a spoiled brat who thinks he can do whatever he wants and doesn’t obey the law. I’ve had to chase plenty of you, daddy’s little boys.

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

Then the dwarf turned to the redhead again, analyzing him.

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

The redhead went pale. His vanity was armor, and the dwarf had just found the gap.

He started touching his ears with his fingertips.

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

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

— At least my face is still perfect.

Cecilia, ever serious, commented:

— It’s not just you. It seems that among the seven of us, there is another elf.

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

She moved her chin, pointing at me.

Everyone looked at me. Heat rushed to my face. 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.

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

— So your hair and eyes changed when you arrived? I’ve never seen someone dye so badly that it ends up… like this.

— They changed when I arrived, — I confirmed. — I think I became… some kind of elf.

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

— Well, actually I didn’t say it, — I replied 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 she were analyzing everything about me, ready to criticize at any moment. — My name is Arven.

— Pleasure… mine is Amélie.

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

— Pleasure, 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’m from Greece. — He opened his wings slightly, almost embarrassed. — Well… I didn’t have these before. They appeared when I fell into this place.

We all fell silent for a moment.

The wings were enormous, white as freshly fallen snow. Angel wings.

— Wow! — I blurted out. The nerd inside me jumped. — Man… that’s WAY cooler than pointy ears!

Lucian laughed and shrugged, shy under the fascination.

Cecilia then turned to the group, arms crossed:

— Well, since introductions are following a certain pattern, I’ll introduce myself properly. Cecilia Kurogawa. Twenty eight years old. English. Female self defense instructor. — Her posture was so firm it seemed like she was standing on an invisible mat.

Amélie adjusted her hair and lifted her chin theatrically:

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

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

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

The dwarf cop 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’s why you know me, Officer? Well, that reporter deserved it after accusing me of harassing a fan, a huge lie he made up to climb his career.

— Well, we can only know it’s a lie when there is proof otherwise, Mr. Beaumont, — the dwarf shot back, crossing his arms.

— What’s your problem, man? Who are you?! — Anthony demanded, his voice rising an octave.

— I am Marcus Doyle, thirty six, New York police officer. And you are speaking to an authority, don’t raise your voice.

— We’re not in the USA! Don’t give me orders, cop!

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

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

I laughed discreetly. Seeing an American cop as a dwarf trying to pick a fight with a basketball player nearly two meters tall felt like the start of a comedy scene straight out of a slapstick show.

At last, 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’ve always stood out wherever I went.

Cecilia rolled her eyes so hard she almost fell backward.

That was when the King raised a hand, calling our attention back to the reason we were there.

— You will have time to get to know one another better. Now, it’s time to find out what each of you will bring to our world.

The mage beside the throne stepped forward. His face was carved with deep wrinkles, but his eyes burned like glowing coals. He held a velvet cushion. Resting on it was a gray orb, completely opaque, about the size of an apple.

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

Rufus bowed his head respectfully. His gaze on me held a strange curiosity.

— Place your hand on the orb. It will reveal your magical affinity or your unique gift. Do not be afraid.

My heart leapt. The class system was beginning. My isekai was truly beginning. My chance to be something more than a clock in, clock out employee.

Anthony, the NBA giant, went first.

He placed his hand on the orb with the ease of someone holding a basketball. The orb didn’t erupt into colors or light, instead, steel like runes appeared like rising embers, steady and heavy.

Rufus broke into a proud smile.

— Extraordinary. Your body is completely immune to magic. No offensive or defensive spell can touch you. And your physical strength surpasses human limits.

Anthony flexed his arm, surprised.

— That makes sense… I’ve felt stronger since I woke up here.

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

Cecilia went second.

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

— An extremely rare ability, — Rufus declared, his voice thick with emotion. — She can create temporary weapons from any solid object, shaping it. Destructive. Adaptable. Perfect for combat.

Cecilia merely raised an eyebrow, satisfied.

— Interesting.

Leandro went 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. Magical chaos, yet harmonious. The mages almost stumbled backward. The energy was palpable.

— Affinity with all four elements, — Rufus looked like an enchanted child. — Water, Fire, Earth, and Wind… and a massive mana reserve. He will be an excellent mage.

Leandro spread his arms as if accepting applause at the Oscars.

— I was extraordinary before… now I’m even more so.

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

Amélie stepped ahead of me.

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

The mage sighed with reverence.

— Divine magic. A priestess. The gift of healing and blessings… essential to any group.

Amélie smiled like someone receiving an award.

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

Applause. Lots of applause.

Marcus placed his hand.

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

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

Marcus widened his eyes.

— Making copies? That’s weird as hell… but I’ll get used to it.

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

When his hand touched the orb, a gust of wind swept through the hall. The torches trembled, the curtains stirred, and knights braced themselves against the columns. The wind wasn’t destructive, but overwhelming.

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

Lucian clenched his hands, determination replacing shyness 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 erupted. 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 my face burn. The inertia of my old body, the weight of my useless past, hung 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 struck. The light was so pale it could barely compete with the torches on the wall.

Rufus froze. He took a deep breath, trying to disguise his disappointment. The silence was so thick I could hear the crackle of the torches.

— Light magic.

My eyes brightened with hope.

— Light? Like… the kind that defeats darkness? Like an angel?

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

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

The floor dropped out from under me. The euphoria that had held me upright collapsed in a millisecond.

Leandro laughed so loud it echoed off the walls.

— HAHAHA. The Torch Hero. The kingdom’s secret weapon: a human lantern.

Laughter spread among nobles and soldiers. It was nervous laughter, mixed with the despair of having bet everything on a failure.

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

Marcus tried to console me.

— Hey… don’t mind them. Every power has a purpose.

But his voice betrayed 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 toward the hall, his red cloak rippling with a firm gesture.

— I suggest all of you go rest for now. Tomorrow we will have the war council. 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, a fine mustache, a serious expression, impeccable posture. His presence was as controlled as Cecilia’s.

The servant bowed in an elegant reverence.

— At your command, Your Majesty.

He turned to us.

— This way, my dear heroes. I will have the honor of escorting you to your chambers. If you will excuse me.

We formed a natural line, almost like students being guided by a strict teacher. As we passed Lionel, his gaze assessed 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 unwanted filth in the palace’s immaculate halls, a mistake he would have to clean before morning.

I swallowed hard and followed the group, trying to make myself smaller.

Lionel led us through wide corridors, lit 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 that looked out onto moonlit gardens.

The other heroes walked in smiling, enchanted by the opulence.

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

— Rest well, Arven. Looks like we’ll see each other tomorrow.

She then entered her chambers.

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

I tried to start a conversation, desperate for information, for company, for anything that wasn’t that crushing weight of uselessness.

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

Lionel answered without even really looking at me. He stared straight ahead, fixed on infinity, as if I were a piece of furniture to be ignored.

— Yes. However, they are permitted only to authorized persons, and more importantly, to persons 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’m a summoned hero, so I guess I’m authorized, right?

My laughter died when I saw his expression: a mix of disgust and disapproval. The way he looked at me was the embodiment 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 do not believe it will make much difference. The library is vast and arcane knowledge complex. A power as… basic as yours will not require, and will not benefit from, deeper studies. 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 burned, my throat tightened. I only nodded, with no strength to react or even breathe.

We stopped before 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 speaking, impatient:

— If you desire nothing, 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 tiny space I rented in my apartment.

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

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

It was too much luxury for someone like me.

I tossed my backpack onto the bed. Its weight felt heavier than before, now carrying not only my belongings, but recent shame.

I was in a magical world, the dream of every hopeful otaku. But my magic was just that of a lantern.

Discouragement fell over me like the cyclone I had once seen on the horizon. I wasn’t the master of the elements. I wasn’t a hero like in the stories.

I was just… Arven.

The guy who, when the living room light goes out, can keep it lit.

I sat on the edge of the bed.

The soft touch of silk brought something up inside me. I pulled my phone from my 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 my inactivity, was now just dead weight.

I flopped onto my back on the bed. The silk was fine and warm. The silence was enormous.

I tucked my phone and earbuds deep into the backpack, carefully, as if I were burying my last bond 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… isn’t me.

But… I’m what they have.

I felt the need to do something, anything, to prove to everyone, and especially to myself, that I wasn’t a failure who had been summoned by mistake.

Changing your life was heavier than many things.

I needed to start over.

— So… I have to try. Be brave. Be useful. Be… something.

I stared at the ceiling, and for the first time since I arrived, the silly smile was gone, replaced by a bitter, silent determination.

— Tomorrow will be a new day… Arven.

Let’s try again.

And I closed my eyes, falling asleep.