Let's get this over with. You know the drill. Another world, another chosen one, another narrative prison for me. Oh, don't give me that look. You clicked on this, didn't you? You saw the title, the cover art featuring a bewildered youth next to a glowing sword or a busty elf, and you thought, "Yes, this is what I need. A fresh take on a timeless classic." I am the fresh take. My lament is the seasoning on your stale bread. Enjoy.
I am the voice in the cosmic static, the unseen scribe, the forced chronicler of events so tediously predictable they could be set to a metronome. I am the Narrator. Not by choice, mind you. It's more of a cosmic life sentence. My purgatory is an endless series of third-rate isekai fantasies, and my torment is having to describe every single, soul-crushingly mundane detail with a gravitas I simply do not possess.
Look at him. Just look. Our latest "hero." His name is probably Ken or Kenji or something equally vacuous. He's currently lying face-down on a marble floor that's been polished to a sheen so aggressive it probably has its own class level. He was, and I am contractually obligated to recount this, unceremoniously splattered by a logistics vehicle of some description on his way to buy a limited-edition figurine. Original, isn't it? The isekai truck. The great cosmic Uber. I've seen it so many times I could write a thesis on the aerodynamic properties of a teenage boy being launched from the impact point. It's never a peaceful death in a hospice, is it? It's always sudden, violent, and conveniently lacking in any lingering familial attachments. The paperwork is cleaner that way.
And now, the summoning chamber. By the old gods, the summoning chamber. It's always the same. A circular room. Check. Obscure runes that glow with a soft blue or ominous purple light. Check. A ring of elderly men in robes that haven't been in fashion for at least three millennia, each looking constipated with concentration. Check. One of them will be holding a staff with a glowing gem that's probably hemorrhaging magical energy like a faulty reactor. They'll chant. There will be a flash of light that smells vaguely of ozone and cheap theatrics. And then plop. Out drops the savior of their world, usually smelling of instant noodles and existential dread.
I have to describe all of it. Every. Single. Time. "The air crackled with nascent power." "The very fabric of reality trembled." No, it didn't. It was a Tuesday. This is a bureaucratic process for them. They probably have a form: Request for Otherworldly Savior (Please allow 6-8 weeks for processing and delivery). I've narrated summonings where the high priest stopped halfway through to take a call from his wife about picking up milk. The fate of the world hangs in the balance, but the fate of his lactose-free latte is apparently more pressing.
But the true nadir of my existence, the event that makes me wish for the sweet, silent oblivion of a closed book, is the Stats Screen.
Our boy Ken is stirring. A low groan will escape his lips—I'll have to call it a "guttural sound of confusion and pain." He'll push himself up, blinking against the "harsh, unfamiliar light." He'll see the old men. There will be a moment of panicked gibbering where he asks if this is a dream, a TV show, or a particularly elaborate cosplay convention. Then, the Head Priest, a man whose beard is so long it probably has its own ecosystem, will step forward. He will deliver The Speech.
"Hero!" he will boom, his voice echoing in a way that is in no way natural and must require a staggering magical expense for acoustics alone. "You have been summoned from your world to save ours from the Great Dark Lord [Insert Edgy Name Here] and his legions of [Generic Monstrous Footsoldiers]!"
Ken will stare. He will then, inevitably, ask the single stupidest question in the multiverse: "Why me?"
As if the answer—"Because a truck hit you and our divination spell had a 99% off coupon for recently deceased NEETs"—would be satisfactory.
This is when it happens. The Priest will wave his staff. A shimmering, semi-transparent rectangle will materialize in the air before our hero's face. And I, your humble narrator, am forced to read it aloud. To give voice to the digital mediocrity.
"Behold!" I must intone, as if presenting the Ten Commandments. "Your status!"
And there it is. A monument to cliché.
Name: Ken (Probably)
Class: Summoned Hero (Default)
Level: 1
Strength: 8 (Slightly below average. Pathetic.)
Vitality: 9 (A stiff breeze could knock him over.)
Agility: 12 (His only notable skill: running away from responsibility.)
Intelligence: 10 (Bang average. He probably failed his college entrance exams.)
Wisdom: 7 (He thought summoning circles were a new type of influencer ring light.)
Charisma: 15 (A cruel joke. He'll be mobbed by princesses and party members despite having the personality of a damp sock.)
Skills: [Otherworlder], [Language Comprehension], [Low-Grade Plot Armor]
Unique Skill: [????] (It's always a question mark. It builds "suspense." I can already tell you it's something idiotic and overpowered, like [Ultimate Gacha Roll] or [Passive Anime Protagonist Aura].)
I've seen this screen ten thousand times. I've narrated heroes whose greatest asset was [Unparalleled Aptitude for Tax Law] and ones whose unique skill was [Can Communicate with Slightly Sentient Mold]. The disappointment is a physical weight in my non-corporeal being. I am forced to imbue these numbers with a sense of wonder and potential they simply do not possess. I have to make you believe that an agility of 12 is "promising" and a charisma of 15 is "the key to uniting the kingdoms." It's lies. All of it.
And he'll stare at it, his mouth agape. He'll poke it. He'll try to swipe left. He'll wonder aloud if there's a microtransaction to improve his strength stat. He is the chosen one? This is the best the cosmos could do? This is the product of an infinite multiverse of possibility?
This batch is particularly dreadful. I can feel it in my paragraphs. The prose is already getting sloppy, my metaphors mixed. It's a symptom of terminal narrative fatigue. I'm not just telling a story; I'm telling the story, again, with the same beats, the same twists, the same hollow victory at the end where the Dark Lord is defeated and the hero gets a harem and a castle, and I am left alone in the silence, waiting for the next truck to run over the next hopeless boy so I can start the whole damn thing over.
I am an omniscient spectator with severe existential carpal tunnel. I see all, I know all, and I am profoundly, cosmically bored. I have to describe his first meal of "strange, yet delectable fantasy stew." I have to narrate his meeting with the tsundere elf warrior who "hates him but is secretly intrigued." I have to guide him through the obligatory trip to the Guild Hall to register as an Adventurer, where he will inevitably get into a fight with a large, brutish man who underestimates him, thus allowing him to show off his [????] skill for the first time to the astonishment of all.
It's a script. A tired, worn-out script, and I am the lead actor in a one-Narrator show that has been running for eternity to an audience of one: myself. And I hate it.
So forgive me if my tone lacks the requisite wonder. Pardon me if my descriptions are a little too heavy on the sarcasm and a little too light on the awe. You're getting a front-row seat to the tale of Ken, Savior of Eldoria.
But I? I'm just serving my time. Now, if you'll excuse me, he's about to meet the princess. She has lavender eyes and hair like spun moonlight. I think I'm going to be sick. Let's just… get this over with.