Morning came softly over Kawaguchi, a small suburban town just outside Tokyo. The first light slipped through pale curtains, painting the room with faint gold. It was quiet—too quiet for a girl who wished the world would notice her once in a while.
Aria Yukimura stirred beneath her blanket, a soft groan escaping her lips as her alarm chimed again. The sound was delicate but relentless, echoing through the tidy room—a desk stacked with textbooks, a half-filled journal, a small cactus by the window, and a dream catcher that swayed every time the train passed beyond the hills.
She reached out lazily, turned the alarm off, and stared at the ceiling.
Another day. Another copy of yesterday.
Eighteen years old, final year of high school. A girl with nothing extraordinary—at least, that's what the world told her often enough that she began to believe it. She wasn't top of the class, nor was she particularly athletic. Her long blonde hair somehow framed a face people described as "gentle," though her blue eyes carried something far heavier—an untold weariness, the kind that doesn't belong to someone her age.
She dressed quickly, slinging her bag across her shoulder, and stepped into the cool air of early morning. Tokyo's skyline was faint in the distance, a promise of ambition she didn't have the heart to chase anymore.
The streets smelled of rain and vending-machine coffee. Bicycles rattled past her, and school uniforms blurred by like memories on repeat. Aria walked quietly, her earphones tucked in, listening to a song she'd written on her phone last night—soft piano, no words, just drifting thoughts.
She loved making melodies. It was the only time she felt free—when nobody expected her to prove something.
At school, she sat near the window as always. The teacher droned on about exam patterns, and whispers filled the air—plans, crushes, grades, everything that made up high school life. She tried to focus but found herself staring out the window again, watching sunlight glint off the rooftop of the opposite building.
Sometimes she wondered if she was born in the wrong world.
The boys in her class laughed loudly about "useless" things, and one of them, without even looking at her, said,
"You know, girls always talk big but they can't handle pressure. I bet none could last a day in the self-defense club."
Aria didn't even flinch. She was used to it.
She'd learned long ago that speaking up often meant being labeled difficult. She had strength—real strength—but the world didn't want to see that. It wanted polite smiles, neat notes, and quiet obedience.
When the bell rang for lunch, she walked to the rooftop alone. The wind up there carried a chill, but she liked it. She sat by the fence, unwrapping a rice ball, and gazed at the sky. It was blindingly blue, almost painfully bright—like it was trying to tell her there was something more above.
She sighed.
"Something more, huh? Guess that's too much to ask," she murmured.
That night, the moonlight washed the neighborhood in silver. Aria sat by her desk, sketching without purpose. Her phone buzzed—a message from her only close friend, Reina.
"You're not coming to the farewell party tomorrow?"
"Nah," Aria typed back. "Not in the mood."
"You'll regret missing memories like these."
"I already have too many I don't want to remember."
She smiled faintly after sending it. Reina meant well.
A low hum interrupted her thoughts. At first, she thought it was her phone vibrating again, but the sound deepened—vibrating through the desk, then through the air itself. The light above her flickered once, twice, then burst.
"...What the—"
The air around her rippled, the corners of the room bending like heat waves. Papers lifted off the table, her sketchbook flipping open as if caught in an invisible storm.
A circle of faint light began to form beneath her feet—intricate patterns, runes she didn't recognize, symbols that pulsed like living veins. Her breath hitched.
It felt like gravity reversed.
The chair clattered to the floor as she stumbled back. Her pulse raced. "Stop—stop this!" she cried, but her voice dissolved into the rising hum.
Then came the pull—gentle at first, then unbearable. Her vision blurred, the walls melting away into spiraling light. Her body lifted off the ground.
And for the first time in her life, Aria felt weightless.
The world exploded into white.
She was falling—but not through air. Through memory, through light, through the echoes of something ancient.
Sound and silence folded over each other. She saw faces she didn't know—warriors, flames, a city torn by darkness. And a voice, deep and broken, whispering through the void:
"The Aetherbound have fallen… the world bleeds again…"
The words sank into her heart like a heartbeat not her own.
"Summon the next… bring her across the veil…"
Her body spun through endless sky. The clouds parted below, revealing not Japan, but a world of mountains that floated in midair, seas of clouds glimmering beneath golden sunlight. Castles hung from cliffs like crowns of gods.
The wind roared against her ears, but beneath it, another voice called out—soft, almost sorrowful.
"Aria…"
She couldn't tell if it was someone calling her name or if the world itself whispered it.
She reached out instinctively. There was nothing to grab—only light breaking apart into a thousand fragments around her.
The wind cut cold tears down her cheeks. Her school uniform fluttered violently, and her heart pounded with both terror and awe.
"Am I dying?" she whispered.
But death didn't feel like this. This felt like being chosen.
She saw glimpses in the fall—runes glowing, five shadows standing in fire, a sword buried in ash. The name Aetherbound flickered again across her mind.
Then the light shattered completely.
When she hit the ground, it was not with pain but with silence.
Grass—cold and soft—pressed against her palms. She gasped for breath, coughing, and looked up. The sky above her was a deeper blue than anything she had ever seen—like sapphire set ablaze. Towers spiraled in the distance, bridges of glass connected floating islands, and far beyond, a crystal sun hovered over a vast palace.
Her voice trembled.
"Where… am I?"
A dozen figures surrounded her, their robes white and gold, their faces hidden beneath ornate masks. A circle of light still pulsed faintly on the ground where she lay.
"She's the one," a man said uncertainly. "The summoning succeeded."
Another voice, sharper: "But… she's a girl."
The words struck harder than the fall.
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Some looked confused, others outright disappointed.
A tall man in crimson armor stepped forward. "Is this a jest? We've waited years for the prophesied hero of Earth, and you bring us this?"
Aria's stomach turned. Not because she was in a whole different world, but because of the words she was hearing. Her limbs trembled as she tried to stand. She should have had questions about what just happened, but her mouth opened to utter something completely else.
"I—I didn't ask for this!" she shouted, her voice cracking, but nobody answered her directly.
An elderly sage leaned on his staff, his tone almost pitying. "Perhaps the spell faltered. The Oracle said a warrior would come, not… a maiden."
Laughter, bitter and restrained, echoed at the edges of the hall.
And just like that, the wonder turned into humiliation.
She was escorted toward the palace by silent knights, her bare feet dragging over the marble floor that glowed faintly beneath moonlight. Her mind raced—she didn't know if she should cry, shout, or laugh at the absurdity.
Everything around her was breathtaking—so vast, so impossibly beautiful—but every pair of eyes that looked her way carried judgment.
By the time she reached her chamber—a room of silver drapes and glass walls—she couldn't feel awe anymore. Only emptiness.
Through the window, she could see the night sky of this new world, stars scattered like powdered diamonds.
Behind her, a young attendant placed a tray on the table—bread, soup, fruit—and bowed silently before leaving.
Aria sat down, staring at the food without touching it. Her reflection shimmered faintly on the glass—disheveled hair, tear marks, a girl far from home.
The words of the armored man echoed again:
"You bring us this?"
She clenched her fists, her voice breaking. "I didn't ask to be your hero…"
Outside, bells tolled faintly across the capital.
And far away, beyond the mountains, five ancient lights flickered once—unseen, waiting.