It was just supposed to be another story of a boy who dies on Earth under unfortunate circumstances, summoned by the goddess of another world, granted exceptional powers to defeat the Demon King. A story of magic and fantasy, dwarves and elves, swords and blood, lovely allies and terrible foes. Monsters and men, heroes and villains, a tale repeated over and over. But in this world is someone who shouldn’t be there. A boy who is neither hero nor villain, neither sidekick nor mentor, but someone who has no role at all. For he is someone who knows this is a story. He’s never read it. He’s not the one who wrote it. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen. But he knows it’s a story. And stories follow patterns. They follow rules, use cliches, and ultimately, to some degree, are predictable.  He knows that every person he meets is fake. Every bit of joy, of suffering, of success, of failure, it’s all just a massive delusion orchestrated by someone known as an author. And so every relationship he’ll ever build is also fake, just as orchestrated as everything else in his theatre show of a life. He’s just here for his memories, and he’ll be gone before anyone even knows he was there. He’s not interested in having a story written about him. But then he meets someone who is just as equally as lost as he is, abandoned, abused, and all alone. Despite everything, he extends his hand to this girl who is barely hanging onto life, someone who’s lost everything but doesn’t want to die. And suddenly, the story begins. Suddenly, there’s something that matters.  Maybe this illusion of a world is more real than he thought. Maybe these puppets of people are more valuable than the strings that control them. But that remains to be seen.