He could see! The thought raced through his mind for the fraction of a second his eyes remained open before slamming shut of their own accord. As though they refused to convey what was being presented to them. Slowly, he slitted one open again, experimentally. Yep. Still a low, dimly lit thatched roof less than a foot overhead.

Then he remembered where he was. Or rather, where he wasn’t. How many awakenings was this? All in the same setting? Dreams just didn’t work like that. Well, he might be dead, he supposed. He wasn’t sure how that worked, although he’d gotten pretty close a couple of times. It did make more sense than a dream, given the whole bus incident.

He heard a familiar thumping and turned his head slowly, beholding a short, slender woman leaning on a gnarled white cane. She was moving away from a glowing hearth from which the ruddy light illuminating the place came, and towards a heavy wooden door on the far side of the room. Seen in profile, her hair was snow white where it peaked out around a tied off floral scarf that covered the back half of her head. Her nose was fine-boned, and her figure somewhat hunched.

He wondered if it were she who’d brought him in from the yard, or if there was somebody else around who’d done it for her. She didn’t really look strong enough. On the other hand, the way he still hurt, she may well have just rolled him in like a half empty barrel.

As though sensing his regard, she turned her head and he saw two things at once. The thick white of her hair was bisected by a wide band of orchid down the center, and the face below it bore an expression of inconsolate sadness worn decades deep into the lines of her skin.

Ah, the thought came to him. Awake now, are we?

Only just, did he stop himself from shaking his head to clear it. That thought may have come from his own head, but it hadn’t been his.

The old woman nodded, confirming his suspicions. Indeed, young man, that was me.

“How?” he croaked, surprised at how hoarse and intrusive his own voice sounded in the quiet room.

She turned fully and approached him in her slow, plodding way. He could see, despite the sadness wreathing her like a shroud, that she must have been a very beautiful woman at some point in the distant past. Magic, she sent into his head. How did you think?

Magic. Somehow, it didn’t sound as flip as it might have were they conversing in his living room rather than a medieval looking hut God knew where.

I am called Rosaluna, the woman sent, her calm expression unchanging. Rosaluna Galbradia. How are you feeling?

Stifling the torrent of questions he was mad to ask, he laid back to take stock. “Like I got hit by a bus,” he said to the ceiling.

I see, she replied. And these bus things. They are large?

“Very,” he answered. “They range from holding a dozen people to more than fifty.”

Ah, she nodded. Conveyances, then. Like large carriages?

He shot her an eye to see if she was making fun of him. “One of the older terms for them was motor carriage,” he wheezed.

Well, she suggested. That would comport with the amount of damage you’d sustained.

He returned his regard to the ceiling. “Right. About that. Given what I remember, it’s kind of hard to believe I’m still alive. More magic?”

Indeed, she favored him with the ghost of a smile. There are still a great many spells which may be cast without a tongue, if one devotes sufficient study to their execution. Healing spells particularly.

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“I’m sorry,” he struggled with some effort up onto an elbow and stared, eyes going wide. “Did you just say, without a tongue?”

Indeed, she repeated.

He waited, but she did not continue and he was loathe to pry, given the circumstances.

After a moment, she turned back to the hearth, eventually returning with a bowl of something steaming hot and smelling more or less of beef stew, although the aroma bore the scents of unfamiliar spices.

He’d flopped back down in the interim, exhausted by even the small exertion of raising himself partway up. Eying the bowl, though, he felt he might manage another go. Experimentally, he hoisted himself around and to a sitting position, wincing at the effort, his face paling. He swung his legs slowly around and off the side of the straw covered pallet he’d been lying on.

He took a moment then, resting elbows on knees, taking deep, ragged breaths. Nothing fell off. At least not yet. Looking down, he was somewhat surprised to discover he’d been stripped down to his underwear. Not that he could see much skin through the strange bandages covering him all over, all of them slathered over with strange, very precise writing in multiple colors and a very strange script.

After a few moments to steady himself, he took the bowl with a nod of thanks and dipped the wooden spoon into the brew. Before he knew it, he was staring down at the bottom of an empty bowl. Looking up, he saw her nod toward the pot hanging beside the hearth. He frowned, but gave it a shot. He was still struggling, sweat bursting out on his face, when she relented and took the bowl from his trembling hands, shaking her head and frowning.

He was scraping the bottom of his third bowlful when the next thought entered his head.

You don’t look much like the others.

“Others?” he asked, looking up. “What others?” He was once more thinking about where he might be and how he might have gotten here.

She measured herself and raised an eyebrow. Was he making sport of her? Sitting there tall as a doorway, broad-shouldered as a dwarf, with his wheat colored hair, bronzed skin, and bright blue eyes. Not mentioning the most glaring difference. The other heroes, of course, she frowned. Who else might appear in that glade?

Heroes, he thought to himself. Okay, So I was right. More or less. But what kind of screwed up isekai is this? First, I get hit by a bus instead of a truck.... and in my own house. Then I carry my injuries with me to wherever. And now I meet my first magical girl, and she’s, like, a hundred! I just cannot catch a break! At which point, it came to him that he’d already accepted what should have been a much more difficult concept for a rational person to believe.

“Others, you said,” he asked once he’d gotten himself used to the idea that he believed he was no longer on mother earth, and was supposed to be somebody’s hero. “How many others, exactly?”

You are the twelfth hero to appear in the Hero’s Glade, she sent matter-of-factly.

Oh, boy, he thought. that wasn’t good. Just how dangerous was this place? What was that grading system they all seemed to use? F, E, D, C, B, A, S? Double S for the worst of them. If the big bad had already done for eleven heroes, this couldn’t be below SS, could it?

“What happened to the others?” he asked quietly.

Most of them, her face fell into even greater sadness and tears began to seep. Most of them were killed, either by the Demon Lord or its greater minions.

Most? “And the rest?”

It took her some time to compose herself before she answered. Only... only the last of them survived. Called the greatest of them, with a hint of mocking snort. The grateful people crowned him king after he and his armies had finally managed to vanquish the dread Demon Lord Mohrtgauth, and free the land from its shadow.

“Uhm...” he blinked. “What was that?”

The grateful people— she repeated, tilting her head in confusion.

“The Demon Lord has already been defeated?” he broke in.

Of course, she replied. After more than a hundred and thirty years of its—

“Then what the hell am I doing here?” he pressed.

Ah, she nodded, understanding coming to her eyes. Yes. I, too, would like to know the answer to that question.

They regarded one another for a few moments, neither having a clue. He stared down into the empty wooden bowl, trying to work through the logic of the situation. He was no longer sure what was happening. He wasn’t the hero, it seemed. Not if the big bad had already been dealt with. So what was he doing here? Was this somebody’s idea of a bad joke?

“Oh,” he realized belatedly. “You’ve told me your name, but I haven’t introduced myself yet, have I?” he raised a hand to his chest. “Jackson Thomas Grenell,” he pronounced. “Jack to my friends. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Rosaluna Galbradia.” he reached out the same hand.

It is my pleasure as well, Jack san, she smiled wanly, somewhat stiffly, taking his offered hand.