Ten years before Troy Hercules appeared in Orion…
The chamber was quiet. Too quiet.
Not even the wind dared whisper its presence in the old ruins beneath the Hollowed Mountains. These forgotten catacombs—buried under years of dust, grief, and collapsed hopes—were the last remnants of a time before the Holy Knights and their corrupt gospel strangled the world.
Sora Magestus, the Last Witch of the Summoned Race, stood at the center of a ritual circle etched into the stone with her own blood. The metallic scent of it mixed with the scent of old incense and burnt sage. Candles flickered against the cavern walls, casting her long shadow over the seven cloaked figures kneeling before her—each one middle-aged, each one trembling with belief and madness.
"These are the last ones?" Sora asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Her tone was firm, but exhaustion coated the edges. She'd already hidden the Sage Grimoire, deleted her Skills, and set every trap she could for the usurpers of the divine. This was her last gamble.
"Yes, Great One," said the tallest of them, his beard flecked with gray and reverence. "We are your Seven Anchors. We have studied your scriptures, memorized your glyphs, even bathed in fermented goat's milk as you commanded—though it was unpleasant."
"Good," she said, then paused. "That milk thing was a joke. You actually did it?"
They blinked in silence. Sora sighed. "No matter. What matters is that you're devoted and completely off your rocker. You'll do nicely."
She stepped forward, her black boots echoing with each stride as she inspected the altar—the last piece of her scheme. A crystalline obelisk sat upon it, a construct of ancient Summon tech designed to breach dimensions. Unlike the foolish teleportation rituals most of the Order feared, this one wasn't meant to summon a monster or a deity.
It was meant to summon a fool. A wild card. Someone from beyond their world. Someone untouched by divine chains and untainted by this realm's cursed logic.
In short, it was meant to summon Troy Hercules.
Not that she had his name back then. All she had was a formula. A seed planted in the soil of fate. And the ritual, twisted as it was, would draw that seed forth.
"You remember your roles?" she asked, casting her gaze across the seven.
Each nodded solemnly.
"You will be forgotten. Reviled. Called heretics and lunatics. You will wear ridiculous robes, chant strange mantras, and attempt the summoning on the Day of Blood Moon, ten years after my death."
"Blessed be the Blood Moon," they chanted in unison.
"You will not succeed right away. The ritual must fail several times. Fate requires resistance before it snaps."
"Blessed be resistance," they muttered.
Sora narrowed her eyes. "And if anyone ever comes asking, you don't know my name. You've never heard of me. Your entire theology must be based around… I don't know. Make up some crap."
The shortest one, a hunched woman with wild hair, raised a hand. "Can it involve foam horns?"
"…What?"
"I just think foam horns would look great on the Chosen One," she said.
Sora blinked. Then she laughed. "You know what? Fine. Foam horns. If this works, he's going to be weird as hell anyway."
The others muttered in agreement. One man scribbled "Foam Horn Prophecy" on a stained parchment.
Sora stepped back into the center of the circle. Her wounds still throbbed from her last battle against the Holy Knights. They'd be back soon—she could feel their approach like a storm on the horizon. Lancelot Ardglass and his ilk were hunting her, and this time, there would be no escape.
That was fine.
She didn't need to escape.
She needed to make sure someone else could.
She knelt and placed her hands on the cold stone. "Seraphim," she whispered.
[Yes, Sora]
"Begin memory lock and ritual embedding. Seal this place. Encode the Summoning into the DNA of this land. Ten years from now, activate with the catalyst of Blood and Absurdity."
[Confirmed. Catalyst requirements: Bloodline Trace, Dimensional Absurdity, and Cosmic Error]
"Good. Make it absurd. Make it so completely ridiculous the gods will never take it seriously until it's too late."
[Absurdity algorithm initiated. Probability filter removed]
She looked at the seven once more. "You'll forget much of this," she said. "When I finish the circle, your memories will be scrambled. That's the only way to keep the plan safe. You'll remember enough to perform your roles, but nothing about me."
The eldest among them looked up. "Will… will the Chosen One truly be strong enough?"
"No," Sora replied with a smirk. "Not at first. He's going to be utterly useless."
"…Oh."
"But he'll learn. Or die. Either way, we win."
They nodded, understanding her in the way only fanatics could.
Sora took a deep breath and placed her palm against the obelisk. Power surged through her like cold lightning. The glyphs flared red, and a humming noise echoed from the ground to the heavens.
"Let the seeds of rebellion be cast across time. Let fate be fractured. Let nonsense be our weapon!"
The chamber exploded in radiant crimson light. Sora screamed—not in pain, but in triumph—as her essence was burned into the spell.
And the seven began to forget.
They stared blankly as she collapsed, whispering her final prayer to the stars above.
"Summon him… let him be my chaos."
Ten years later…
Troy Hercules was mid-shift at Inferno Brew: Hellishly Good Coffee, a cosplay café where all the employees wore demon-themed outfits for thirsty nerd clientele. He was in the washroom to pee.
He grumbled, tugging at his tail belt. "Stupid horns. Stupid cosplay. At least the tips aren't flopping anymore."
Just as he finished that thought, the floor beneath him rippled. Not cracked, not opened—rippled, like reality decided it had the texture of Jell-O.
"Oh nope—this is not on the schedule—"
A vortex of crimson light exploded beneath his feet. His coffee thermos exploded. His muffin disintegrated. And Troy Hercules, still in foam horns, apron, and demon tail belt, was violently sucked into a spinning spiral of shrieking void nonsense.
When he opened his eyes…
He was lying in a giant summoning circle, surrounded by seven middle-aged cultists in ragged robes, all trembling with reverence and confusion.
One gasped, clutching her parchment. "He's got the Sacred Horns…"
Another fell to his knees, sobbing. "The Prophecy was real! The cosplay demon has arrived!"
Troy sat up groggily, frosting on his cheek. "Did someone just kidnap me during work?! I still have orders to run! And what the hell is this smell—did someone burn goat milk?!"
They all cried out in joy.
"The Summoned One speaks! He mentions the Ritual Milk! Praise be to the Chosen Foam Horned Demon!"
Troy looked around at the robes, the candles, the blood, the ominous floating runes overhead.
He blinked. Twice.
"...Am I in a cult?"
"Yes!" they said proudly.
Troy screamed.