The children's section of the Brooklyn public library was too quiet for a man like Flint Marko.
He stood between shelves painted with cartoon dragons and smiling castles, hands shoved awkwardly into his jacket pockets. He looked like someone who had taken a wrong turn on the way to somewhere rougher.
He cleared his throat and picked up a book.
Knights. Swords. A glowing shield on the cover.
He flipped it open and muttered, testing a voice.
"In a distant land, four heroes were summoned…"
He snorted softly."Shield guy's always the short end of the stick."
His phone buzzed.
A message from his daughter:
Don't forget tonight, Daddy ❤️
His expression changed instantly. The hard lines in his face softened.
"Wouldn't miss it," he muttered.
He sat down and began reading properly this time, trying to make the dragon voice deeper. Halfway through the first chapter, the ink on the page shimmered.
He frowned.
"Okay… that ain't—"
The letters lifted off the paper like grains of sand in wind.
The floor vanished.
The shelves dissolved.
And Flint Marko fell.
He hit cold marble with a heavy thud.
Voices echoed. Armor clinked. Torches burned against stone walls.
Flint rolled to one knee automatically, instincts sharp. Sand formed subtly around his boots, reacting to his pulse.
When he looked up, he wasn't in Brooklyn anymore.
He was standing in a massive throne room.
Three younger men stood nearby, equally confused.
A king in ornate robes stared down at them.
Banners hung high above: the crest of Melromarc.
From the world ofThe Rising of the Shield Hero.
Flint rose slowly.
"Alright," he said, dusting off his jacket. "Someone wanna explain why I ain't in New York anymore?"
A priest stepped forward dramatically.
"You four have been summoned as the Cardinal Heroes!"
The other three started whispering excitedly.
Flint didn't.
Something cold snapped around his left arm.
Metal fused against his skin.
A shield.
Dark. Solid. Unremovable.
The fall did not feel like falling.
It felt like being pulled apart.
Light swallowed the rows of bookshelves. Words tore from the page in glowing fragments. The scent of paper and dust became incense and burning oil.
Then—
Stone.
Cold, ancient stone beneath his boots.
When Flint Marko opened his eyes, he was standing inside a vast circular chamber carved from white marble. Intricate runes spiraled across the floor beneath him, still glowing faintly in gold. Four magic circles pulsed at equal distances.
He stood in one of them.
Across from him stood three young men, all equally disoriented.
One held a sword that shimmered with a faint blue light.Another gripped a long crimson spear.The third examined a polished bow, confusion written across his face.
Flint looked down at his own hands.
Still solid.
Still flesh.
Good.
Then something tightened around his left arm.
Metal spread like liquid, climbing from wrist to forearm, locking into place with a deep, resonant hum.
A shield.
Dark steel with emerald lines running through its surface.
He tried to shake it off.
It did not move.
"…That ain't good."
Around the chamber, robed mages lowered their staffs. The air was thick with the smell of ozone. Candles flickered violently, as though the room itself exhaled after holding its breath.
One of the other men spoke first.
"Is this some kind of cosplay event?"
The spear wielder laughed nervously. "No way… this feels real."
Flint didn't laugh.
He looked at the shield again. Turned his wrist. Flexed his fingers.
It moved with him. Not strapped on.
Bonded.
The large double doors at the far end of the chamber creaked open.
Light poured in from a grand hallway beyond.
"Heroes," a guard announced. "His Majesty awaits."
The Walk to the Throne
They were escorted through corridors of towering pillars and stained-glass windows depicting battles against monstrous shapes crashing like tidal waves over cities.
Flint walked last.
Boots heavy against the polished floor.
Every sound echoed.
Servants and knights lined the hallway, staring openly. Some with awe.
Some with calculation.
He'd seen that look before.
Sizing him up.
Judging.
The other three whispered among themselves.
"This has to be like an isekai," the sword wielder muttered."Four heroes summoned to save a world," the bow user added.
Flint kept quiet.
He'd lived long enough to know when something wasn't a joke.
Outside the windows, the sky was unfamiliar — too wide, too clear, birds circling spires that didn't belong in New York.
His hand clenched unconsciously.
For a split second, grains of sand slipped between his fingers before reforming into skin.
He forced it down.
Not here.
Not yet.
The Throne Room
The doors to the throne room opened with ceremonial force.
Inside waited a long red carpet leading to an elevated throne of gold and ivory.
Banners bearing the crest of Melromarc hung between marble pillars.
At the far end sat a stern-faced king, crown gleaming under chandelier light.
From the world ofThe Rising of the Shield Hero.
The four of them were positioned at the base of the throne.
The king rose.
"Welcome, Cardinal Heroes."
The words echoed like a verdict.
"You have been summoned from another world to defend ours against the Waves of Catastrophe."
The sword hero straightened slightly.
The spear hero looked excited.
The bow hero looked analytical.
Flint looked tired.
"You summoned us?" he asked flatly.
"Yes."
"And you're gonna send us back when you're done?"
A pause.
A flicker of something in the king's expression.
"That will depend on your success."
There it was.
Flint's jaw tightened.
Not a promise.
A condition.
He lifted his arm, staring at the shield locked to it.
The king's gaze shifted, faint disdain crossing his features.
"The Shield Hero," he said, tone subtly colder than when addressing the others.
Flint noticed.
He always noticed.
A lifetime of being the unwanted one had sharpened that instinct.
The priest beside the throne stepped forward dramatically.
"The Shield is a sacred relic of defense and protection."
Flint huffed quietly.
"Yeah. Figures."
The others received applause from sections of the court.
When his title was spoken?
The room was quieter.
Not hostile.
Just… hesitant.
He'd heard that silence before too.
The Realization
As the king continued explaining the Waves — monstrous hordes appearing like natural disasters — Flint barely listened.
He was thinking about a small apartment in Brooklyn.
A bedtime story half-read.
A text message with a heart emoji.
His daughter was waiting.
And he was standing in a castle being told he belonged to another world.
The shield pulsed faintly against his arm.
Not heavy.
But inescapable.
He exhaled slowly through his nose.
"Alright," he muttered under his breath.
If this world thought it summoned a hero—
It had no idea what it had actually brought over.
And somewhere beyond the castle walls, a countdown had already begun.
The first Wave was coming.