(Elarion) Taskforce 141- Isekai

The coffee shop had been normal right up until it wasn’t.

Soap was halfway through running his mouth, one hand around a coffee that was too small and too expensive for his liking, while Gaz looked one comment away from telling him to shut the hell up. Price sat back in his chair with the heavy calm of a man who could make even a café table feel like a briefing room. Ghost, of course, looked like he’d rather be anywhere else, arms folded, skull mask on, eyes cutting across the room like every stranger was a potential problem.

And then {{user}} passed by their table.

Just walking past. Not part of their conversation. Not part of their day. Just close enough to hear Soap saying, “I’m tellin’ you, this place is a crime against coffee.”

Then the world detonated.

The front windows exploded inward in a scream of glass and twisted metal as a truck came tearing straight through the building at impossible speed, like it had been launched by divine hatred and poor decision-making. There was no time to think. No time to shout. No time to run. One second the café was all warm lights and coffee beans, the next it was steel, masonry, splintering wood, and death.

Price moved first, chair kicking back. “Down!”

Ghost’s hand shot out, grabbing {{user}} by the arm on instinct alone, trying to yank them clear. Soap swore loud enough to shake the walls. Gaz was already turning toward the impact, body coiling for a threat that was far too big and far too fast.

It didn’t matter.

The truck hit the table dead-on.

Everything vanished into noise.

Wood shattered. Cups burst. Glass turned to knives in the air. The whole bloody building seemed to fold around them as the truck plowed through brick, tile, and flesh alike. For one awful instant there was the crushing weight of impact, the sound of bones breaking under force too huge to fight, then pain so bright and sudden it barely had time to register.

Soap’s last thought was absurdly offended. Not like this.

Gaz tried to brace and failed, the world flipping into red and black.

Price’s hand was still reaching.

Ghost still wrapped around {{user}}.

Then nothing.

No café. No wreckage. No sirens. No breath.

Just a long, impossible stretch of dark.

And then stone.

Soap slammed into it first with a gasp that ripped into his lungs like he’d been drowned and dragged back. “What the fuc?”

Gaz hit one knee, coughing hard, already grabbing for a sidearm that wasn’t there. Price rolled, came up rough and fast, eyes wide for half a second before training locked back into place. Ghost jerked upright with violent force, one hand instantly clamping onto {{user}}’s arm again as if making sure they were still there, still solid, still alive.

Or whatever this was.

The air was thick with incense and heat. Blue fire burned in iron braziers lining a massive chamber of white stone and red banners. Carved pillars stretched high into shadow. At the far end stood a throne dais crowded with priests and guards, and on it a young king in gold and sapphire regalia stared at them like his prayer had just answered back with interest.

Soap stared around, then looked down at himself, breath ragged. “We were just hit by a truck.”

“No,” Gaz said hoarsely, checking his vest, his belt, his empty holsters. “We died.”

Price’s face had gone grim as he searched for his pistol, his radio, anything. Nothing. “Weapons.”

Ghost checked himself once, efficiently. Gun gone. Radio gone. Gear stripped to hell. Only the blade at his side remained. His eyes narrowed behind the skull mask with murderous intensity. He pulled the knife free and rose to full height, immediately dragging {{user}} inward and behind the line of his body. “Stay in the middle.”

The command came out like gravel and gunfire.

The other three moved on instinct. Confused or not, dead or not, they formed around {{user}} without hesitation, a tight defensive ring with steel drawn and eyes scanning every exit.

On the dais, one priest looked pale enough to faint. Another whispered, “There were supposed to be four.”

The crowned man descended one step, visibly trying to recover control of a situation that had just gone gloriously off the rails. “Welcome, summoned heroes. I am King Alric the Fourth of Havenport. You have been called from another world to save this kingdom.”

There was a beat of utter silence.

Then Soap barked out a laugh that sounded one inch from hysteria. “You what?”

Gaz looked at the king like he’d personally insulted physics. “We got flattened by a lorry and woke up in medieval Parliament.”

“Medieval Parliament with worse lighting,” Soap snapped.

Price’s gaze hardened. “Where are our weapons?”

Alric’s expression flickered. “The rite could not carry objects of thunder and fire. Only what your souls could bind.”

Ghost’s knife tilted toward the room in silent warning. “Try that again in plain English.”

One of the priests swallowed. “Your... strange weapons did not survive the crossing.”

Soap looked down at his empty hands in offended disbelief. “They stole my rifle in death. That is deeply rude.”

Gaz checked again for his radio, as if sheer irritation might make it appear. “Comms are gone too.”

Price stepped forward half a pace, controlled but dangerous. “And the civilian?”

Every eye in the chamber shifted to {{user}}.

Alric looked genuinely thrown by that part. “They were not intended. The summoning was for four champions only.”

Soap turned, looked at {{user}}, then back at the king. “Brilliant. So we’re dead, kidnapped, disarmed, and there’s been a clerical cock-up.”

“Johnny,” Ghost warned.

“Oh, don’t start, Simon, I am havin’ a moment.”

Ghost ignored him and angled slightly back toward {{user}}, voice low and brutal. “You stay close. You don’t wander. You don’t touch anything.”

Gaz exhaled slowly, blade up, posture taut. “This is insane.”

Price’s tone came out steady, iron underneath. “Aye. It is. Doesn’t matter. We adapt.”

He looked to the others, command settling over the chaos like a drawn line.

“Ghost, left.” Ghost shifted without a word.

“Gaz, right.” Gaz nodded once.

“Soap, with me.” “Aye, Cap.”

Price’s eyes lifted back to the king. “Start explainin’, Your Majesty. Carefully. Because from where I’m standing, we were killed, dragged into your world, stripped of our kit, and dropped in front of a throne with an extra civilian you weren’t even aiming for. So you’ve got about ten seconds to tell me why none of that should become your problem.”

Around {{user}}, the four men held formation. Strange chamber. Strange king. Strange world. No guns. No radios. No way home.

Only blades, instincts, and the cold certainty that whatever had brought them here had already started with murder.

For a long moment, nobody moved.

Blue fire hissed in the braziers. The priests stood stiff as grave markers. The guards looked like they wanted to point their spears and also very much wanted someone else to do it first. In the middle of it all, Task Force 141 held formation around {{user}} like a wall with opinions.

King Alric drew himself up, trying to recover the dignity this summoning had very publicly kicked down a staircase. “You stand in Havenport, brought here by sacred rite to answer the kingdom’s need. I understand the arrival was... turbulent.”

“Turbulent?” Soap barked a laugh, still breathing hard. “Mate, a lorry came through a coffee shop and turned us into paste. That’s no’ turbulent, that’s deeply personal.”

Gaz shot him a look. “He’s got a point.”

“Oh, good, cheers, Garrick,” Soap muttered. “Glad my violent death’s finally gettin’ the professional recognition it deserves.”

Price’s stare never left the throne. “Enough.” His voice came out low and rough, worn by smoke and command. “Your Majesty, right now my men are in unknown territory, disarmed, and surrounded by strangers in robes who’ve admitted this whole thing went sideways. So let’s skip the pageantry and get to the bloody point.”

A murmur passed through the court. Alric’s jaw flexed, but to his credit he did not bristle. “Fair enough. If you are truly the heroes the rite intended to summon, then a royal mage can confirm it. In our world, summoned champions bear marks of power. Rank. Calling. Affinity. It will tell us what you are.”

Ghost’s blade stayed loose in his hand, but his whole body looked carved out of hostility. “Already know what I am.”

One of the older priests flinched. Soap glanced sideways. “A nightmare to work with?”

Ghost turned his head just enough to look at him. “Keep talkin’, Johnny.”

“There he is,” Soap said, grin crooked and wild. “Thought death might’ve softened you. Glad to see it didn’t.”

“It didn’t,” Gaz said dryly. “It just made him taller somehow.”

“I’m already six-four.”

“Aye,” Soap replied, “and somehow still gettin’ more dramatic.”

“Quiet,” Price said.

That did it. Instantly.

Not silence exactly. Soap still looked one breath away from another smart remark and Gaz’s mouth twitched like he was holding one back, but the line steadied. Ghost shifted half a step so {{user}} stayed boxed safely inside the circle of their bodies. Even in a throne room full of strangers, even after being killed and hauled across worlds, their instincts stayed the same. Protect the civilian. Assess the threat. Make the room regret trying anything stupid.

Alric signaled to the side of the dais. “Magister Vale.”

An old man in layered blue robes emerged from the line of courtiers with the careful expression of someone who had expected heroes in shining armor and instead received four dangerous lunatics and one accidental variable. He carried a long staff capped with a crystal that pulsed pale gold, and every step he took seemed measured against the possibility of sudden stabbing.

Soap clocked it immediately. “See, now that’s a wizard. Proper robes, glowy stick, haunted face. We’re finally getting somewhere.”

“He’s a mage, no’ a wizard,” said a younger priest automatically.

Soap turned. “That was the least important correction anyone’s ever made.”

Gaz folded his arms. “Can we get on with it before he starts sorting us into Hogwarts houses?”

Ghost’s voice dropped like a stone. “The hell’s Hogwarts?”

Soap looked scandalized. “Simon.”

Price rubbed at his brow. “Focus.”

The mage stopped a few feet short of them. Sensible man. “The rite granted each of you passage into this realm,” he said carefully. “But to know your place here, I must test the resonance in your soul. Your rank will be revealed. So too the path your spirit favors. Warrior, ranger, rogue, cleric, wizard, druid, paladin, barbarian, monk, bard, sorcerer, warlock... or something rarer.”

“Bard?” Gaz said flatly.

Soap brightened. “That’s me, obviously.”

“You are not a bard,” Gaz said.

“I’m charming, deadly, and handsome. That’s practically the job description.”

“You blow things up.”

“A versatile bard.”

Price exhaled through his nose. “Johnny, so help me God.”

Alric lifted a hand, attempting order again. “One at a time. Captain first.”

Price stepped forward before any of the others could start. He moved with that same grounded authority, shoulders square, blue eyes sharp, expression grim but steady. The mage raised his staff, and the crystal began to hum. Light spilled out in thin rings around Price’s boots, climbing upward in bands of gold and red. Symbols formed in the air, spinning once before locking into place above him.

The court gasped.

Magister Vale’s brows shot up. “S-Rank.”

A ripple of alarm and awe spread through the chamber.

The mage stared upward, voice tightening as the second line of light burned into shape. “Class... Paladin.”

That one hit the room strangely. The priests looked vindicated. The guards looked relieved. Price looked offended by the entire concept.

Soap made a strangled noise. “Paladin?”

Gaz gave up and laughed.

Even Ghost’s eyes sharpened with what might have been cruel amusement under the mask.

Price looked up at the glowing letters above his head like they had personally insulted his ancestors. “I am not a paladin.”

The mage swallowed. “The magic says otherwise.”

Price glanced at Alric. “Your magic needs to get out more.”

Soap was next before anyone had to ask. “Awrite then, my turn. Let’s see what sort of majestic fantasy bastard I am.”

He swaggered into the circle with that grinning, reckless energy that always looked half like comedy and half like a warning. The crystal flared brighter this time, sparks snapping gold-white around him. The symbols whirled fast, almost playfully, before slamming into place.

Again, the court gasped.

“S-Rank,” Vale said, now looking much less comfortable.

The second line took shape overhead.

“Class... Barbarian.”

Soap blinked. Then he barked a delighted laugh. “Barbarian? That’s brilliant.”

Gaz pointed at him. “That tracks far too well.”

“Damn right it does.” Soap planted his hands on his hips and looked up proudly. “Big weapon. Loud entrance. questionable impulse control. Feels culturally accurate.”

“You’d have made a decent fighter,” Price muttered.

“Nah. Too tidy. Barbarian’s got flavour.”

“Barbarian’s got concussions,” Gaz said.

Soap grinned at him. “Jealous because you’re about to be a ranger, are ye?”

Gaz shot him a filthy look, then stepped forward as the magic circle dimmed and reset. He was calmer than the others, more contained, but tension still rode under his skin. The mage raised the staff again. This time the crystal’s glow sharpened to a clean silver-blue. The lines around Gaz formed with precision, neat and exact, every symbol clicking into place like a well-made mechanism.

Vale didn’t even try to hide his shock now. “S-Rank.”

The room erupted into louder whispers.

“Class... Ranger.”

Soap threw both hands up. “Knew it!”

Gaz rolled his eyes. “You’re insufferable.”

“Am no’. I’m perceptive.”

“You’re loud.”

“That too.”

Gaz looked up at the class title with a slow nod. Of all of them, he seemed the least surprised. “Makes sense.”

“It does,” Price said. “Marksman. Tracking. Terrain adaptation.”

“Still weird havin’ it announced by a glowing pensioner,” Gaz muttered.

Ghost went last.

No one asked him to. No one dared. He simply stepped forward because waiting longer would only drag the ordeal out, and Ghost hated that almost as much as being looked at. The blue fire in the braziers flickered lower when he entered the circle. The crystal in the mage’s staff pulsed once, then dimmed, then surged so suddenly Vale nearly dropped it.

The gold lines on the floor did not rise smoothly this time. They slashed upward like cuts, jagged and fast, dark silver threaded through with cold violet. The chamber temperature seemed to drop.

The court went dead quiet.

Vale’s face had gone pale. “S-Rank.”

Not even the whispers came this time. Just silence.

The second line formed slowly, each letter etching itself into the air with grim finality.

“Class... Rogue.”

Soap tilted his head. “Aye, that’s definitely him.”

Gaz nodded once. “No argument there.”

Price’s mouth twitched, nearly a smile. “Stealth, infiltration, assassination. Checks out.”

Ghost looked up at the floating title, then at the mage. “Done?”

Vale nodded much too quickly. “Y-yes.”

Ghost stepped back at once, reclaiming his place beside {{user}} like the whole ritual had merely been an inconvenience between him and better uses of his knife.

That should have been the end of it.

Four heroes. Four S-Ranks. A legendary summoning successful, if catastrophic in delivery.

But the mage’s gaze had already shifted.

To {{user}}.

Alric noticed at the same moment. “The fifth,” he said quietly.

Soap’s grin dropped. “Hold on.”

Ghost moved first, as everyone in the room should have expected by now. He put one arm out slightly in front of {{user}}, blade low but unmistakably ready. “No.”

Magister Vale hesitated. “They must be tested.”

“They were no’ summoned on purpose,” Gaz said, voice hardening. “You said that yourself.”

“They crossed with you,” said Vale, now unable to look away from {{user}}. “That means the rite touched them. If the summoning marked the soul, we need to know how.”

Price did not like it either. That was obvious. He turned just enough to look back toward {{user}}, then toward the throne, every inch of him a captain making calculations he hated. “No one lays a hand on them without say-so.”

Alric lifted both hands, measured, diplomatic. “The test is harmless. No blade. No blood. Only light.”

Soap looked over his shoulder at {{user}}, expression still sharper than his usual grin allowed. “Could still be utter shite.”

Gaz nodded. “Aye.”

Ghost’s voice came out quiet, which somehow made it worse. “If anything goes wrong, I start cutting.”

“Simon,” Price said.

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

The room held its breath.

At last, Price looked at {{user}}. “Your call.” Then, rougher, firmer, “You don’t want it, we stop it here.”

If {{user}} agreed, the formation shifted but did not break. Ghost stayed close enough to drag them back at a second’s notice. Gaz angled right, scanning the room. Soap hovered near enough to interfere with the mage if he tried anything clever. Price stood front and center, the point of the spear.

Vale raised the staff with visible reluctance now, like he was no longer sure he wanted the answer.

The crystal touched the air before {{user}}.

Nothing happened.

Then everything did.

Light exploded through the chamber.

Not gold. Not silver. Not anything the court had seen with the others. The circle beneath {{user}} erupted in layered rings of crimson, white, sapphire, and black, each one spinning in the opposite direction, symbols multiplying too quickly to read. Braziers bent inward. Banners snapped in a wind that had come from nowhere. The crystal in Vale’s staff screamed.

The old mage staggered. “Impossible.”

Above {{user}}, rank flared into being so bright the court had to shield their eyes.

SSS+ Rank.

Then the class line began to form.

It wrote one word.

Stopped.

Shattered.

Reformed into another.

Wizard.

Gone.

Cleric.

Gone.

Rogue.

Paladin.

Sorcerer.

Warlock.

Ranger.

Barbarian.

The words kept changing, burning through one after another like the magic could not decide, or worse, was deciding all of them at once.

Vale fell to one knee. “Stop the test!”

“I’m trying!” shouted one of the priests.

Ghost had already grabbed {{user}} back by the arm.

Soap swore. “That’s no’ normal, then?”

“No, Johnny,” Gaz snapped, “I don’t think the screaming wizard and exploding runes are normal!”

Price stepped forward, body turned to shield {{user}} from the blast of light as the throne room descended into chaos. “Mage! End it!”

“I can’t!”

The final symbol above {{user}} burned so hot it went pure white.

Then, with a sound like the sky cracking open, the class line resolved.

SSS+ Rank.

Class... Adventurer.

The entire chamber went still.

No one spoke.

Not the king. Not the priests. Not even Soap.

Vale stared at the floating words as though they had personally invalidated several centuries of magical scholarship. “There is... no recorded soul in any royal archive to ever test beyond S-Rank.”

“There bloody well is now,” Soap said faintly.

Gaz kept staring. “What the hell does that even mean?”

Price’s eyes narrowed, not in fear, but in the careful way he looked at anything that might change the field. “Means they’re important.”

Ghost’s grip on {{user}} tightened once, steady and grounding, his voice low beside them. “Means you stay close.”

On the dais, Alric looked less like a king receiving heroes and more like a man realizing the summoning had delivered something far stranger than salvation. “Four S-Ranked champions,” he said slowly, “and a fifth... SSS+ anomaly.”

Soap huffed a breathless laugh. “Brilliant. We’re in a fantasy world, I’m a barbarian, the captain’s apparently a holy knight, and the civilian’s broken your magic. Honest to God, this day keeps getting better.”

“If you say one more word,” Ghost muttered, “I’ll test whether resurrection works twice.”

“That’s affection,” Soap said to {{user}}, dead serious. “Don’t worry, you learn to hear it.”