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SUMMONED TO BE A HERO

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SUMMONED TO BE A HERO

Prologue

Prologue: Summoned to be a Hero

Sojiro was always smiling.

To anyone watching, he looked like the happiest seventeen year old alive.

But that smile… it was a lie. A mask.

Because behind it was a boy whose life had never once been kind.

He had no parents.

No memories of them.

They vanished the day he was born no explanation, no trace, nothing.

Since then, he had been raised by his aunt.

But “raised” wasn’t the right word. Survived under was more accurate.

Aunt Liza was cruel. Cold.

She yelled when she was tired, hit when she was angry, and ignored him the rest of the time.

Food was a privilege. Kindness didn’t exist. Love was a foreign word.

She never let him go to school.

She said he didn’t need it. That it would be wasted on someone like him.

So while other kids laughed with classmates and dreamed about their futures, Sojiro scrubbed floors, did laundry, and kept his head down.

He had a cousin, Rein, the same age.

But Rein was just as bad—loud, rude, dressed like a gangster, and always picking fights. They lived under the same roof, but never shared a moment as family. Just silence, tension, and distance.

Sojiro slept in a small corner of the house. No bed, no comfort.

Just thin blankets and worn-out hope.

And yet… he smiled.

Because if he didn’t, he might break.

He never complained.

He never asked for more.

He just existed.

---

Chapter 1: The Delivery Boy Who Smiles

Sojiro’s POV

WHAM!

A sharp pain jolted through my side as something—no, someone—kicked me right off my mattress.

"Oi! Get up already! Don't you know what time it is, you useless waste?"

My eyes blinked open just in time to see my aunt’s slipper flying back toward her foot after it collided with my ribs. I didn’t even have time to groan.

"Y-Yeah… I’m up," I muttered, pushing myself off the wooden floor.

No sunlight reached this corner of the house. It used to be a storage room, now it was just my bedroom. No bed, no fan, not even a real door—just a curtain I had to sew shut when it ripped last year. My blanket was thin, barely even warm anymore, and my pillow was a stack of old clothes tied with a shoelace.

"Don’t make me call you again!" she shouted from the hallway.

She never did anyway—she just threw things.

I stood up slowly, stretching my arms, trying not to wince where her foot had landed. My stomach growled—loudly—but I ignored it. No use thinking about breakfast. I hadn’t had one in days. Not unless someone gave me leftovers by accident on delivery.

I slipped into the same jeans I wore yesterday and the day before that, grabbed the bakery apron, and tied it around my waist.

Then I walked out of the room, forcing my best weapon onto my face—

a smile.

---

In the living room, Rein was sprawled on the couch with his legs on the table, holding his phone sideways while some game flashed on the screen.

"Yo, delivery dog’s awake," he smirked without looking up.

"Good morning, Rein," I said, smiling like always.

He didn’t reply. Just laughed to himself.

I slipped on my dusty sneakers and walked out the front door. The air outside was humid, thick with the smell of exhaust and fried oil from the food stalls already open down the street. My stomach twisted again, but I tightened my apron and kept walking.

---

The bakery wasn’t far just a six-minute walk if I was slow. But I wasn’t walking today. Not with all the deliveries.

Parked against the old lamppost was my beat-up bicycle. Rusted chains, peeling paint, the brakes squeaked like dying birds—but it still worked. And as long as it moved, I could work.

When I arrived at Liza’s Loaves, the bell on the bakery door gave a pitiful ding as I stepped inside.

“You’re late.”

That was all Aunt Liza said as she turned around and threw a rag on the counter.

“I—I came straight here.”

She didn’t care. Her eyes narrowed like I’d just stolen from the cash register.

“Grab the boxes. All of them. You’ve got ten deliveries today. Don’t forget the one to the high school. The teachers complain when you’re late. And don’t eat anything. That’s for customers, not for stray dogs like you.”

“Yes, Auntie.”

There was no point arguing.

I walked to the side of the counter, grabbed the first crate of bread, then the second, and started packing the baskets on my bike. Loaves, pandesal, some buns, and a few fancy boxes for people who ordered the premium stuff. They smelled sweet. Warm. Fresh.

My stomach twisted again.

I bit my lip and forced another smile.

---

On the Road

Once everything was packed tight on my bike, I began my usual route. I pedaled through cracked sidewalks and muddy puddles, across market streets and through quiet alleys. The sun was barely up, but the city was already alive.

People walking their dogs. Kids waiting for school buses. Motorcycles weaving through early traffic.

And there was me.

The delivery boy with the fake smile and empty stomach.

At each house, I rang the bell, bowed low, and handed over their bread with a bright grin.

“Good morning, ma’am! One large box of butter rolls!”

“Sir, your cheese loaf! Have a great day!”

Sometimes they said thank you. Most of the time, they didn’t.

One old man at the hardware store gave me a weak nod, tossed a coin at my hand like I was a vending machine, and walked away.

But I smiled anyway.

Because that’s what I do.

That’s what keeps me together.

---

By the fifth delivery, sweat clung to my skin like a second shirt. The sun was out now—hot, unforgiving. I stopped at a corner to tighten the cords on my delivery basket. A group of students passed by, laughing with drinks in hand and music playing from one of their phones.

I used to wonder what it felt like to laugh like that.

Now I just watched.

---

At the eighth house, the owner—Mrs. Tomas—handed me a small bottled water.

“You look like you’re about to faint, boy.”

I bowed, smiling wider than I had all day.

“Thank you very much, miss.”

I drank it slowly, saving every drop.

I pedaled harder.

Suddenly—

Tires screeched.

I looked left.