The wheels creaked like the groans of an old man with bad knees.
The sun was high, the breeze nonexistent, and the wagon—an ancient wooden box on wheels held together by prayer and questionable rope—crawled across the dirt road at the speed of a particularly lazy turtle. Not a majestic turtle. A retired turtle. Possibly deceased.
Cael turned a page in his book with regal precision. "The geopolitical tension between the Kingdoms in the past is quite fascinating. Did you know their conflict began over a pudding recipe?"
Lys, curled up on the opposite side, didn't look up from her tome. "It's always pudding. Kingdoms fall to pride, pudding, and poor weather."
Meanwhile, the rest of the wagon was chaos incarnate—just... very slow chaos.
Alaric was lying upside down on a pile of hay, one leg dangling off the side. "I can feel my brain rotting."
Renna had tried, in vain, to entertain herself by carving a rock with a spoon. "I've counted every splinter in this wagon twice and gave them all names. This one's Stanley. He's my favorite."
Thorne was flopped dramatically across a barrel, staring at the sky with an expression of deep existential dread. "I was born to fight dragons and conquer dungeons. Not to be slowly digested by boredom."
The driver—an old man with a straw hat and exactly three teeth—had warned them the ox pulling the wagon was a "bit of a slowpoke."
They did not realize the ox was named Molasses.
And he was living up to it with pride.
Cael turned another page without breaking stride. "We could always discuss philosophy."
Alaric groaned. "I'd rather arm wrestle a wraith."
Renna flopped onto Thorne. "What if we pushed the wagon?"
"Only if it pushes back," Thorne said darkly.
Lys turned a page, unbothered. "We could talk about our feelings."
Thorne screamed internally.
Thus, the wagon trundled on. A party of heroes chosen by a god, moving slower than destiny, patience, and paint drying combined. But somewhere between the tedium, the hay splinters, and the absurdity… the journey marched on. Sort of.
And Molasses? He mooed once. Triumphantly.
Cael cleared his throat—a sound far too elegant for the mood of the wagon—and held up a folded piece of parchment that had somehow survived the chaos of the last few weeks without being burned, torn, eaten, or turned into a paper plane.
"The old priest left us a note before we departed," he announced, adjusting his glasses like an overly serious librarian at a clown convention. "He said, and I quote: 'You must travel to the city of the Colosseum—try not to break it. It may break you instead. Spend some time there. See what you learn.'"
Thorne sat up like a dog hearing the word "walk." "Colosseum?! You mean—fighting, fire, danger, crowd cheers, glory, more fighting, some blood, maybe a statue of me?"
Alaric peeked out from under a hay blanket. "Sounds like a vacation for you. A concussion for the rest of us."
Renna flopped backwards again, arms splayed. "Wait, wait, leave Koneu? Do you guys realize we've been in this city for, like… three months?"
Lys looked up from her book, blinking. "Three months?"
Cael nodded. "Ninety-four days, to be exact. Not including the prologue week of extreme confusion."
Renna whistled. "That's longer than I've ever held down a job."
Thorne scratched his head. "Time really flies when you're committing minor war crimes and blowing up sewer systems."
Lys gave a tiny smile. "Feels like we only got summoned yesterday…"
Cael gently rolled up the note. "We're leaving Koneu behind. At least for now."
There was a moment of silence, rare and heavy, where the group looked around at one another. Faces flushed with dust and sun, armor dented, cloaks torn, eyes rimmed with laughter and exhaustion.
Lys spoke up softly, "It's strange. I thought I'd hate being stuck in one place for so long. But… with you guys, it just passed. Like a blur of noise, and mess, and… weird friendship."
"Yeah," Alaric nodded. "A beautifully dumb blur."
Renna leaned on Cael's shoulder. "Let's go wreck a Colosseum."
Thorne cracked his knuckles. "Let's make a name for ourselves. Or a warning label. Either works."
As the wagon creaked forward, impossibly slow but still somehow carrying an unstoppable force of nature disguised as five very loud weirdos, the air shifted.
The city of Koneu disappeared behind them, the road to something new winding ahead.
Somewhere out there, a Colosseum waited.
And it had no idea what was about to hit it.
As the wagon continued to crawl across the countryside at the dignified pace of a particularly lazy turtle, the party found themselves once again slipping into that dangerous void between boredom and philosophical rambling.
"I swear," Thorne grunted, leaning back against a bag of grain, "every single other isekai we've heard about lately before I got summoned is just pain, pain, tragedy, pain, betrayal, trauma, more pain, and then betrayal again"
Alaric groaned. "Don't forget I was betrayed by my childhood friend who was secretly a demon and also my sister plotline. That's the new hotness."
"Or that thing where the protagonist has no emotions because he 'suffered too much in his past life,'" Renna added, mocking a deep, monotone voice. "'I have no need for friends. My blade is my only companion.'"
Cael, still trying to read his book, sighed. "To be fair, the trauma-to-power-ratio in those stories is strangely effective."
"I'd rather just have therapy," Lys muttered. "But nooo, apparently emotional growth isn't trending anymore unless it comes with a cool glowing eye and a sword named Anguish Breaker."
"I want a sword named Anguish Breaker," Thorne mumbled under his breath.
Renna snorted. "You'd name it Anguish Maker."
The group descended into chuckles and eye rolls just as the wagon slowed to a stop at the edge of a small sleepy village. The wagon driver, a man who had silently endured every minute of their chaotic existence like a monk practicing inner peace, stood up and gave a tired wave.
"And here we are," he said simply. "End of the road for me."
The cow—who had done most of the work—let out a long, melancholic moo, as if saying thank the gods it's over.
"Thank you, Sir Mooington," Alaric said solemnly to the cow, placing a hand over his heart. "You carried us, both physically and emotionally."
Cael handed the driver a generous amount of coin. "For your trouble… and your patience."
"I'm going to drink until I forget your voices," the driver replied, not unkindly.
With a final wave and a fond farewell to Mooington the cow, the party picked up their belongings and several bags of mysterious trinkets Renna had accumulated without explanation. They made their way toward the small inn nestled between a bakery and a candle shop.
The innkeeper welcomed them with the weary smile of someone who had once been an adventurer and saw far too much of themselves in the chaos stepping through their door.
Their rooms were modest but warm. The beds were slightly lumpy, the floorboards creaked, and the window only opened halfway—but for a party who had previously slept in haunted caves, monster intestines, and one unfortunate barrel, it was paradise.
Thorne flopped onto his bed dramatically. "Colosseum's still a few days out, huh?"
"More like a week," Cael replied. "With breaks. Multiple villages. Possible bandit encounters. At least one weird talking statue."
Renna rolled onto her stomach. "Good. I need to recover my energy of mischief."
Alaric laughed. "You don't even need to charge that. It's just naturally full."
Lys, sitting on the windowsill, looked out into the dusk. "We'll get there soon."
And when they did, none of them knew what would be waiting. But for now—soft beds, warm food, and dumb conversations were more than enough.
The inn walls were thin.
Too thin.
And unfortunately for the other guests, the hero party was a category five storm of sleep-deprived chaos.
"Okay," Thorne announced from his bed, one leg dangling off the side like a bored cat, "hear me out—what if we fake one of those edgy backstories just to boost our street cred?"
Renna popped up from behind a pile of pillows. "Oooh, like… 'I watched my village burn while eating bread because I had accepted the flames into my soul.'"
"That's already too poetic," Alaric chimed in, shirt half off and a towel on his head for no reason. "You have to say something like, 'I was born in a ditch, raised by shadows, and taught to kill by a squirrel named Regret.'"
Cael didn't look up from his book. "Squirrel named Regret? That's at least B-rank tragic."
"I vote we all come up with fake tragic backstories," Lys said, leaning over the edge of the bunk bed she'd claimed. "Best one wins Cael's cookies."
"Excuse me," Cael said without turning a page, "those cookies are my emotional stability."
"Perfect," Renna grinned. "Even more reason to fight for them."
"Okay okay," Thorne stood up like a stage actor preparing for his grand moment. He cleared his throat. "I was once a noble. But the darkness within me was too great. So I fled. I now wander, cursed with golden hair and untamed charm."
"And your darkness is just you skipping dishes," Cael added.
Thorne huffed. "FINE. You go."
Renna stood up, cracking her knuckles. "Me? Easy. I was forged in a prison of mirrors. Every day I looked into the face of a different self—each one worse than the last. I escaped by convincing the mirrors to fight each other."
There was a pause.
"…That's terrifying," Alaric said.
"I'd watch that anime," Lys nodded.
"Okay," Alaric said, rolling his shoulders dramatically. "My turn. I was… the son of a shadow and a flame. Raised in a world between realities, I have seen the truth—and the truth is stupid. So now I drink and punch things."
Renna slow clapped.
Thorne nodded, approvingly. "Classic 'truth is pain' arc. Strong."
Everyone turned to Lys.
She raised her hands in mock surrender. "Don't look at me. You've seen my actual emotional arc. I'm living a tragedy already."
"Exactly," Thorne said with a grin. "You win the cookies by default."
Cael finally looked up. "…I'll allow it."
There was a beat of silence as the group sprawled out, giggling, stretching, and trying to settle into a comfortable position in the tangled web of blankets, limbs, and discarded socks.
Then, Renna whispered dramatically: "You know what the current trending trope is?"
"Oh gods, what?" Alaric groaned.
"Overpowered protagonist who's depressed but hot," she replied, eyes glinting with chaos.
Lys snorted. "Aren't we already friends with one of those?"
Everyone turned to Cael.
He blinked.
Then went back to his book. "…I'll kill you all in your sleep."
And somewhere, two rooms down, an old couple prayed for silence, not knowing they were sharing a roof with the most unhinged chosen heroes the world had ever seen.
Cael didn't flinch when Renna snuck up behind him like a gremlin in the dark. He did, however, twitch the moment she plucked a cookie off his plate like it was an ancient artifact she'd just claimed in the name of chaos.
"Renna," he said in that calm, dead-eyed way he did when he was deciding whether to hex someone's laundry.
But Renna had already spun dramatically toward Alaric and, with mock reverence, placed the cookie into his hand. "For you, oh tragic flameboy. One cookie of emotional catharsis, served warm with a hint of empathy."
Alaric blinked. "Wait—what? I didn't even say I was sad today."
Renna patted his cheek gently. "You don't have to. We all know your backstory's cooked medium-rare in existential trauma."
Thorne, hanging upside down from the top bunk like a bat with fabulous hair, nodded. "Yeah, yeah. Parents. Flames. Screams. Baby Alaric holding a burnt plushie or something."
Alaric looked down at the cookie in his palm, then looked up at everyone.
"…you guys are so weird."
"Eat the cookie," Renna said solemnly.
He did. Slowly. Like it was a communion wafer of shared pain and crunchy chocolate.
Cael stared in betrayal.
Lys, already curled up in a blanket burrito on the bed, peeked out. "He did lose his parents in a fire when he was like, what, seven?"
"Six," Alaric corrected mid-chew, "and it's not like I'm all broody about it. I'm fine."
There was a moment of silence.
Then Renna spoke: "You tried to punch the moon last week because it 'looked at you funny.'"
Cael stood up, grabbed his plate of cookies, and pulled it into his cloak like a mother hen with precious eggs. "No more trauma cookies for the emotionally unstable pyromaniac."
Alaric gave him a wounded look. "I only set the inn curtains on fire once."
"Yeah," Lys muttered, flopping over, "and the moon still hasn't forgiven you."
As laughter filled the cramped inn room, the candlelight flickering like tiny stage lights for their nightly performance of 'Definitely Not Mentally Stable Heroes,' none of them noticed the soft hum outside their window.
But chaos, like always, had a schedule to keep. And they were already late.