SSS-Ranked Summoner: Only I Summon All Heroes And Heroines Of Legend-Chapter 4: Hello, Altair Elfender

Consciousness returned as the world snapped into focus like a broken mirror reassembling itself.

Satoshi’s eyes flew open. A different room, and a different body.

Memories flooded through his skull, as if two lifetimes collided into his mind between mere seconds. The ceremonial blade in his grasp. The last memory about the lord of the crossroads. Then, his sneering father, his siblings, his eighteen years of failure compressed into a single cutting word: useless, it all came to him, overlapping each other as if struggling for prominence.

"Altair, love?" A voice cut through, freeing his overwhelmed consciousness.

His mother’s voice drifted through the door, soft as silk over steel.

"Shimatta!" The curse burst out in Japanese before he could stop it.

He lurched upright from the table, and that’s when he saw it. Blood stain. Dark litters on the mahogany surface, spray marks across the floorboards, and droplets leading to the knife.

His knife. No, Altair’s knife. The one he’d used to off himself.

He shook his head.

"Focus. Clean it up quickly"

Altair stumbled toward the washbasin. His legs felt rather different, the coordination was a bit scrambled. He grabbed a cloth and at the same time, knocked over a candlestick.

CLANG, CRASH.

The noise exploded through the quiet room like a ringing alarm.

"Knock, knock, knock."

"Is everything alright, love?" Concern threaded through his mother’s voice, each syllable weighted with barely suppressed worry.

"Everything’s fine!" His voice cracked high and nervously. "I’m coming!"

He scrubbed hurriedly at the blood. The metallic smell clung to his nostrils. His hands shook, this was bad timing, he wasn’t properly accustomed to this life and yet here, the lady Helena was.

"Hmmm?" his attention caught something rather odd.

The book lay open on the table, pages clean and clear. Not a single drop of blood marred its surface, despite the pool that had surrounded it moments ago, and if memory served him right, the book was stained too.

And yet here it was, completely dried, the pages cream-white and perfect.

He stared.

Knock, Knock, Knock. His mother was knocking again.

He slammed the book shut, set it aside with hasty fingers, and returned to his frantic cleaning. Blood under his fingernails. Blood in the wood grain, and soon he stopped.

He grabbed the knife and tucked it into a drawer. Tossing the bloodied cloth into a shadowed corner. He’d deal with it later.

Knock, knock, knock.

"Coming!" He yanked the door open halfway, just enough to block the view inside.

Lady Helena Elfender pushed the door wider before he could stop her, maternal authority overriding his weak resistance. She swept into the room as her dress rustled, her eyes already scanning every corner with the look of concern and suspicion. After all, she’d spent a decade worrying about this particular son.

"Hey." The word came out strangled.

"’Hey?’" She turned to face him fully, and the worry in her eyes hit him like a physical blow. "How are you, my love?"

"I’m fine, Mom." He tugged gently at her sleeve, trying to redirect that penetrating gaze before she spotted something he’d missed.

But she was already crying.

"I’m so sorry." The words broke on a sob as she pulled him into an embrace that felt like completely wholesome. "For everything."

Altair’s memories supplied context: many years of disappointment, his father’s contempt, siblings who outshone him effortlessly. And through it all, his mother’s desperate, yet futile attempts to shield him from the worst of it.

"It’s fine, Mum." His voice softened despite his tough act. "It’s not your fault I’m this way."

"Please." She pulled back just enough to look at his face, tears tracking down her cheeks. "Forgive me. Forgive your father."

The mention of Lord Godric Elfender ignited something hot and bitter in his heart. Altair’s rage had transferred to him, as though it all happened to Satoshi himself.

"Him?" He stepped back, breaking the embrace. "No. I’m never forgiving him."

"Don’t say that, love." Hope sprouted in her eyes. That stubborn, impossible hope she always carried. "I’m sure you will. In time, you will."

Lady Helena was always hopeful. Sometimes it shone like an admirable beacon. Other times it looked rayher close to delusion. But it was her nature, and it had been the only light in Altair’s suffocating darkness.

"Well, I need to get you fixed up." She said, reaching for his face, her fingers were gentle on the bruises that mottled his jaw and cheekbone. The marks from his father’s fists. The bruise marks still existed, although Altair felt no pain from them.

"I’m fine, Mum." He turned toward the window, avoiding eye contact. "But I need to be left alone. At least for now."

"But..." She then hesitated, reading something in his posture.

And when he didn’t turn back, she understood.

"Okay then." Her voice barely rose above a whisper. "But I’ll be back with dinner."

She moved to the door, reluctant every step of the way, and closed it softly behind her.

Altair’s eyes turned towards her exit, waiing two seconds, before rushing forward to throw in the lock.

CLICK.

On the other side of the door, a single hot tear rolled down Helena’s cheek at the sound of the lock.

Inside, Altair had already forgotten her, his attention laser-focused on the strange phenomenon, that was the artifact resting on his table.

The book.

He approached it like a man approaching a coiled serpent, cautious, yet intensely curious. The leather was rather warm under his palm, different from the cold dusty feel he recalled it had. Now, it was almost alive. He opened it to the middle, where his blood should have flowed and stained the most.

There was nothing. Instead, the cream-white parchment greeted him, no stain or even a sign of blood clot.

His hands moved faster now, flipping through pages. Back to front, front to back. All the pages were same, completely blank, clean and clear.

Then he reached the first page.

Words appeared in flowing calligraphy, each letter perfect. The ink seemed to shimmer as if still wet, though it didn’t smudge when he touched it, it was red, as if written in blood.

Hello, Altair Elfender. The message wrote itself into existence.

Altair gasped.

The dust old book knew his name.