Outskirts of Antarctica – Temporary Base Camp, Light Dome Observation Facility
The icy wasteland that once defined Antarctica had disappeared.
What remained was an alien landscape, dominated by an immense dome of energy—a plasma sphere stretching 1,000 kilometers in diameter.
At the heart of a colossal, 2,000-kilometer-wide crater, it glowed with an unnatural brilliance.
From a distance, the dome appeared serene, its translucent surface concealing a roiling, eternal light.
A vertical column of pure energy pierced the heavens from its apex, casting an unbroken glow across the desolate terrain.
In its radius, night no longer existed.
The facility, located 3,100 kilometers from the epicenter of the catastrophic event, housed hundreds of monitoring devices—cameras, temperature gauges, Geiger counters, and more.
Yet apart from the visual feed, every device was useless.
No radiation.
No heat.
No measurable changes in the surrounding environment.
The region's ambient readings mirrored those of any temperate zone on Earth.
The air was calm, eerily so, betraying no signs of the immense energy concentrated within the dome. Even the hum—an imperceptible vibration that resonated deep in the bones of the personnel—was intangible, unmeasurable.
Still, the dome's presence was undeniable, its surface shimmering as though veiled in an impervious membrane.
Hovering beside the dome, visible from every angle, was a massive countdown timer projected as a hologram.
Each numeral spanned kilometers, dwarfing the landscape and mesmerizing all who beheld it.
From the base camp, the numbers were small, yet ominously clear:
"00:15:25"
Fifteen minutes to zero.
Inside the temporary command shelter—no more than a modified steel container—the head of the facility stood alone, speaking urgently into a secure line.
"Yes, sir. Understood." She replied curtly, her voice steady despite the weight of the moment.
The call ended, and she straightened her uniform.
The officer, a seasoned commander, opened the door to step into the dim, unearthly light outside.
Unlike the Antarctica of old, no freezing winds greeted her.
The explosion had melted the continent's ice, transforming it into barren land.
The core's strange presence had neutralized the infamous cold, making heavy protective gear unnecessary.
She addressed her team with sharp efficiency:
"Pack everything except the monitoring devices. Move fast—we're leaving."
Her command was met with immediate action.
Soldiers, engineers, and technicians moved with military precision, dismantling equipment and loading it onto the two waiting helicopters.
Their departure was not a retreat but a calculated precaution—an acknowledgment of the unknown.
The monitoring devices, now automated, would continue streaming live footage to the secure underground meeting facility where the world's leaders anxiously awaited answers.
—
Secure World Government Meeting Hall
Deep beneath the Earth, a massive circular chamber buzzed with tense energy.
The room, 100 meters in diameter, housed the most powerful figures of the modern world—presidents, prime ministers, generals, and scientists—all seated in concentric rows.
Above them, a high-tech central monitor projected holographic feeds visible to every attendee.
The live footage displayed two nearly identical scenes: The Antarctic dome, and its twin, located thousands of kilometers away on a once-massive artificial island near the North Pole.
Both structures were nearly indistinguishable—vast plasma spheres, their scale incomprehensible, emitting a silent, blinding light.
Each dome marked the catastrophic aftermath of an Energy Core installation.
The focus, however, wasn't on the domes themselves, but on the countdown timer displayed in each feed.
Hovering beside the spheres, the numbers continued their ominous descent, visible even from space:
"00:10:45"
The leaders sat in grave silence.
Conversations had long since died out, replaced by quiet dread.
Even the most seasoned individuals—those who had navigated wars, economic crises, and disasters—looked unnerved.
The Energy Cores, once hailed as humanity's salvation, had transformed into harbingers of an unknowable event.
Despite their best scientists' efforts, no one understood what would happen when the timer hit zero.
Preparations and announcements had been made worldwide.
Most cities had been evacuated.
Military forces were on high alert.
Underground shelters brimmed with civilians.
Yet the truth was undeniable: the world was bracing for a catastrophe it couldn't fully comprehend.
—
Antarctica – Base Camp
The final stages of evacuation were underway.
Helicopters roared to life, their blades slicing through the frigid air as personnel secured the last crates of equipment.
The base commander lingered for a moment, her gaze fixed on the distant dome.
"00:05:00."
The countdown's proximity felt suffocating.
Each second seemed to drag, its silent numbers burned into the minds of everyone present.
She turned away, boarding the last helicopter.
Within moments, the camp was deserted, save for the automated monitoring devices that continued their relentless observation.
World Meeting Hall – Final Countdown
In the underground chamber, the holographic display filled the room with a dim, unsettling glow.
Every eye was locked on the timer as the final moments ticked away.
"00:00:10."
"00:00:09."
"00:00:08."
A collective breath was held. The world seemed to pause.
"00:00:00."
The world stopped.
Then, a blinding light flared—so bright it reached even the deepest recesses of the underground chamber.
Leaders instinctively covered their eyes as the light washed over them.
When it receded, the hall erupted into chaos.
"What was that?" someone demanded. "That wasn't just the monitors—our sensors are completely fried!"
No one responded.
The screens that had displayed the live feeds turned dark.
Technicians scrambled in a frantic blur, whispers of fear rising in the room.
Minutes later, a junior officer reported:
"We've reached the North team, sir. They're sending images now, but..."
"But what?" an agitated official cut in.
"We've lost contact with the South Pole team," the junior officer admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.
The official's face darkened. "I see."
A few minutes passed before images began to appear on the monitors, projected from the North team's location.
The noise in the chamber died as every eye turned to the screens.
The photographs displayed an impossible sight: A Gigantic Tree.
Its trunk stretched for miles, its height impossible to measure, reaching into the sky.
Its branches glowed with an otherworldly radiance, casting a strange light over the surrounding landscape.
"Is that... what I think it is?" a U.S. delegate whispered, stunned.
"That's the World Tree... from the game," a Japanese delegate cried out.
"What game? What are you talking about?" India's leader asked, his face paling.
For the first time, it became clear: a large portion of those in attendance—many of whom had fainted for hours after the Core explosions—recognized the spectacle.
The gamers among them exchanged nervous glances.
"World of Fantasy," one of the gamers muttered.
The realization hit the rest of the assembly.
What had been dismissed as a mere game was now undeniably real.
—
The Representatives' Revelation
As the realization spread, a murmur of panic rose from the assembly.
The few who had been familiar with the game shared their shock and disbelief, their voices rising in confusion and fear.
The room descended into chaos.
The host, sensing the growing hysteria, slammed the gavel down.
"Order! We need calm to assess the situation!"
Gradually, the room quieted, but tension lingered like a thick fog.
One undeniable truth now stood before them: The events of the last 24 hours—the countdown, the domes, and the inexplicable light—were all interconnected.
What had seemed like a far-fetched theory moments ago now stood as an undeniable reality.
The world was transforming, and it seemed to be following the rules of the World of Fantasy game.
As the assembly deliberated, the minutes ticked by.
An hour passed in tense silence.
Reports began to flood the monitors, each one more alarming than the last.
Within the first thirty minutes, the situation turned increasingly grim:
People were being attacked by monstrous creatures.
Some appeared out of nowhere, while others had once been innocent pets or livestock, now mutated and bloodthirsty.
The volume of incidents was staggering, deepening the confusion among the leaders.
Yet, for the gamers in the room, these creatures were all too familiar—they had fought them before in the game.
At the same time, reports emerged of massive trees sprouting near major cities.
Initially dismissed as exaggerated rumors, the reports were soon proven true: the trees were not just anomalies.
They were safe zones—just like in the game.
These enormous trees emitted powerful energy fields that repelled the monsters, providing a sanctuary for those who could reach them.
This revelation shifted the focus of the meeting.
A unanimous decision was reached:
A Global State of Emergency would be declared.
Evacuation centers would direct civilians toward the newly sprouted trees, the only known sanctuaries.
Military and civilian operations would prioritize securing these locations.
However, not everyone complied.
Some citizens, unwilling to abandon their homes, attempted to fight the monsters by barricading themselves in urban areas.
Tragically, many of these efforts ended in failure.
Entire groups were overwhelmed, consumed by the ferocity of the creatures.
As more evidence piled up, the realization became irrefutable:
The world was transforming into something eerily similar to the World of Fantasy game.
Reluctantly, governments began to accept this new reality.
In their desperation, leaders turned to the gamers—those who possessed intricate knowledge of the game's mechanics, monsters, and systems.
These individuals, once seen as irrelevant, had suddenly become invaluable assets.
For the first time, the line between fiction and reality had blurred, and the world was left scrambling for answers in the face of an impossible transformation.