One day, the sky split open.
It wasn't loud. No thunder, no roar—just a deep, suffocating silence as the world seemed to shudder. Then came the light. It bent and warped, forming a massive screen that hovered above the earth, its surface shifting like ripples on water.
People froze. Traffic stalled. Planes grounded. And then it spoke.
Its voice was wrong—too loud, too soft, echoing in ways that made it impossible to pinpoint the source. It called itself the Arbiter. Its shape flickered, impossible to focus on, as if staring too long might unmake the mind.
It didn't offer greetings or mercy. Instead, it explained—in words too clear and cruel to misunderstand—that Earth had been chosen. Not for salvation, but for survival. The trials would begin, and we would fight. Not against ourselves, but against champions from other worlds—other races clawing for their own survival.
Victory meant life. Defeat meant extinction. Then came the selections of champions. One's who would fight for and represent earth.
Seven beams of light shot down from the sky, carving through the air like divine judgment. It told us these were Earth's champions—chosen not by votes, nor by volunteers, but at random. Yet the Arbiter assured us, almost mockingly, that the ones it had chosen were most suited to bear the title of champion.
And just like that, the screen vanished. The world returned to noise and motion, but nothing was the same.
Because seven people had disappeared.
And their trial had already begun.