"Where… where am I?"
Disorientation grips me as I blink into a world devoid of logic. The expanse around me is a blinding sea of white light, infinite and oppressive, like standing in the heart of a star. Yet beneath me, there is solidity, something unseen and unfeeling cradles my weight. As I look down, I notice an absence that claws at my sanity: I cast no shadow.
The silence presses in, broken only by the tremor of my own breathing. Before I can question this eerie place, a voice both gentle and melodic, pierces my mind like a whispered command.
"Welcome, chosen warrior."
I twist and turn, searching for the voice's source, my heart hammering. Then, she appears.
No, not appears, she simply is. One moment the space is empty, and the next, she dominates it. Golden hair cascades down her shoulders in soft waves, shimmering like sunlight captured in silk. Her porcelain skin glows faintly, unblemished and unnervingly perfect. But her eyes… blue as frozen lakes, hold a calmness that feels alien, an abyss of serenity in a world of chaos.
Her figure, ethereal yet solid, defies reason. Draped in flowing white robes trimmed with gold, her attire radiates an air of divinity. Yet the deliberate opulence, the flawless precision of her image, unnerves me. It's too perfect. Too staged.
"Where the hell am I?" I demand, though my voice sounds thin and hollow in this endless void.
She smiles, a gesture so warm and soft it could melt glaciers, yet it only sets me further on edge.
"I am Aeriel," she says, her voice a delicate echo in my mind. "I will guide you to your destiny. You are one of the chosen warriors, summoned to save humanity from annihilation."
One of? My stomach churns. So this isn't some grand destiny bestowed upon me alone, there are others, many others. My thoughts spiral, jumping to the absurd: Is this one of those ridiculous stories where losers get whisked away to slay demon kings? But I'm no loser. So why am I here?
Before I can voice my disbelief, her tone hardens, the honeyed sweetness vanishing. "The world is dying, ravaged by war and chaos. Humanity stands no chance against its enemies."
With a flick of her hand, the void around us ripples, bending into a vortex of vivid imagery. I'm wrenched into a living nightmare.
Scenes of slaughter consume my vision: fields littered with corpses, rivers clogged with dismembered limbs, and cities crumbling under the weight of fire and ash. Screams, raw and agonized echo in my ears as Aeriel's voice calmly narrates.
"The elves wield magic so powerful it bends nature to their will. The dwarves craft machines that turn men into ash with a single strike. The orcs crush armies beneath their monstrous strength. The Zarathids, a hive of insectoids leaving nothing left. And the lizardfolk lurk in the shadows, their scales impenetrable, their ambushes merciless."
I see it all: humans dragged from their homes, children impaled on stakes as warnings, mothers burned alive while their screams fuel the laughter of their captors. The Zarathids' unrelenting swarm strips the flesh from their victims in waves, leaving only hollowed skeletons as monuments to their feast.
And then, darkness.
Aeriel's voice drips with finality. "Venture forth, chosen warrior. Become humanity's savior, or perish in your failure. The reward is yours to claim, should you survive."
Before I can speak, the ground dissolves beneath me. I'm plummeting, into cold, crushing blackness.
When my eyes open, they feel like lead. The dim light of torches flickers against damp stone walls, casting shadows that dance and writhe like specters. The air reeks of mildew and despair, and the cold seeping through the ground gnaws at my bones.
Around me, hundreds stir, their faces pale and drawn. A sea of confusion and fear. The hall is vast, its vaulted ceiling disappearing into darkness. At its center looms an altar, its surface carved with runes that still glow faintly, as if they've just spent their last breath dragging us into this hell.
Through the crowd, I spot a familiar face, Alex. My heart lurches, the sight of him like a lifeline in a storm. I shove through the throng, ignoring the muttered curses and startled glances, until I reach him.
"Cass," he breathes, relief washing over him. "You're here too?"
"Yeah." My voice feels foreign in my throat. "Any idea what's going on?"
"Not a clue."
Before we can say more, a thunderous voice silences the room.
"Welcome, chosen ones."
The man who speaks towers above us, clad in blackened armor streaked with scars and dried blood. His eyes burn with a cruel intensity, and his words carry the weight of command.
"You are humanity's last hope," he declares, his gaze raking over the crowd. "Tomorrow begins your training. You will endure. You will fight. Or you will die."
The room erupts into uneasy murmurs, but no one dares speak out. The oppressive air crushes any defiance before it can take root.
I glance at Alex. His face mirrors my thoughts. This isn't a heroic calling or some grand adventure. This is survival, a brutal, unforgiving game of life and death.
As I take it all in, a chill courses through me, deeper than the cold air or damp stone. Somewhere deep in my chest, a realization takes root: I'm not ready for this. But I'll have to be.