One moment, the sickly fluorescent hum of the "Midnight Munchies" cooler was vibrating through Kaelan's fingertips as he reached for a can of 'Blast' soda. The air was thick with the smell of stale coffee, sugary snacks, and the damp wool of his jacket from the persistent drizzle outside. Rain pattered against the window, a mundane rhythm to a soul-crushingly ordinary Tuesday night shift. The next moment…
Oblivion. Not a gentle fade, but a violent, sensory amputation. Sound, sight, smell, touch – all ripped away, leaving a terrifying, silent, featureless void. Panic, pure and primal, clawed at his throat, but he had no breath to scream, no body to thrash. It was the feeling of being unmade.
Then, just as suddenly as it vanished, reality slammed back into him with the force of a physical blow.
A deafening cacophony assaulted his ears – a thousand voices, a symphony of shrieks, bewildered shouts, guttural sobs, and the babble of languages he didn't recognize. The ground beneath him was shockingly cold, rough-hewn stone that bit into his cheek and palms. He gasped, air flooding his lungs, carrying an impossible bouquet of scents: sharp ozone like after a lightning strike, the sweet, heady fragrance of unidentifiable incense, an underlying earthy dampness, and a faint, unsettlingly metallic tang that reminded him of blood.
Kaelan pushed himself up, his limbs trembling, his head swimming as if he'd been spun in a centrifuge. He was in a space so colossal it defied Earthly architecture. Pillars, thicker than ancient redwoods and carved with the visages of stern, hawk-nosed warriors and serene, six-winged seraphs, soared upwards into a gloom that swallowed their capitals. Light, fractured into a thousand hues, rained down from stained-glass windows that stretched dozens of feet high, each a masterpiece depicting scenes of cataclysmic battles between figures wreathed in fire and shadow, and celestial beings wielding lances of pure light. The kaleidoscopic patterns danced across the uneven stone floor, illuminating the faces of the crowd.
The crowd. Hundreds upon hundreds of them. He recognized the bewildered terror on their faces because it was a mirror of his own. A woman in silk pajamas clutched a teddy bear, her eyes wide and vacant. A businessman in a tailored suit, his tie askew, kept muttering, "This isn't possible, this isn't happening." A group of teenagers in vibrant, modern streetwear huddled together, their bravado shattered, replaced by a raw, animal fear. Kaelan saw the logos – Nike, Adidas, Apple – tiny, familiar anchors in an ocean of the utterly alien. They were all like him, plucked from their lives, from their world.
He was nineteen, his usually neat brown hair plastered to his forehead with cold sweat, his observant grey eyes, normally narrowed in thought or focused on a book, now stretched wide with a mixture of disbelief and dawning horror. He was still in his work uniform: the faded blue "Quik-Stop" polo shirt, the slightly-too-large black slacks. The can of 'Blast' soda, his mundane Tuesday night, his entire existence before this moment – it felt like a fragile dream receding at an alarming rate.
A wave of vertigo threatened to send him sprawling again. His analytical mind, the one that could dissect a philosophical argument or optimize a D&D character sheet with equal ease, was short-circuiting. This wasn't a prank. This wasn't a shared hallucination. The cold, the smells, the sheer, overwhelming reality of it all was undeniable.
He took a ragged breath, trying to find some anchor. The air itself felt different. It was thinner, yet vibrated with a strange, almost electrical energy that prickled his skin and made the fine hairs on his arms stand on end. It felt… charged. Alive.
"Welcome, Otherworlders!"
The voice was like the tolling of a great bronze bell – resonant, powerful, imbued with an inherent authority that cut through the burgeoning chaos like a divine blade. Every head, every fear-widened eye, snapped towards its source.
There, upon a raised dais of polished white marble at the far end of the immense hall, stood a figure seemingly torn from the cover of an epic fantasy saga. He was tall, his shoulders broad beneath gleaming plate armor of silver so bright it seemed to capture and amplify the stained-glass light. Golden griffins were intricately etched into the breastplate and pauldrons. A heavy crimson cape, the color of freshly spilled blood, cascaded to the floor, and a simple yet regal gold circlet rested upon his brow, failing to entirely tame a mane of dark hair streaked with distinguished silver. His face, all harsh angles and noble lines, was weathered, etched with the burdens of command, but his eyes – a startling, piercing sapphire – held a deep, weary sorrow that spoke of battles fought and losses endured. Flanking him stood a phalanx of knights, their armor functional rather than ornate, their faces grim, their hands resting with grim familiarity on the pommels of their longswords.
"I am King Theron IV of the Valorian Kingdom," the man announced, his voice, though unassisted by any visible microphone, filled the vast chamber effortlessly, a subtle thrum of power behind the words. "And this is Lumina, our capital city, within the Grand Cathedral of the Unseen."
A fresh wave of murmurs – terrified, awestruck, uncomprehending – rippled through the displaced humans. Kaelan felt a cold knot of dread solidify in his gut, spreading icy tendrils through his veins. Valorian Kingdom. Lumina. Grand Cathedral of the Unseen. These were not names from any history book or geography lesson he knew. This was not Earth. The last, desperate ember of denial in his mind was snuffed out.
"I understand your confusion, your fear," King Theron continued, his gaze sweeping across the sea of pale, shocked faces with an expression that Kaelan thought might be… pity? Or perhaps just resignation. "Know that you were not brought here by accident, nor by any malevolent force from our world. You are here because Aethel, our world, is in its hour of most desperate need."
He paused, the silence in the hall now thick and heavy, broken only by the occasional stifled sob or shaky breath. Kaelan saw a young man, no older than himself, with bright, almost manic eyes – perhaps a hardcore gamer, Kaelan mused with a detached part of his brain – actually lean forward, his expression one of intense, almost hungry anticipation. But for most, including Kaelan, the King's words only deepened the sense of impending doom.
"For centuries uncounted," the King's voice grew heavy, laden with the weight of generations of conflict, "we have fought a bitter, unending war against the Demon Lord and his inexhaustible armies that spill forth from the Shadowed Wastes. They are a tide of malice and destruction, seeking to extinguish every light, every joy, every hope in Aethel, and plunge our world into an eternal, screaming darkness. Our mages have burned out their souls weaving defenses, our knights have shattered their blades against demonic hide, our people… our people have bled and died on a thousand forgotten battlefields to hold back that encroaching night."
Kaelan felt a visceral chill. The King wasn't speaking in metaphors. The weariness in his eyes, the grim set of his jaw, the palpable tension emanating from the knights flanking him – this was the grim reality of their existence. He saw a woman nearby, her face ashen, sway and collapse into the arms of a companion. This wasn't a story. This was their new, terrifying truth.
"Every one hundred years," King Theron declared, and for the first time, a flicker of something other than sorrow entered his voice – a fragile, desperate hope. His sapphire eyes seemed to burn a little brighter. "When the celestial alignments are precise, when the flow of arcane energies reaches its zenith, a sacred ritual is performed within these very hallowed walls. A ritual of immense prayer, of ancient, potent magic, designed to pierce the very fabric of existence, to tear open the veil between worlds and summon forth… heroes."
He extended a gauntleted hand, palm open, towards the thousand bewildered souls from Earth. "You, the one thousand individuals gathered here, wrested from your own world, are those prophesied heroes. You have been brought to Aethel to lend us your strength, to stand with us against the tide of darkness, and, if the gods are merciful and your will is strong, to help us save our world from utter annihilation."
A maelstrom of emotions crashed through the assembled Otherworlders. Gasps of disbelief. Stunned silence. A few more of those unnervingly eager expressions. But mostly, Kaelan saw raw, unadulterated terror. Heroes? He was Kaelan Richards, a part-time college student majoring in literature, whose greatest physical exertion was shelving books or, occasionally, a half-hearted jog. How could he fight a Demon Lord? The very concept was ludicrous, terrifying.
"Soon," King Theron continued, his voice regaining its solemn tone, "the High Priests of Lumina, keepers of the sacred traditions, will conduct another ancient rite. This ceremony will awaken within each of you a unique, inherent power – a Trait, they are called – a gift from the divine System that underpins all existence in Aethel. These Traits, these boons, are your weapons, your shields, your tools to carve out a destiny in this war-torn land."
System? Traits? Kaelan's mind, always quick to grasp patterns, latched onto those words. It sounded… structured. Almost like the mechanics of the RPGs he sometimes played to escape the monotony of his life. But the graphics here were hyper-realistic, the consequences permanent.
"Rest now, if you are able," the King concluded, a hint of genuine sympathy softening his regal features. "Food and water will be provided. The Trait Revelation ceremony will commence in a few hours. Your journey, your trials, your destiny as heroes of Aethel… it begins today."
Knights, their armor clanking with grim efficiency, began to move amongst the crowd. They weren't overtly aggressive, but their presence was an undeniable assertion of control. They guided the stunned Otherworlders towards alcoves where trestle tables were being laden with basic provisions: rough-spun baskets filled with hunks of dark, coarse bread, dried fruits Kaelan didn't recognize, and waterskins exuding a faint leathery scent. The initial chaotic fear began to ebb, replaced by a stunned, trembling quietude as people grappled with the enormity of their situation.
Kaelan found himself near one of those imposing, carved pillars, its cold stone a grounding presence against his back as he sank to the floor. He accepted a piece of bread and a waterskin, his hand shaking slightly. The bread was heavy, almost tasteless, the water cool and clean but with a faint mineral aftertaste. He ate and drank mechanically, his mind reeling.
Around him, the scene was one of quiet desperation. People huddled in small, impromptu groups, voices hushed. He saw tears silently tracing paths down dirt-smudged cheeks. He saw blank, thousand-yard stares. And he saw that tall, blond young man again. Marcus Vayne, he'd later learn his name was. Even now, amidst the fear and confusion, he moved with an almost predatory grace, a smirk playing on his handsome, aristocratic features. He wasn't huddling. He was already gathering a small coterie, his voice low but confident, exuding an aura of unshakeable self-assurance that was both repellent and, Kaelan had to admit, strangely compelling to some.
Kaelan closed his eyes, but the vibrant, violent images from the stained-glass windows were seared onto the insides of his eyelids. Earth, with its mundane problems, its familiar routines, its comforting boredom, felt like a paradise lost, a distant star extinguished. He was supposedly a prophesied hero in a world on the brink of annihilation, about to have a magical "Trait" awakened within him. A bitter, hysterical laugh threatened to bubble up, but he choked it down. He, Kaelan, the quiet observer, the introspective soul who found solace in the pages of books rather than the company of most people, was now expected to fight demons.
The weight of an unknown, unwelcome future pressed down on him, heavy as a tombstone, suffocating his breath. This wasn't an adventure. This wasn't an epic quest. This was an abduction, a conscription into a nightmare. And as the minutes, marked by the shifting patterns of light from the colossal windows, crawled by in the echoing grandeur of the Cathedral of Lumina, a single, chilling certainty crystallized in Kaelan's mind: I am so far out of my depth, I'm already drowning.