Cael did not wake up in his bed that morning.
Which was his first red flag.
His second red flag was that he wasn't dead. If this was the afterlife, it was suspiciously well-funded. A grand cathedral rose around him—gleaming marble pillars, vaulted ceilings painted with glowing constellations, and a suspicious number of floating candles (which screamed fire hazard, honestly).
His third red flag? The four strangers around him, also looking very much alive, also just as confused, but in incredibly different ways.
"This is magic," Alaric whispered, eyes sparkling. He spun slowly in place like a kid in a candy store, nearly tripping on the hem of his own hoodie. "This is real magic. The glow, the air, the candles that are just—hovering. This architecture alone is at least three centuries ahead of anything I've ever seen, unless you count Rome, but even then—"
"I'm sorry, am I high?" Lys muttered beside him, rubbing her temple. "I think I'm high. Or dreaming. Or dead. Or dreaming about being high while dead. Does anyone else feel like they got run over by a unicorn in slow motion?"
"I HAVE A TOURNAMENT," screamed Thorne, absolutely feral, kicking at a pew like it owed him money. "I was winning! Final round! You don't just yoink someone out mid-battle like that—I had him cornered, I had frames! What kind of nonsense is this?!"
"Wh-why am I wearing robes?" Renna yelped, looking down in horror. "Is this some kind of sacrificial ritual?! Are we the goats?! Don't tell me we're the goats!"
And then there was Cael.
Cael, who had already taken two steps back and angled his body toward the nearest exit.
He scanned the room, narrowed his eyes at the ornate stained-glass windows, at the overly suspicious holy chanting in the distance, at the strangely friendly robed figures smiling at them like someone had just activated their NPC dialogue tree.
"This is a trap," he muttered, mostly to himself. "They've separated us from our original environments, stripped us of any defenses, and placed us in what's clearly a ritual chamber under the guise of religious awe. Classic psychological warfare tactics. You create wonder, disarm your target's sense of logic, then—bam, indoctrination."
"Did you just say indoctrination?" Lys blinked at him.
"I think he did," Alaric said, still gawking at the floating candles.
"GOD, DOES IT EVEN MATTER?!," Thorne added helpfully.
A figure in robes stepped forward, all calm smiles and mystic gravitas. "Welcome, chosen heroes, to the Grand Church of Eltaran. You have been summoned here from your distant world to fulfill a great destiny—"
"—Nope," Cael said immediately.
"Hard pass," said Renna.
"SEND ME BACK!" screamed Thorne.
"I'd like to unsubscribe," Lys said, raising a hand.
"Oh! Can I still keep the robes?" Alaric asked, tugging at his sleeve.
Cael's eyes darted around again, heart thudding. They were calm. Too calm. Or maybe too loud? Was that worse? Were they all decoys? Was this a long con to break his defenses? Was that priest blinking in Morse code?
"Don't eat or drink anything," he hissed to the others. "It's how they get you. The next thing you know, you're pledging allegiance to the Church of Light and attending mandatory sword training at 5 AM."
"I… think I'm hallucinating," Lys mumbled again.
"YOU'RE ALL IGNORING THE FACT THAT I HAD A 26-KILL STREAK," Thorne howled.
Renna had started checking under her sleeves for signs of cult tattoos. Alaric had picked up a goblet and was sniffing it in fascination.
"...We're gonna die," Cael whispered.
The old priest raised his arms with ceremonial grace, his voice echoing like thunder through the cathedral.
"Brave heroes, you now stand in the sacred realm of Overmorrowland, a world of wonder, magic, and peril. You have been chosen to stand against the rising darkness—"
"Whoa! Is that a floating chandelier made of starcrystal?!" Alaric yelled, sprinting across the room like a child in a museum. "And what is that? A spell matrix? Enchanted tilework?! Who made this place?! Is this Gothic or Arcane-Victorian fusion?! I need blueprints, immediately!"
"—uh... as I was saying," the priest cleared his throat, barely holding onto his composure. "The Demon Lord rises from the north, plunging our lands into terror and despair. Only the five of you—"
"Can someone explain why I'm a girl now?" Renna barked from the corner, gripping her face like she'd just learned taxes were real. "I had stubble this morning. I was five minutes away from microwaving leftover curry. Now I've got hips and some weird side braid?! Is this magic? Hormones? Reincarnation fraud?!"
"THEY YANKED ME MID-FINALS," roared Thorne, now standing on a pew like an opera villain, cape (that he definitely didn't have before) fluttering in dramatic fury. "Do you know who I am?! I'm Thorne 'Godmode' Ryker! I was one combo away from taking the championship! This world should be honored I'm even breathing in it!"
"—your purpose," the priest tried again, "is to defeat the Demon Lord before Overmorrowland is completely—"
"Wait, wait," Cael cut in, brow furrowed, voice low and dangerous. "You're telling me we just so happened to be randomly summoned to a world with a collapsing political structure, no social safety net, and a power-hungry Demon Lord exactly as we arrived?"
"Well, yes, the timing is quite—"
"Convenient," Cael finished for him, eyes narrowing. "Too convenient. What's the real angle here, old man? Who benefits from bringing untrained strangers into a magical warzone with no intel, no prep, no exit plan?"
The priest blinked. "W-we... We offer you magical gifts?"
"Bribery," Cael said. "Good coercive tactic. Good try."
"Maybe they want us for breeding," Renna added darkly. "Fantasy genetics. I've read stuff. I've seen forums."
Lys, sitting perfectly still with wide, glazed-over eyes, raised her hand like she was in a classroom from hell. "Hi. Quick question. What is happening?"
"You're the only one listening?!" the priest gasped, clutching his chest.
"She is the only one listening," Cael muttered, pacing in a circle. "She's probably a plant. That's how cults work—get one of them to pretend to be a fellow captive. Build trust. Break you down. That or the old man's got a spell on her already."
"I am not a plant!" Lys snapped, but she sounded unsure herself. "I think. Am I?"
"Of course the paranoid one thinks she's a plant," Renna said. "Next he'll be saying we've been chipped."
"Wait—have we been chipped?" Alaric popped his head up from behind a stained-glass pillar, eyes full of wonder and possibly suspicion now.
"I WANT MY TOURNAMENT BACK," Thorne shouted for the ninth time, flipping off a divine tapestry like it personally offended him.
The priest dropped his arms and sighed, ancient and tired.
"...This is going to take so much holy wine."
And yet, somehow, this chaotic band of strangers was supposed to be the prophesied chosen ones of legend.
The world was doomed.