All around the world, people tried to carry on with their ordinary lives—pretending that today was just another sunrise. But beneath every conversation, beneath every smile, beneath every heartbeat, there was a quiet dread. Because everyone knew that time was slipping away, dragging humanity closer to the moment everything would change.

  Not only for Earth.

  But for the entire universe.

  The day of the First Guardian Trials.

  Governments whispered behind closed doors. Military headquarters shook with frantic preparations. Scientists barely slept. Ordinary families clung to each other, trying to memorize the warmth of loved ones. And as the final checklists were reviewed—some by trembling hands—the voice returned.

  “Checking Earth…

  Earth has satisfied the minimum requirements to participate in the Guardian Trials.

  Opening portals.”

  The sky dimmed for a heartbeat. Then the world split.

  One portal appeared in every province—colossal, shimmering like liquid sapphire, each one stretching a hundred meters high and the same across. They were so enormous that even a massive cruise liner could have drifted through like a toy boat.

  For one long, stunned minute, humanity simply stared.

  Children pointed with wide, uncomprehending eyes. Journalists dropped microphones. Even soldiers hardened by war felt their breath catch at the sheer scale of the phenomenon.

  Then the radios crackled violently.

  “All units! Move, move, MOVE! Every minute wasted costs at least a hundred lives!”

  The spell shattered.

  Sirens blared.

  Engines roared.

  The world surged into motion.

  Convoys of trucks formed rivers of steel, flowing steadily into the glowing mouths of the portals. Workers shouted instructions over the thunder of tires and machinery. Forklifts darted around like frantic insects, loading crate after crate.

  The great industrial engine of humanity, fueled by fear and desperation, began spinning at impossible speed.

  A few minutes later, the voice spoke again—calm, merciless, absolute:

  “After seven days, the portals will close.

  All humans on Earth will then be teleported to the battlefield and positioned according to their faction.

  Children under ten years of age will be bound to their respective camps for protection and will be sheltered within the portals in case of attack.”

  Then the entity vanished, leaving behind a silence so heavy that the whole planet seemed to tremble beneath it.

  It was only when people finally exhaled that they realized—they had been holding their breath.

  For the first time, they truly understood:

  Even if every soldier fell, humanity’s children would live on.

  Perhaps as captives.

  Perhaps in hardship.

  But alive.

  That faint hope became the fuel for the frantic, feverish preparations to come.

  Seven Days of Relentless Labor

  While most of humanity gathered with their loved ones—huddling together, sharing stories, praying, crying—the frontline logistics teams didn’t sleep.

  They couldn’t afford to.

  Their mission was brutally simple:

  Push every possible resource through the portals before time ran out.

  And so the farmers, the people who fed the world, rose to the challenge.

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  Their harvests were staggering—enough to sustain ten billion people for three years. With rationing, five years. They loaded grains, dried fruits, preserved meat, seeds, farming tools, and fertilizer.

  Scientists raced against time. With nuclear fusion having made food abundant for decades, research on crop efficiency had slowed. Now, they resurrected forgotten projects, trying to breed seeds that matured faster and yielded more—perhaps even accepting mana, if luck allowed.

  Mana fusion failed. The world sighed in disappointment.

  But the food produced was still overwhelming in scale.

  Next came the logistical hubs—massive fields of steel containers, loading cranes, and screaming engines continuously funneling supplies through the portals.

  One hub alone sent nearly a thousand trucks per hour through the shimmering gate.

  And that was only food.

  Weapons, Armor, and the Problem of Arrows

  Governments rushed to distribute weapons to every citizen.

  The Trials would allow people to carry equipment into battle, but no nation trusted the system blindly. Backup swords, armor plates, spare ammunition—all of it poured through the portals in a ceaseless tide.

  Then came the true nightmare: arrows, bolts, and raw materials.

  In coastal provinces, portals were installed directly above water so cargo ships could sail through. These sea routes became the lifelines of nations, carrying mountains of iron, steel, and ammunition.

  Yet even these gigantic vessels faced a terrifying bottleneck:

  They could load supplies only so fast.

  And arrows—arrows were the worst of all.

  Military planners divided humanity:

  30% soldiers

  70% logistics support

  But even that massive division did nothing to solve the arithmetic of war.

  One archer traditionally carried two sleeves of arrows—

  24 per sleeve, 48 total.

  Multiply that by one billion potential archers, and the number grew monstrous:

  48 billion arrows for a single engagement.

  And history had proven again and again:

  A single major battle could devour an entire army’s ammunition.

  Without arrows or bolts, an archer was worse than useless—

  they became a liability.

  Generals saw their strategy crumble.

  They lost the psychological advantage of seemingly infinite firepower.

  Young people fantasized about glory.

  Veterans saw only another killing field, another era of bloodshed.

  And the generals carried a burden heavier than any weapon—they saw a logistical nightmare on a scale no war in human history had ever demanded.

  It kept them awake every night.

  And there was nothing they could do but push more arrows into ships, more crates into trucks, more steel into the portals.

  The Seventh Day

  The world slowed as the final hours approached.

  People clung to each other, hearts pounding.

  Some whispered prayers.

  Others gazed silently at the shimmering portals, as if memorizing the sight.

  In military bases, soldiers checked their weapons in grim silence.

  In homes, parents held their children tighter than ever before.

  In cities, crowds gathered, watching the countdown screens with hollow eyes.

  When the final minute arrived, humanity seemed to merge into one enormous heartbeat.

  And as the last second fell—

  the voice returned.