This is surreal.

  That was the first thought that crossed Arin's mind as he stood inside the subway car, one hand gripping the overhead strap while the train rattled smoothly along its rails.

  Just a few days ago—no, less than that—he had been standing on a blood-soaked battlefield, loosing arrows until his arms felt like they were tearing apart. He had watched goblins die in droves, heard the screams of men who would never scream again, felt exhaustion so deep it had hollowed him out from the inside.

  He had died.

  And now?

  Now he was standing on a subway, shoulder to shoulder with people who looked like they were on their way to ordinary nine-to-five jobs.

  Office workers in neat coats stared blankly at invisible screens. A woman scrolled through projected news with practiced disinterest. A man dozed off, swaying gently with the movement of the train.

  No armor.

  No weapons.

  No blood.

  Arin let out a slow breath.

  It almost feels like the Trial never happened.

  The illusion was nearly perfect—except for the missing pieces.

  His phone.

  His headphones.

  Normally, a two-hour subway ride was nothing. He’d drown it out with music, disappear into his own thoughts, maybe read something mindless. Now, stripped of those small comforts, every second dragged unbearably slowly.

  The sound of the train felt too loud.

  The chatter too close.

  The calm too artificial.

  And yet… no one panicked.

  Arin realized that this, more than anything else, unsettled him.

  Humanity had survived the revelation of its possible extinction—and then promptly gone back to work.

  Almost everyone knew someone who had gone to the front lines. A sibling. A parent. A friend. Some had died. Some had returned. Some were still missing.

  And yet, as the city rolled past the windows, as clean platforms and orderly stations replaced the dark tunnels, people chose to push the truth away.

  Humans were creatures of habit.

  Faced with an unbearable reality, they adapted not by confronting it—but by ignoring it.

  Why dwell on extinction when life was still comfortable?

  Why fight monsters when you could ride the subway to work, buy cheap food, and sleep in a warm bed?

  Arin understood it, even as it disgusted him.

  Controlled fusion reactors had changed everything. Energy was cheap. Food production was trivial. Even the most isolated tribes had been pulled into the modern age. Hunger, disease, scarcity—those were stories told by textbooks and old people.

  True hardship?

  Only those over eighty really remembered it.

  That was why—aside from logistics—Central Command hadn’t deployed more legions.

  The truth was ugly but simple: most people weren’t ready.

  They weren’t fit enough.

  They weren’t mentally prepared.

  And when faced with a goblin rushing at them, they would run.

  Why fight, Arin thought bitterly, if you can pretend nothing’s wrong?

  The train slowed, then came to a stop.

  “Next station—Heartland Residential Sector Seven.”

  Arin stepped off the train, boots hitting the pristine platform. The station was brand new, all polished metal and reinforced concrete, yet somehow it already looked tired. Corners unfinished. Panels hastily installed. It felt like a city built too quickly, already straining under its own weight.

  As he walked toward the exit, his thoughts drifted to his grandfather.

  Back in my day…

  He used to scoff at those words. Old men clinging to imagined hardship, glorifying suffering for its own sake.

  Now?

  Arin wasn’t so sure.

  Obesity was lower than it had been decades ago thanks to medical advances. Bodies were healthier. Lifespans longer.

  But laziness?

  That had only grown worse.

  The villa came into view as he rounded the corner.

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  Calling it a house felt wrong. It was a massive structure, more like a small compound—large enough to house two hundred people comfortably. Reinforced wood and mana-infused stone gave it the air of both a home and a fortress.

  And parked right in front of it—

  Arin stopped.

  His heart skipped a beat.

  A military motor vehicle.

  Not civilian.

  Not transport.

  A messenger unit.

  “...Damn it.”

  He recognized the markings instantly. European Union military designation. At least it wasn’t foreign command—but that didn’t make it good news.

  He had hoped—hoped—for at least a few days of rest.

  Sleep.

  Food.

  Time to breathe.

  Instead, the familiar weight of dread settled into his chest.

  So much for recovery.

  Residual aftershocks from resurrection stirred uneasily inside him. His body was healed, but his mind hadn’t caught up yet. Death left marks that no system screen could quantify.

  He stepped inside.

  The atmosphere hit him immediately.

  Heavy.

  Muted.

  Oppressive.

  A man in uniform stood near the center of the room, reading from a digital document. Around him, Arin’s family stood in silence, faces grim.

  The messenger cleared his throat.

  “By order of Marshal Herman Marz,” he read, “all listed personnel are to proceed to Sea Fortress N3 for immediate briefing. Arrival required no later than one week from issuance.”

  Arin already knew what came next.

  “You have six days remaining.”

  Six days.

  To travel over a thousand kilometers.

  On foot.

  The message ended.

  No one spoke for a long moment.

  The implications were obvious.

  Sea Fortress N3 guarded the river.

  If they were being summoned, it meant reconnaissance.

  It meant pursuit.

  It meant finding where the goblins came from.

  The door opened.

  Arin stepped in, shoulders slumped, exhaustion finally catching up with him. The room grew even heavier as all eyes turned toward him.

  “Hey, Arin,” Johnny said quietly. “How are you?”

  Arin forced a weak smile.

  “Alive,” he replied. “For now.”

  Johnny didn’t laugh.

  None of them did.

  They were informed. Painfully informed.

  In this new world, information traveled faster than command orders. News outlets had drones, analysts, battlefield leaks. Half the time, civilians knew more about frontline conditions than generals stuck in Central Command.

  After all—this wasn’t just war.

  It was a Trial where every nation had to cooperate to survive.

  Crime had plummeted as a side effect. News agencies hunted criminals faster than police, broadcasting robberies live before emergency calls were even placed. Criminals were interviewed, identified, and handed over on camera.

  Police departments both loved and hated it.

  Crime rates dropped.

  Public trust in a competent police force alongside it.

  “Alright,” Karl said finally, standing up. His voice cut cleanly through the gloom. “We can sit around feeling miserable, or we can move.”

  He stretched, joints cracking—a habit he’d kept even after his body reverted to its prime. Old instincts died hard.

  “We march today,” he continued. “I’ll ask around and see if there’s a caravan headed toward Sea Fortress N3. Herman wants answers. So let’s go find them.”

  No one argued.

  They all knew what was coming.

  As the household sprang into motion, grabbing gear, checking weapons, packing supplies, the villa transformed instantly. Calm shattered. Purpose replaced hesitation.

  It looked like someone had poured water onto an ant hill.

  Outside, the Heartland remained blissfully ignorant.

  Subways ran.

  Lights glowed.

  People went to work.

  And somewhere beyond the horizon, the military had already begun marching again—preparing for a war most of humanity still pretended wasn’t real.