[POV ???]

The light was absolute. Not a flash, nor a sunrise. A clarity without origin or end, without up or down, that erased everything except existence itself. There was no ground beneath my feet, no air in my lungs, and yet, I was. It was like floating inside a giant, eternal light bulb. The silence was so complete I could hear the beating of my own blood, a frantic drum of pure panic.

Then. Like ink stains on a spotless canvas, they appeared one after another. Several figures. Teenage faces — all of them my classmates. They all wore the same uniform: navy blue jacket, red tie, gray below. Backpacks absurdly hanging from tense shoulders. Some clutched their phones, black screens reflecting nothing.

Others hugged textbooks to their chests, useless talismans. The boy next to me, the one who always solved physics problems quickly, collapsed to his knees with a dry gasp, as if his lungs had been ripped out. Further away, a girl from the volleyball team spun around, shouting names that the void devoured without echo. Pure, raw, animal confusion.

I stayed still, pressed against a wall that didn’t exist. An observer by instinct, by fear. Where were we? Accident? Collective coma? Madness? None of those fit. The absence of everything — wind, smell, tangible gravity — was more terrifying than any monster.

The void rippled. Like water disturbed by an invisible stone. And from that fold in nothingness, She emerged.

Gaia. The name reached me without sound, implanted directly into my mind, as an unquestionable fact. Tall, effortlessly majestic, her hair was a cascade of living snow floating in a non-existent breeze.

Her eyes, the color of deep waters under a polar sky, held eons of calm and infinite sadness. Her robe… was not fabric. It was a living tapestry of forest and meadow: golden oak leaves intertwined with dark roots, poppy petals opening and closing in a silent rhythm, green shoots twisting toward an invisible light. Nature itself danced in her form. Her presence didn’t overwhelm; it occupied space, redefining it, making the white light seem like a mere backdrop. She demanded the gaze, but not with terror — with a fascination that froze the blood.

“Welcome” she said, and her voice was a perfect chord that resonated in my bones and in the void at once. It was warm and glacial, ancient and young. “I am Gaia. Weaver of Worlds, Guardian of the Thresholds, Mother of what Is and what Can Be. The Goddess of Creation.”

Thirty pairs of eyes fixed on her. The silence was no longer empty; it was a taut string about to snap.

“I have summoned you from your earthly home” she continued, a smile on her lips blending maternal tenderness with the solemnity of a sentence “because this realm, this fabric of reality, is tearing. The Shadows that dwell beyond the edges grow hungry. Their lord, the one who calls himself Demon King, weaves his darkness to drown all light, all life, all creation. His victory would mean the end… not only of this world, but of the very echo of possibility.”

A murmur ran through the group, like the sound of frightened insects. The physics boy, still on his knees, raised a trembling hand. His voice sounded shrill, out of place:

“Is this… is this some kind of… virtual reality prank? An experiment?”

Gaia’s smile did not falter, but her deep-water eyes seemed to darken with disdain for an instant.

“It is not a game, little grasshopper. Nor a dream from which you will awaken”. She paused, letting the weight of her words fall like slabs. “Your mortal bodies, fragile, bound to hunger, sickness, and end… have been transcended. Recreated here, in this Threshold, free from those chains. Within each of you burns a unique spark, a dormant potential tied to mana, the very blood of creation. A gift. But that gift…” her gaze swept over the group, lingering for an instant on each face “is like a seed. It needs time to germinate. It needs purpose to bloom.”

She raised a hand, long fingers outstretched. Behind her, in the white horizon, the light condensed, twisted, forming a titanic counter. Two bright digits, cold, inescapable: 50.

“Fifty years” she announced, and the number seemed to vibrate with her voice. “That is the time you will spend in this Forge Atrium. A world in white, a canvas before the battle. Here you will know neither hunger nor mortal fatigue. Here you will train. Forge your new bodies like swords on the anvil. Temper your spirits in war simulations. Learn the paths of mana, to channel its torrent, to shape its raw power. Master weapons of light and will. Understand the strategies of the abysses and the defenses of the light.”

A short-haired girl with a fierce gaze, the debate team captain, stepped forward. Her voice, though trembling, was clear, defiant:

“Fifty years? Trapped here? With no contact? No… going back home? No seeing our families? That’s a sentence, not a mission!”

Gaia looked at her, and in that gaze was infinite understanding —she ignored her completely and continued speaking.

“When the counter reaches zero” she replied, unshaken “you will be transported to the world that needs you. To the very heart of the conflict. Not before. Your duty, your implicit oath upon accepting this spark, will be to face the waves of darkness, to defend the bastions of life, and finally…” her voice dropped to a whisper that cut the soul “to face the Demon King himself. Bring him down and fulfill your mission.”

Some turned pale as death. Others, however, shone with sudden excitement. A scrawny boy with thick glasses, always glued to his handheld console, murmured to himself, his eyes lit behind the lenses: “An isekai… it’s a real isekai. Max level. Fifty-year grind…” As if it were the epic intro of an RPG, not a half-century sentence of isolation and brutal training.

Gaia slowly turned, encompassing all with her oceanic gaze. There was a glimmer of sorrow at seeing the mix of terror and naïve excitement.

“Those who take advantage of this time… those who forge their spark into a flame to light the night… will have the chance to live to see the dawn after the long darkness”. Her voice hardened, like red-hot steel plunged into cold water. “Those who waste it, who hide in the comfort of this limbo… will not see the end of the first real day. Darkness does not forgive weakness. Death there is final. There will be no return to this white.”

And then, with a sweeping motion of her arm, like a painter making the first brushstroke of a universe, the white ground beneath our feet solidified.

It ceased to be a sensation of floating and became a smooth, cool, tangible plain. In the distance, the light began to curve, to take shape —ethereal yet solid structures appeared.

Training fields crisscrossed by shifting obstacles. Towering spires that had to be libraries or observatories. Plains stretching toward simulated horizons, perfect for hunting or running. All built from the same white light, but now with texture, with purpose. A training world. A perfect cage.

The giant counter “50” flashed once, intensely, like a silent lightning bolt. A dry click, more mental than audible, resonated in the newly formed space.

49 years. 364 days. 23 hours. 59 minutes.

Time, our new jailer and teacher, had begun its relentless countdown.

I sank further into myself. I hadn’t screamed. I hadn’t asked. I had only observed. Fifty years. Fifty years in this immaculate white, forging myself for a war I hadn’t chosen, against an enemy I didn’t understand.

I looked around: at the video game enthusiast, at the debate captain still trembling with rage, at the physics boy now crying silently against the newborn floor.

Our class, minus Edward, trapped in a cage of light. And Gaia, our goddess-warden, watching with her eternal ocean eyes. The game, as the Demon King had called it in that forgotten book, had just recruited its new pieces. And the board was infinitely white.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep