I was Drafted Into a War as the Only Human

Crack!

Pop!

BOOM!

Fireworks screamed into the night sky, then burst in showers of color—scarlet flares, gold embers, and searing white sparks that danced like stars being born. Each explosion rippled through the colossal colosseum, sending deep tremors through the marble floor and into the bones of every spectator.

The air smelled of roasted meats, spun sugar, and smoke—the chaos of a thousand festivities packed into one sacred, thunderous celebration.

The crowd was electric.

Roars of awe rolled like waves across the sea of bodies. Children pointed to the sky with sticky fingers. Lovers leaned close to share gasps. Warriors raised mugs in booming toasts. The War Games Festival had begun.

"Did you see that one, Mom? It was Seraphine’s sigil!" a little elven girl cried, her voice sharp with joy as she clutched the hem of her elegant white robe. Her silver hair glimmered in the firelight as she pointed upward with both hands.

A massive white phoenix soared above, formed entirely of radiant fire. Its wings stretched wide, and its eyes burned with divine gold as it circled through the sky in slow, majestic arcs.

Around her, cheers erupted—an avalanche of voices chanting, praising, singing.

"Yes, I see it, honey," her mother said, smiling gently as the phoenix dissolved into shimmering feathers of light. "How are you liking the War Games so far?"

"It’s amazing!" the girl beamed, her cheeks flushed from joy and too many sweets. "Seraphine’s going to win—I know it!"

Before her mother could reply, a deafening roar rolled across the colosseum from the far side.

A wild, savage chant rose up like a war cry.

Ravun!

Ravun!

RAVUN!

Men stood bare-chested in the stands, their muscles streaked with war paint, red bandanas tied over their heads. They stomped and howled, pounding their fists against the rails.

A new firework launched—a crimson blade, jagged and downward-pointing, burst high above. At its tip curled black flames, licking the stars like a warning.

The Ravun faithful went mad, beating drums, swinging axes, howling for blood.

Then came a sharp hiss—a purple streak snaked into the sky and exploded with a delicate pop.

From the smoke bloomed a crescent moon, soft and curved, and from it dangled a silver spider suspended by a thread. Its many eyes gleamed like polished obsidian as it swayed in the midnight air.

The cheers that followed were softer, cooler, but no less fervent. They rose from the veiled section to Seraphine’s left—Nyxaris’s followers, cloaked in shadowed purple robes.

"Go Nyxaris!"

"She’s so mysterious..."

Fans whispered and hissed with delight, eyes gleaming behind silk veils. Others bowed their heads, hands pressed together in silent praise, as if fearing the goddess of secrets might hear their open reverence and punish them.

Then, without warning, a piercing blue streak rocketed upward.

It outshone the rest—icy, pristine, sharp as a blade of light.

It burst with a sonic crack, releasing a stunning image: a silver crown, perfect in symmetry. Through the center ran a narrow sword, its point glinting like frost in the moonlight.

A roar erupted from the stands across from Nyxaris.

Ithriel’s followers—a disciplined mix of men and women—stood proud in uniforms of pale blue and steel gray, their cheers booming with military precision.

"Ithriel’s the best!"

"Ithriel by a hundred!"

"I’ve got the spread!" one fan laughed, holding up a betting token.

Above them, the crown slowly unraveled into motes of cold fire.

The sky still shimmered with smoke and stars, and yet the people did not tire. The energy was building—the gods were watching.

And the War Games were only just beginning.

Then—suddenly—a ripple of green shimmer cracked open at the center of the colosseum, dancing along the polished orange stone floor like sunlight through emerald glass.

From that glow, a figure stepped through.

An elven man, impossibly pristine, emerged. He wore a tailored black suit and slacks, the fabric gleaming faintly under the lights. His long golden hair jutted upward in wild spikes, and atop his nose sat a pair of dazzling star-shaped glasses. In his right hand? A sleek black microphone.

The crowd—all two hundred thousand strong—erupted.

The roar was seismic. The ground beneath their feet shook, banners trembled from the rails, and cups leapt in trembling hands.

He stood still in the center, grinning wide, soaking in the storm of cheers. A living spark in a thundercloud.

Then, as the noise finally began to die down, he raised the mic to his mouth with showman’s grace—and boomed:

"HOW ABOUT THAT OPENING CEREMONY!!!"

The colosseum answered with a fury of joy. Deafening. Unified. Alive.

’Yeah, you’re the man, Ryo,’ he thought, grinning. ’You’re gonna get this crowd pumped!’

"As you all know," he continued, voice crisp and amplified perfectly, "my name is Ryo Pebblewink, and I’ll be your host-slash-announcer for the marvelous War Games—alongside my equally marvelous twin brother, Vulwin Pebblewink!"

He turned and pointed skyward, toward a glass-encased booth at the top of Seraphine’s side of the colosseum.

Inside, visible through the reflection of fireworks and divine light, sat another elven man: tall spiky blonde hair, a matching black suit, identical star sunglasses, and a mic set before him on a desk. Vulwin grinned and waved, spinning his mic like a drumstick.

The crowd went wild.

The Pebblewinks were famous across dozens of worlds—hosts, influencers, chaos incarnate on social media—and their presence only supercharged the hype. There could be no better choice.

Ryo raised a hand for calm, though the smirk on his face said he didn’t mind the noise.

"It’s our honor to be hosting this once-in-a-lifetime event..." he said, voice now smooth with reverence. "Now, before we introduce this year’s champions, how about a round of applause for the true legends—the ones who brought us all together—our four Gods and Goddesses!"

He extended his arm dramatically toward the heavens.

Above the colosseum, suspended like stars, floated four divine platforms. On each, a deity sat enthroned, their forms majestic and terrifying. Surrounding them were their hand-picked divine children, smaller figures cloaked in shadow, light, flame, or ice, watching the festival from on high.

The crowd lost its mind.

The loudest roar yet.

Seraphine gave a graceful wave, smiling with open arms. Her flowing white dress shimmered with gold lining, her silver hair falling flawlessly past her shoulders. A crown of thorns, delicate and glowing, rested atop her head like a halo.

Nyxaris sat unmoving, her throne cloaked in a haze of twilight shadows. Her hooded head never turned. Her face remained hidden. She offered no wave, no smile—only silence, like a riddle unspoken.

Ravun was a statue of rage. His blood-soaked crimson armor steamed in the cold air. He lifted his muscular arms and shook his fists, igniting a frenzy in his followers as if he’d just declared war with a gesture.

Ithriel sat like a frozen king—unflinching, unreadable. His icy blue armor glinted under the stadium lights, a metallic crown spinning midair above his head with eerie precision.

As the crowd’s screams began to fade, Ryo raised his mic once more, voice echoing through a dozen enchanted speakers woven into the bones of the colosseum.

"Now... I will announce the champions!"

Just as he finished, the green shimmer returned, swirling around him like a vortex of spring wind and magic.

In a blink, Ryo vanished—teleported into the broadcast box beside his brother.

And he began announcing the warriors who would participate in the festival of death.