Do Not Despair

The air in the hall grew heavy with anticipation as the last of the newcomers entered. Harry, Max, Tim, and Tess sat, their eyes locked on the people stepping onto the elevated stage opposite the entrance.

A hushed silence fell over the crowd as all eyes turned toward the figures who had gathered at the front.

Harry leaned back slightly, letting his gaze sweep over the group. Among the finely dressed individuals—most of whom seemed to be locals—there were a few familiar faces.

"Hey," Tim whispered, shifting closer. "Look at that—it's the student council president."

Harry followed Tim's gaze and, sure enough, standing near the center was a tall girl with straight black hair and sharp, composed eyes. Her uniform, though slightly worn, was unmistakably the one from their school. She held herself with a natural authority, her posture firm, her gaze steady.

"And beside her…" Tim continued, his voice hushed with disbelief. "That's… the vice class president. Or our class rep, whatever you wanna call her."

Harry squinted, recognizing the shorter girl standing beside the student council president. She had shoulder-length brown hair and a serious expression, her hands clasped tightly in front of her.

'Is she pretending or what?' Harry chuckled inwardly.

"They're standing next to—" Tim paused, swallowing as his gaze landed on the two people beside them.

A woman, regal in demeanor, stood in an elegant yet practical dress adorned with silver embroidery. Her presence alone exuded authority, her calm gaze sweeping across the hall with quiet command.

And next to her stood a middle-aged man dressed in noble attire—deep blue robes lined with gold, a silver crest pinned to his chest. His face, though worn by time, carried an air of refined strength.

"That is our Director," Tim muttered.

"And that guy—" His throat bobbed. "I think he's someone important."

Harry hummed in thought. "No kidding. Fancy clothes, standing in the middle like he owns the place…"

He grinned. "I'd bet a loaf of this fine medieval bread that he's our host."

As if responding to his remark, the nobleman took a step forward, and without hesitation, he began speaking.

The moment his voice rang through the hall, something strange happened.

"Salom me ning anniy dost larim."

{Welcome, friends from another world.}

Harry's breath caught for a moment.

He could understand him.

The man's lips moved, speaking words that should have been foreign—words in the same unknown language that the locals spoke. And yet, the meaning reached Harry's mind as if it were his own tongue.

A murmur rippled through the crowd. Judging by the way others perked up, they understood him too.

Harry didn't speak. He had a guess as to what was happening, but for now, he decided to just listen. Information was the most important thing right now.

The nobleman's voice carried effortlessly, each word calm and measured.

A moment of silence followed as if to let the words settle. Then, he continued.

"I am Lord Alric Vaelthorn, ruler of Elender Keep. On behalf of my people, I extend my greetings to you."

His gaze swept across the gathered survivors, his expression a perfect blend of formality and genuine sympathy.

"I imagine you have many questions, and in time, they will be answered." He paused. "But first, allow me to express my deepest regret and sympathy."

A heaviness settled in his tone.

"For your world has now begun its descent into calamity. The End—an event that once ravaged our world—has found its way to yours."

The hall remained deathly silent.

'So, now it's confirmed. The system's words about our world not being the first or the only one.'

'If it is like that, I can guess what he says next.'

'He will probably talk about Stage 0 - introduction to the end.'

"The End is neither merciful nor fair," Alric said. "It does not discriminate. It does not negotiate. It is cruel, ruthless, and inevitable."

His eyes darkened, as though recalling horrors no words could describe.

"It is a trial beyond reason, a force that does not simply destroy—but changes. It corrupts, twists, and consumes all in its path. Those who cannot fight will perish. Those who falter will be erased. And those who resist…" He exhaled, his jaw tightening. "They will suffer, over and over again."

A shiver ran through the room. Even the strongest-willed among them couldn't hide the unease creeping up their spines.

Harry, of course, couldn't help himself.

"Man sounds like those government people warning you about the economy, only this time the threat is real," he muttered under his breath.

Tim elbowed him. "Dude. Not the time."

"Hey, someone had to say it," Harry whispered back, though his grin was weaker than usual.

Lord Vaelthorn continued, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

"I am sure you all wonder why you are here. Why you were cast into this place, rather than left to face The End in your own world first."

A murmur spread through the survivors. Harry leaned forward slightly, listening intently.

The nobleman took a breath before answering.

"The Messenger has decreed it to us. You were brought here not as punishment, nor as a mere twist of fate. You were chosen to experience The End beforehand—to be introduced to its trials, to understand what awaits your world."

The silence grew heavier.

Harry swallowed. 'I really guessed it right!'

"Through this trial," Vaelthorn continued, "you will see what awaits your kind should you fail to prepare. You will understand what it means to fight, to survive… and what it means to lose. And it's sad that some of you have already experienced many of them by now."

His eyes swept across the room, taking in the expressions of fear, confusion, and defiance.

"But do not despair."

His voice shifted, becoming steadier, more resolute.

"You are not alone in this."

A few people stirred at that.

"We will aid you with what we can," he declared. "Elender Keep will provide shelter, food, and guidance. We have suffered The End before. We know its horrors. And so, we will not turn our backs on those who must now walk the same path."

A ripple of relief moved through the survivors. It wasn't much—it didn't change the reality of their situation—but it was something.

Max listened closely, his expression unreadable. The words made sense, the logic was clear. But the feeling gnawed at him—the certainty that he had been here before, that he had heard these words before.

Yet, no matter how hard he tried to grasp it, the memory remained just out of reach.

'...I...'

'I don't like this...'