The roar of the crowd washed over Jason Miller like a wave of pure energy. Eighty thousand fans on their feet, the scoreboard showing three seconds left in the fourth quarter, his team down by four points. One final play to make or break the championship.
Jason settled under center, his breathing steady despite the thunder of his heartbeat. This was the moment he lived for.
"Blue 42! Blue 42! Hut, HUT!"
The ball slapped into his hands. He dropped back, scanning downfield as the pocket collapsed around him. A defender broke through, but Jason sidestepped with the fluid grace that had NFL scouts filling the stands. He scrambled right, buying time as his receivers fought to get open.
There—a flash of his team's colors breaking free in the end zone. Jason planted his feet and launched a perfect spiral that arced high against the stadium lights. Time seemed to slow as the ball descended, finding his receiver's outstretched hands just before he was pushed out of bounds.
Touchdown.
The stadium erupted. Teammates mobbed him, lifting him onto their shoulders as confetti rained down. Coach Wilson, never one for sentimentality, had tears in his eyes as he pushed through to shake Jason's hand.
"That's why you're the best quarterback this school has ever seen, son."
Jason grinned, soaking in the moment. State champions. All the years of dawn practices, weight training, film study—all worth it for this single, perfect moment. He searched the stands until he found his parents and younger sister, their faces beaming with pride. His father, who had never missed a single game since Jason started playing Pop Warner football at age seven, was giving him a thumbs up.
In the locker room afterward, amid the champagne spray and wild celebration, his phone buzzed with congratulatory texts and social media notifications. His agent had already fielded three calls from major brands wanting endorsement deals. The NFL draft was five months away, and Jason was projected as a first-round pick.
Life couldn't get any better than this.
Three hours later, Jason sat at a table in The End Zone, the popular sports bar near campus where the team always celebrated their victories. His teammates were scattered around, some dancing, others retelling key moments from the game with increasingly dramatic embellishments. A continuous stream of well-wishers approached their table, offering congratulations, handshakes, and free drinks.
"Quite a throw, J-Mill," said Trent, his roommate and the team's star receiver who had caught the winning pass. "Though I made you look good with that catch."
Jason laughed, clinking his water glass against Trent's beer. Unlike most of his teammates, Jason rarely drank. His father, a former college player whose own career had been derailed by injury and subsequent alcoholism, had made sure Jason understood the value of discipline.
"We make each other look good," Jason replied. "That's the whole point."
His phone buzzed again. His agent, with news about a potential Nike deal. Jason excused himself and stepped outside to take the call, the cool night air a relief after the bar's stuffy warmth.
As he listened to his agent's excited pitch about signing bonuses and contract terms, Jason noticed something strange. The street lights around him began to flicker, an odd pattern that seemed almost... deliberate. A prickling sensation crawled up his spine.
"Can I call you back tomorrow?" he interrupted, suddenly uneasy. "Something's—"
The world around him lurched sideways. The street, the buildings, even the sounds of the bar faded like a radio losing signal. Jason stumbled, his phone clattering to the pavement as light—impossibly bright, impossibly pure—enveloped him.
-(chapter one, second half)-
The Temple of Light dominated the central square of Lumina, the human capital. Its white marble spires reached skyward like fingers grasping for the heavens, golden domes capturing the morning sunlight and reflecting it across the city. Thousands of people had gathered in the square, drawn by rumors that spread like wildfire: The Champion had arrived. The Goddess's chosen one. The salvation of humanity.
Inside the temple's grand hall, Jason knelt before High Priest Alaric, an elderly man whose austere features and penetrating gaze commanded immediate respect. Surrounding them were the twelve Temple Guardians, warriors in gleaming silver armor who served as both the priesthood's protectors and humanity's elite fighting force.
"Rise, Chosen One," Alaric said, his voice carrying throughout the vast chamber despite its softness. "Let the people see their champion."
Jason stood, still marveling at how natural this new world felt to him. He had arrived only hours ago, yet already spoke the common tongue fluently—a gift from the Goddess, Alaric had explained. The clothing they had provided—a tunic of white and gold, with a deep blue cloak fastened by a sunburst clasp—felt as familiar as his football jersey had back home.
Alaric led him onto the temple's grand balcony. The roar of the crowd below dwarfed even the championship game's cheers. Thousands of faces looked up at him with naked hope and adoration. Children sat on parents' shoulders for a better view. Old women wept openly. Men raised fists in salute.
"People of Lumina," Alaric called out, his voice magically amplified to reach even the farthest onlookers. "I present to you the answer to our prayers, the fulfillment of ancient prophecy. Behold the Goddess's Chosen, come to deliver us from evil!"
The crowd erupted, the sound washing over Jason like a physical force. This was far beyond any fame he had known as a college athlete. This was... worship.
A part of him—a distant, almost detached part—wondered if he should feel uncomfortable with such adulation. But that doubt was quickly washed away by a surge of purpose. These people needed him. Their hope, their very survival, depended on him. And he would not fail them.
"The Champion will address you!" Alaric announced, stepping aside.
Jason hadn't prepared a speech. He didn't need to. The words came as naturally as breathing.
"People of Lumina," he called out, his voice strong and clear. "I come to you in a time of darkness, sent by the Goddess herself. I make you this solemn vow: So long as I draw breath, humanity will stand strong against the demon threat. This is not merely a battle for territory or power—this is a sacred struggle between good and evil. And good will triumph!"
The crowd roared its approval. Children threw flowers. Women blew kisses. Men pumped their fists in the air.
"I ask only this of you," Jason continued, raising his hands for quiet. "Stand with me. Be strong. Have faith. Together, we will create a world where your children can grow up without fear, where the shadow of demonic evil no longer darkens your days. This I swear, by the light of the Goddess herself!"
As if in divine confirmation, a shaft of sunlight broke through the clouds, illuminating Jason in a golden glow. The crowd gasped, then erupted into cheers so thunderous they seemed to shake the very foundations of the temple.
Beside him, Alaric nodded approvingly. "They needed this," he murmured. "Hope has been in short supply since the demons began moving again."
Jason nodded, watching the celebrating crowd. "When do we begin?"
"The war council awaits us now," Alaric replied. "The kingdom's military leaders, scholars of demon lore, survivors of recent attacks—all eager to assist the Champion."
As they turned to leave the balcony, a young girl—no more than seven or eight—broke through the guards and ran forward, clutching a small wooden carving.
"For you, Hero," she said shyly, offering the crude figure of a warrior with a raised sword. "To protect you."
Jason knelt, accepting the gift with a smile. "What's your name?"
"Elara," she whispered.
"Thank you, Elara. I'll keep it with me always." He tucked the carving into his belt. "Now I need you to be brave too. Can you do that?"
She nodded solemnly.
"Good. Because heroes come in all sizes. Remember that."
As the guards gently escorted her back to her parents, Alaric regarded Jason with newfound respect. "The Goddess chose well," he said. "You have both the warrior's strength and the shepherd's heart."
Jason followed the High Priest into the temple's inner sanctum, where maps and battle plans awaited. His path was clear. The enemy, defined. The mission, righteous.
He thought briefly of home—his parents, his sister, his teammates. They would be worried. But somehow, he knew this was where he belonged. This world needed him more than his own did. And he had never been one to shrink from responsibility.
As the war council began its briefing, describing demon territories and recent attacks, Jason felt a strange sensation—a tingling in his fingertips, a momentary blurring of his enhanced vision. It passed quickly, leaving him to wonder if he had imagined it.
"Troubling news has just arrived," an aged scholar said, moving to the map table with a fresh scroll. "Our scouts report unusual activity in the demon capital. Rituals, celebrations. They speak of... a king."
"The demons have no king," Alaric said firmly. "Their last one died centuries ago, slain by his human queen."
"Something has changed," the scholar insisted. "The demons believe their king has returned."
Jason studied the map, focusing on the northern mountains where the demon territories were marked. "Whatever they're planning, we'll be ready," he said with confidence. "Show me where they're most vulnerable."
The council members exchanged glances, both surprised and pleased by his directness. This was no hesitant, reluctant hero needing to be convinced of his calling. This was a natural leader, ready to take the fight to the enemy.
As strategies were discussed and plans formed, none noticed the brief flicker of golden light that occasionally passed across Jason's skin—like static electricity but brighter, more ethereal.
None except Jason himself, who felt each fluctuation as a momentary weakness. A brief, passing doubt. He pushed such feelings aside. There was no room for uncertainty in a champion. No place for questions in a holy war.
The path was clear. The demons would fall. Humanity would be saved.
And Jason Miller, once merely a promising young athlete, would be the hero this world deserved.