At the very edge of Humanity's Heartland, where the endless steel factories and farmland stood, and then even further past the mountains, they mined for minerals. There stood a structure so vast and pristine that it felt almost unreal.

  A giant white building dominated the corner of the land.

  At first glance, it resembled a Greek temple—towering pillars of polished stone, symmetrical steps, and an air of solemn divinity. Yet calling it a temple in the traditional sense felt inadequate. It was far larger than any ancient structure had ever been, its scale pushing beyond human intuition. The roof alone could have swallowed several cathedrals whole, and the pillars rose like mountains carved into perfect symmetry.

  This was the Resurrection Temple.

  Every minute, thousands of people emerged from its interior, appearing in flashes of soft white light before stepping into the world of the living once more. The light never burned the eyes, never dazzled—if anything, it felt warm, comforting, like sunlight filtered through clouds.

  And, thankfully, everyone emerged fully clothed.

  That detail had not always been guaranteed.

  In the early days of Humanity's Trial, resurrection had come with… complications. Those who died without prepared clothing would return exactly as their soul remembered their body—naked, which was a rather uncomfortable position to be in if you stood inside a massive hall that felt sacred.

  As a result, governments across the world had very quickly made it mandatory: no one was allowed onto the battlefield without pre-registered resurrection attire.

  It saved lives.

  And dignity.

  Arin Sonnenberg appeared in a soft burst of white light, his senses snapping back into place almost violently.

  The first thing he noticed was the temperature—cool, but not cold. The second was the faint scent of incense mixed with something sterile, almost hospital-like. And the third was the weight of fabric against his skin.

  He glanced down.

  A familiar dark hoodie. Comfortable combat pants. Boots that actually fit his feet.

  "Good," he muttered under his breath. "At least that worked."

  Instinctively, he stepped forward, emerging from what looked suspiciously like a traditional stone fireplace embedded into the wall. Identical hearths lined the massive hall, arranged in neat rows. Each one flared briefly with white light as another soul returned to the world.

  The hall itself was enormous—large enough to house several football stadiums, yet so quiet it felt almost reverent. The ceiling arched high above, carved with subtle geometric patterns that shimmered faintly with mana. Every sound echoed softly, swallowed by the sheer scale of the place.

  Before Arin could linger, a young woman approached him.

  She wore a simple uniform, slate gray with white trim, and her expression was calm, almost soothing. Not cheerful. Not cold. Just… composed.

  "This way, please," she said, her voice gentle but firm.

  Arin nodded and followed without protest.

  He'd heard about this part.

  They walked through several corridors, each one branching like veins through the heart of the temple. Some paths led to vast waiting areas filled with newly resurrected civilians. Others were guarded by personnel in reinforced uniforms, their expressions tight with exhaustion.

  Finally, Arin was guided into a smaller room.

  It looked like an office.

  Or, depending on how you looked at it, an interrogation chamber.

  Plain walls. A metal table bolted to the floor. Two chairs facing one another. Cameras are embedded discreetly in the corners of the ceiling.

  Arin sat down slowly, resisting the urge to fidget.

  Alright, he thought. Get it over with.

  A few minutes passed.

  Then the door opened.

  The man who entered looked… oddly nondescript.

  He wore a neat suit, no insignia, no visible rank. His face was the kind you'd forget five minutes after seeing it—average height, average build, short hair already showing flecks of gray. His eyes, however, were sharp and observant, like someone who missed nothing even when pretending not to look.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  He sat down with a tired sigh.

  "Good news," the man said. "We can take our time today. Resurrection rates have slowed down."

  Arin's eye twitched.

  That's not good news.

  Outwardly, he nodded.

  The man noticed the reaction immediately.

  "Don't worry," he said, holding up a hand. "This won't be unpleasant. Hopefully."

  Arin wasn't reassured.

  "My name is Nils Borgtórsson," the man continued. "I'll be conducting your interview today. We'll be discussing your battlefield experience—and confirming your identity."

  Arin frowned.

  "Confirming?" he asked. "Isn't that automatic? My clothes didn't disappear, did they?"

  Nils hesitated.

  Just for a fraction of a second.

  "Well," he said carefully, "about that."

  Arin leaned forward slightly.

  Nils rubbed his temple. "There have been… hiccups."

  "Hiccups."

  "Yes. Ones that only became apparent once resurrection began happening on a mass scale. Previously, such cases were written off as anomalies."

  Arin's curiosity flared instantly.

  "Well," he said, "now you've got my attention."

  Nils sighed. "This information is not public. We haven't released it because it would cause logistical nightmares. So I'm going to need you to keep this to yourself."

  "I can do that," Arin replied immediately, already leaning in. "You don't even have to ask."

  Nils gave him a tired look and began.

  "When a person is resurrected, the temple retrieves their soul from the river—the place you experienced while dead. Along with the soul comes accumulated energy. That soul carries an engraving: a complete record of what the person is."

  He tapped the table lightly.

  "That engraving shapes the body the soul inhabits upon resurrection. Normally, this is flawless. Even people with unique physiques or unusual traits retain all their advantages."

  "So what's the problem?" Arin asked.

  Nils hesitated again.

  "What happens," he said slowly, "when someone believes they were born in the wrong body?"

  Arin froze.

  "…You don't mean—"

  "Yes," Nils said flatly. "Exactly what you're thinking."

  Silence filled the room.

  "You're saying," Arin said carefully, "that if a soul truly believes it should be female, the resurrection gives them a female body."

  "Yes."

  Arin leaned back, stunned.

  "For many people, it's been… a happy accident," Nils continued. "But for others—those who never acknowledged those feelings, or never realized them—it's caused no small amount of chaos."

  Arin stared at the ceiling.

  "…Wow."

  "I believe 'spectacular' was the word one officer used," Nils said dryly. "We've had legal disputes, medical crises, and more paperwork than I care to imagine."

  Arin laughed despite himself.

  "I can see why you don't want this public," he said. "But I can also see why more people might volunteer for the front lines."

  Nils groaned softly. "Yes. That, unfortunately, is also true."

  He straightened.

  "Now," he said, all humor gone, "let's move on. Your assignment is… special. So we need to go over everything in detail."

  Arin's smile vanished instantly.

  The next several hours were pure torture.

  He was asked to recount every detail of the battlefield: goblin behavior, terrain changes, skill activation patterns, stamina degradation, psychological stress points. Every answer was recorded by advanced systems embedded in the room, analyzed in real time.

  It was exhausting.

  But necessary.

  At peak operation, the Resurrection Temple processed millions of souls per hour. Every piece of data mattered. For most people, the process was quick—an AI interview, a camera, a few questions.

  For officers and specialists like Arin?

  A human interviewer. A full report.

  Over a hundred thousand staff members worked within the temple, and even that wasn't enough. Only a third of Humanity's forces had been deployed so far.

  If things escalated again—

  Everyone here knew it.

  This place would become hell.