Darkness.
No form. No sound. No sensation. Only a void, swallowing everything whole.
Am I dead?
Everything feels distant. Memories that should have stayed with me begin to fade, drawn into an endless abyss. I try to recall—who I am, what I was doing, why I'm here.
And why… why does it feel like I'm falling?
Suddenly, something strikes me. Cold. Wet. Strange voices echo around me. My breathing is short and trembling, lungs struggling to adjust. I want to speak, but my tongue is numb, unable to form words. My body… why does it feel so small?
Someone touches me—gentle, warm. I feel their chest rise and fall, and hear a trembling voice full of affection. I try to move my hand, but all I can manage are tiny fingers, reflexively grasping at something.
My eyes flutter open. A blinding light pierces my vision, making them water. Blurry figures slowly sharpen. A woman with sweat-matted hair, her face exhausted yet radiant with joy. A man trembling as he strokes my head, his gaze brimming with hope. A little girl staring at me, wide-eyed, glowing.
"Arsy…"
Someone calls my name. It feels like home.
And then—everything fades.
"A sweet home... I want to build a sweet home."
Those were Arian's words—his dream of building something gentle amidst the bitterness of the world. And in the end, he did it.
In the quiet village of Leonhardt, Arian's home stood firm—a house of warm wood and a sturdy roof that shielded its residents from sun and storm alike. It was larger than most homes in the area, reflecting the prosperity of a respected blacksmith. Inside, it held four spacious rooms—one for Arian and Elda, one for Elara, one already prepared for Arsy, and one downstairs for their housekeeper. This house was more than shelter—it was a space filled with warmth, care, and love.
Between the living quarters and Arian's workshop stretched a lovingly tended garden—not just decoration, but a bridge between labor and home. Trees swayed gently in the morning breeze. Wildflowers bloomed in quiet defiance, their fragrance blending with the fresh scent of dew-kissed earth.
As morning drifted into day, sunlight bathed the garden in a gentle warmth. Under the shade of soft leaves, Elda sat cradling baby Arsy. The tiny infant lay swaddled in a soft cloth, his little body squirming as if soaking in the light that caressed his skin. His fragile eyelids fluttered as sleep pulled at him, interrupted by a small yawn. Tiny fingers reached up, as though trying to grasp the sunlight filtering through the leaves.
Elara sat beside them, propping her chin on her hands, watching her baby brother with quiet wonder. Every now and then, she'd reach out and touch his little fingers with the tip of hers, marveling at the fragile softness. "He likes the sunlight, doesn't he?" she murmured, her voice low, careful not to break the serenity of the moment. Her eyes sparkled with awe, as though discovering a new kind of magic in this small being who had entered their lives.
From the porch, Arian watched the scene unfold with a different kind of softness. Arms crossed, he stood tall, but his gaze was gentle—filled with pride and quiet joy. After a night of hammering steel in the forge, this sight reminded him why he worked so hard. It wasn't just about shaping metal. It was about building a life for the ones he loved.
The first days of Arsy's life were peaceful. There wasn't much he could do, yet his mere presence brought teary smiles to his parents and sister. His movements were small—tiny hands rising slightly before dropping again, little fingers clutching at nothing.
Sometimes, when he yawned, his lips would form a pout that Elda couldn't resist kissing. Arian, softened by fatherhood, often offered his finger to his son—and when Arsy managed to grip it, he'd smile as if the whole world had shrunk down to this tiny miracle.
Elara, meanwhile, never stopped watching him. She mimicked his expressions, giggling whenever his face scrunched up or he wiggled in his sleep. Sometimes, she tried singing lullabies she made up on the spot—nothing more than whispers and scattered notes.
Their house was never silent. News of Arsy's birth spread quickly, drawing family and relatives to visit. His grandparents arrived first, their faces glowing with joy as they met their first grandson from the Gofdraig line. Wrinkled hands caressed his cheeks with love, and his grandfather whispered quiet prayers for his strength and health.
Soon after, cousins and extended family followed—curious and eager to meet the newborn who had become the center of attention. Children ran through the halls while the adults chatted with Arian and Elda, offering congratulations and advice about raising a child.
Even neighbors stopped by, bringing food and small gifts. Madam Liana, the midwife, returned—not as a savior this time, but as a guest. "Look at him—so strong and healthy. Let's hope he doesn't grow up to be as stubborn as his father," she said with a chuckle as she held Arsy. Arian laughed aloud at her teasing.
At night, Arsy's cries would pierce the quiet, waking Elda instantly. But even in exhaustion, she never felt bothered. Holding him close, whispering gentle words, soothing his tiny sobs—those moments filled her with a joy she had never known. Arian, coming home late from the forge, would pause at the doorway and smile, heart full as he watched his family.
As the days passed, Arsy's presence brought more warmth into their home.
But beneath the laughter and light, a pair of young eyes began to observe with a growing storm of emotion.
Elara—barely five years old—had been overjoyed when her brother was born. She wanted to be near him always, imitating her mother's ways, proudly telling visitors that she was his big sister.
Yet slowly, something shifted.
The attention that had once been hers alone began to scatter. When she tugged at her mother's hand to play, Elda would often reply, "Just a moment, dear. Mama's putting Arsy to sleep." When her father came home, hoping to climb into his lap, he would already be holding the baby. Even her grandparents, who used to hug her for what felt like forever, now spent more time rocking Arsy in their arms.
One morning, Elda was nursing Arsy in the sitting room. Elara sat quietly in a corner, cheeks puffed in silence. Her arms clutched her favorite stuffed bunny, and her eyes fixated on her mother, who smiled softly while caressing her baby's head.
"Elara... why so quiet?" Elda's voice finally broke the silence.
Elara didn't answer right away. She looked down, fingers nervously pinching her bunny's ear.
Arian, just home from the forge, noticed her too. He walked over and crouched in front of her. "Is something bothering you, sweetheart?" he asked gently.
Elara bit her lip. Then, in a tiny, nearly inaudible voice, she whispered, "Mama and Papa… like Arsy more than me?"
Elda and Arian exchanged a quiet glance before smiling with understanding. Elda gently set the sleeping baby down on a soft pillow and opened her arms.
"Come here, love."
Elara hesitated, then walked into her mother's embrace. Elda wrapped her tightly, stroking her hair.
"Do you know something, sweetheart? Mama and Papa love you just as much as before," she whispered. "It's just that your little brother is still so small. He needs extra care, but that doesn't mean our love for you has changed."
Arian joined them, rubbing his daughter's back. "You're so special, Elara. Arsy will need you to teach him many things. When he grows up, he'll want to play with you and learn from you."
Elara looked up, her eyes still glistening. "Really?"
"Of course," Arian smiled. "Maybe someday he'll want a bunny just like yours."
Elara paused to think, then quickly shook her head. "No. This one's mine."
Elda and Arian chuckled softly, relieved to see their daughter's spirit returning.
From that day forward, though jealousy would still creep in now and then, Elara slowly began to accept that she was no longer the only child. She learned that while Arsy might draw everyone's attention, the love of her parents would always be hers. In her young eyes, Arian and Elda were still just Mama and Papa—no more, no less.
Elara was a bright and cheerful girl. Her sharp mind had begun to shine early on, mastering reading and writing far ahead of children her age. Elda had first noticed this when she casually introduced her to the alphabet. At first, she only meant to teach Elara the basics, slowly and gently—but to her surprise, her daughter picked up patterns and shapes with astonishing ease.
Arian and Elda were amazed—whether due to Elda's teaching or Elara's natural gift, no one could say. Such aptitude was rare in the Kingdom, where most children were still learning to recognize letters, while Elara could already read simple sentences fluently.
Aside from reading, Elara also began to show interest in Vis energy—the life force that flows through all living things. From time to time, she would experiment by following a basic spellbook meant for daily use. The book included small practical applications: lighting a flame, warming a cup of water, or helping plants grow faster in the family garden.
Her training was still rudimentary, but Elara was filled with enthusiasm. She loved trying to conjure tiny flames at her fingertips or channel energy into flowers to keep them vibrant. Even when all she managed was a soft shimmer in her palms, she never gave up.
Arian Family Garden
Morning, Stelladay, 40th of Velaris, Year 1003
Under the warm morning sun, Elara stood in the middle of their small garden, her eyes sparkling with excitement. Her fingers trembled slightly—not from fear, but from the overwhelming anticipation. Today, she was going to show her parents something she had been practicing over the past few days.
Her parents watched from the left side of the front door. Elda held little Arsy in her arms, while Arian folded his arms thoughtfully, already trying to guess what was coming.
"Let's see what my daughter can do," he muttered, intrigued.
Taking a deep breath, Elara raised her palm to chest height, letting the air flow between her fingers. The Vis energy within her began to resonate, swirling in invisible currents. She closed her eyes for a moment, attuning herself to the molecules around her, feeling the reaction between her spirit and the air.
Then, with a loud yet careful voice, she declared,
"Pyro Magi."
In an instant, a flicker of orange-red light formed above her palm. As if pulled from the very air itself, oxygen and surrounding particles gathered, igniting a small flame that danced gently in her hand. Elara beamed, eyes shining with triumph.
"I did it!" she cried, turning to show the tiny flame to her parents.
Elda's eyes widened. "Magic?!" Her heart nearly leapt from her chest as she saw the real, tangible fire in her daughter's palm. "Elara! Be careful!" She rushed forward on instinct, her concern outweighing her surprise.
But Arian didn't move. Instead, he smiled faintly, his gaze steady. "Did you learn how to regulate the combustion reaction?" he asked, his tone calm but curious.
Elara nodded eagerly. "I made sure there was enough oxygen around, and I controlled the intensity so it wouldn't grow too big. Look—I can extinguish it anytime!"
With a bit of focus, she relaxed her Vis output. The flame slowly shrank before vanishing completely, as if being reabsorbed into the air.
Elda finally let out a relieved sigh, though the worry still lingered in her heart. Arian chuckled softly and ruffled Elara's hair.
"You're amazing," he said. "But remember, fire isn't just a beautiful light. It can be your friend—but it can just as easily become your enemy if you lose focus."
"I know, Papa! I'll keep practicing!" Elara chirped.
The day ended with smiles and joy on Elara's face. But later that night, after she had fallen into a deep sleep, Arian and Elda sat together at the dining table, the soft glow of a candle casting flickering light over their thoughtful faces.
"We can't ignore her talent," Arian said, looking seriously at his wife. "She has immense potential. If she enters the Rhysleonaria Magic Academy, she could truly thrive—under real guidance."
Elda was deep in thought. "I know… But joining the kingdom's academy, whether as a knight or a mage, isn't just about skill or strength. You've heard of that secret exploration program, haven't you? The one where the most gifted individuals are chosen for deep-world missions."
Arian sighed and stared at the wooden table. "I heard about it from Kael Rhysleon, the secretary of Rhysleonaria Province. The central government is preparing world-expansion initiatives—to push the boundaries of known land. They're selecting talented candidates to explore the untouched regions of Aerilon. If Elara enters the academy and shows enough promise, whether as a knight or a mage, she could be chosen."
Elda's eyes narrowed as she processed his words. "So no matter what path she chooses… if she's gifted enough, she'll be sent out there?"
Arian nodded. "Yes. The only difference will be her specialty. If she becomes a mage, she'll focus more on arcanum research and magic mastery. If she goes the knight's path, it'll be tactics, strategy, and direct combat—especially in unknown terrain."
They both fell into silence. The gentle flicker of the candle was the only sound in the quiet room. A mother's and father's hearts would always be heavy when facing decisions about their children's future.
"Alright," Elda finally whispered. "Then we give her the chance to choose."
Arian chuckled. "That's all we can really do as parents," he said, reaching for her hand.
Five years passed since that quiet night, when Arian and Elda first discussed their daughter's path. Time moved forward relentlessly, changing not only their family—but the world around them.
In the capital, the Rhysleonaria Magic Academy continued to produce some of the most promising talents. Elara, now ten years old, had grown rapidly. She was in her final year at the Leonhardt Primary Academy, where her knowledge had expanded, her magic had matured, and her grasp of tactics and combat had sharpened. She was no longer the little girl toying with flames in her palm—she was a gifted student, prepared for something far greater.
But she wasn't the only one who had grown.
At home, a small boy now ran through the halls of their residence. Arsy—five years old—was brimming with curiosity and energy. His eyes sparkled every time he heard stories of the outside world, of lands beyond Astralyth still shrouded in mystery. Even at his young age, something within him stirred—a quiet flame beginning to flicker.
One of Arsy's favorite places was his father's forge. From the moment he turned five, Arian had introduced him to the world of blacksmithing—a realm where raw metal became gleaming swords and resilient armor. The sharp clang of hammer on steel, the heat of the furnace, the smell of burning iron—these had all become part of Arsy's everyday life.
He would often sit in a corner of the workshop, watching his father work with wide-eyed fascination, mesmerized by how a chunk of raw ore could become a blade that gleamed in firelight.
Arian never forced him to follow in his footsteps. But he wanted Arsy to understand the craft that had defined their family for generations. Sometimes, Arsy was allowed to help carry materials or watch the forging process up close. His tiny hands weren't strong enough to wield the hammer, but he was starting to learn that behind every blade lay skill, patience, and devotion.
Arian and Elda knew their children were destined for something greater. They tried to give Arsy a childhood filled with laughter and joy—but deep down, they also knew: the world would come for him, sooner or later.
Just as it had for Elara.
Beyond the village, the winds of change were beginning to stir. Adventurers returning from the frontier brought whispers—of rediscovered islands, ancient ruins being unearthed, and creatures once thought to exist only in myth.
And far away, at the Rhysleonaria Magic Academy, Elara stood in the training courtyard, gazing toward the distant horizon. She knew that one day, the academy would call her forward to fulfill her destiny.
And perhaps—someday soon—Arsy would follow.
Gofdraig Forge
Midday, Ferrumday, 8th of Floralis, Year 1007
The Gofdraig Forge stood tall and sturdy, its stone walls and darkened wooden roof marked by years of smoke and flame. It was nearly the size of their house—and just as alive. Inside, the forge was divided into several key areas: the main smithing hall with a roaring hearth, a workbench cluttered with tools, wooden racks filled with unfinished swords and armor pieces, and a storage room stacked with raw materials—steel ingots and iron ore. In the back, a sealed equipment room held the best works ever crafted by Arian Gofdraig himself.
The forge sat in the heart of Leonhardt Village, right next to the adventurers' gear shop and the woodworkers' guild—a strategic spot for anyone seeking weapons, armor, or tools for surviving the wilds.
After his day at Leonhardt Primary Academy, young Arsy was tagging along with his father for a little "playtime" in the forge. As usual, he sat quietly in the corner, eyes wide with wonder, watching his father shape the glowing tip of a spear. The orange hue of the flames reflected in the boy's eyes.
"Hey, Dad!" Arsy called, tilting his head curiously. "Why do the weapons and armor you make... look so plain to me? Can't you make something cooler?"
Arian chuckled at his son's blunt honesty. "Oh yeah?" he laughed, lifting the spear he'd been working on. "I craft weapons for soldiers and adventurers, kiddo. They usually ask for things like this—simple, reliable, and strong."
Arsy nodded slowly. "I see…"
"But," Arian continued with a grin, motioning Arsy to come closer, "wanna see something way more exciting?"
Arsy's eyes lit up. "Yes!"
Leaning in, Arian whispered with a conspiratorial smile, "I once made something incredible. Come on, I'll show you…"
Before Arsy could reply, Arian had already taken his hand and led him toward the back of the forge—the equipment room where the greatest secret of Gofdraig Forge was kept.
"Ready?" Arian turned to his son, voice echoing in the forge filled with the rhythmic clinks of metalwork.
Arsy swallowed and nodded twice.
Arian grasped the handle of a heavy wooden door. A warning etched into its surface read: "Employees only. No unauthorized access." With a slow push, the door creaked open.
From the outside, the room had always radiated mystery. But when the door fully opened—it revealed something beyond Arsy's wildest dreams.
Lanterns of aeternium glowed from the walls, casting shimmering light across golden and silver surfaces. Weapons gleamed in neatly arranged displays. Each piece had a name—either etched into the blade or engraved onto the hilt in exquisite script.
There were swords with brilliant steel edges, axes with crescent-shaped blades, spears standing tall with polished points, bows engraved with ornate patterns, shields bearing ancient sigils, small knives that looked deceptively plain but deadly, and daggers with elegant curves—all organized with reverence.
Arsy froze, eyes wide in awe. "Woah…" he whispered.
Arian smiled. "This is the best of the best. Every piece here is something I forged with my own hands. And now… you get to see them. These are all Arcanum."
"Arcanum? What's that?" Arsy asked, still mesmerized.
Arian chuckled. "Right. You wouldn't know the word yet. Arcanum are magic tools. Anything created with the help of vis energy—we call that an Arcanum."
"Ooh…" Arsy murmured, his innocent curiosity blooming across his face.
Arian pointed to a black sword resting in its sheath, adorned with swirling flame and lightning motifs on its hilt. "That one's Glatenebris. Took me nearly a year to make it. I started sketching the design during the month of Velaris, forged it through Glacialis, and finally finished it in Umbralis—a month before you were born. Toughest build of my life," he laughed.
Arsy couldn't take his eyes off it. Slowly, instinctively, he reached for the hilt, his tiny hand trembling. For the first time in his life, Arsy fell in love.
He fell in love with a sword.
"Can I have it, Dad?" he asked without hesitation.
Arian burst into laughter. "You're way too small for that, Arsy! That sword's bigger than you." He ruffled his son's hair, grinning. "Maybe when you turn fifteen—it'll be yours."
Arsy frowned slightly, confused by the answer, but he nodded anyway. "Okay, Dad."
In his mind, though, he muttered, Dad doesn't make any sense…
Arian patted his shoulder. "Don't worry, Arsy. The time will come when you'll hold that blade with pride. But first, you've got to start with the basics. Want to learn?"
Arsy straightened up instantly. "Of course, Dad! I want to learn how to fight, how to forge… and how to be strong!"
Arian grinned wide. "Good. Then we begin your training tomorrow morning. I've got the day off."
Arsy jumped for joy. "Yay!" His eyes sparkled with excitement as he imagined himself wielding Glatenebris, cutting through the air like a hero from the stories.
A thousand scenarios danced in his mind—he was already starting to feel cool.
Leonhardt's Multicourt
Morning, Caeliday, 9th of Floralis, Year 1007
Behind the row of buildings where the Gofdraig Forge stood, a wide open field stretched across the village center—a place where the people of Leonhardt gathered to train, compete, and build strength together. The ground was firm, compacted by years of use, with some parts layered in soft sand—making it a perfect arena for physical training and sparring.
In the middle of the field stood Arsy, fists clenched at his sides. The sky above was partially clouded, though sunlight still broke through now and then, casting golden beams over the earth. A gentle breeze whispered through the oak and maple trees surrounding the field, their rustling leaves creating a calming rhythm of nature.
But Arsy and Arian were not alone.
On the far side of the court, a group of young soldiers trained with practiced strikes and precision footwork. A gray-haired veteran watched them closely, arms crossed, nodding in approval or barking corrections in a gravelly voice. Children ran around the perimeter, pausing now and then to watch Arsy's training session with wide-eyed curiosity.
Nearby, a few street vendors had parked their carts—offering warm bread and refreshing drinks for spectators and participants alike. The air carried the scent of honey, baked grain, and the earthy mix of sweat and sun-warmed soil.
Arsy wore a simple training outfit, slightly loose on his small frame to allow freedom of movement. In front of him, Arian stood tall with arms folded, scanning his son's posture with a sharp, assessing gaze. Every so often, he glanced up at the sky—reading the signs before they began.
"This training isn't just about strength," Arian said. "It's about endurance and instinct. We're starting with the most important foundation—balance and body control. And remember this, Arsy: in these early lessons, you're not allowed to use vis. You fight with your body alone."
Arsy nodded, though uncertainty clouded his thoughts. He wasn't entirely sure what was coming.
Arian picked up a wooden training sword and tossed it to his son. "Hold it properly. Not too stiff—but not too loose either. Feel the weight."
Arsy grasped the sword with both hands, adjusting his grip like he was told. But doubt crept in.
How do I hold it right? Am I supposed to resist its weight—or flow with it? What if I swing and fall off balance?
Without warning, Arian lunged and swung his wooden sword.
Startled, Arsy instinctively tried to block. The crack of wood-on-wood echoed across the field, his arms shuddering from the impact. He gasped, eyes wide. Even a wooden sword… felt heavy and hard to control.
"Don't panic!" Arian barked. "Focus on your opponent's motion. Don't just look at the swing—feel its direction!"
But Arsy's mind was spinning. How do I feel a swing? I don't even know how to read his movements! Am I just supposed to react? What if I mess up?
The training went on for hours. Arsy began to adapt to his father's rapid attacks—blocking, dodging, adjusting. His body ached, but his mind was even more exhausted. He analyzed every move, trying to keep up… yet frustration lingered.
"Alright," Arian said at last, lowering his sword. "Let's take a break."
Arsy smiled wearily, breath ragged, but determination still burned in his eyes. "I'll be faster. I'll be stronger. I'll be ready, Dad," he whispered, more to himself than anyone else.
Arian saw it—that flicker of fire. And he smiled. "We'll see. This is only the beginning, Arsy."
By the time they ended, the sun had tilted westward, painting the sky in hues of gold and orange. Shadows stretched long across the training ground. Arian raised a hand and gave the signal.
"That's enough for today," he said firmly. "We'll continue tomorrow."
He looked over and asked, "So, Arsy. What do you think? Fun?"
Arsy wiped sweat from his forehead, panting. But the grin on his face was impossible to hide. "That was awesome! I never knew sword training could be this fun!"
Arian nodded. "Good. But remember—swordsmanship isn't just about strength. It's about discipline and consistency. I won't always be here to train you, so you'll have to practice on your own. Think you can handle that?"
Arsy shook his head with a sharp, confident "No"—then added with a grin, "Because I'll train every day, even if you're not here!"
Arian laughed softly. "That's what I like to hear. Oh, and… I've got something to show you."
He reached over his shoulder and drew a sword from his back. Its blade shimmered under the evening light—icy blue and white, housed in a sheath engraved with delicate frost patterns. He held it up with one hand, then passed it to Arsy to observe more closely.
"This is Frostweaver—an Arcanum passed down from your grandfather. This isn't just a sword," Arian said with pride. "It holds immense power—a high-tier Arcanum."
Arsy, ever drawn to anything he thought was cool, stared in awe. Even though he had seen Arcanum before, Frostweaver was something else. Something special.
Arian, already recognizing the look in his son's eyes, smirked. "But this one's mine. You don't get to have it."
Arsy pouted, lips sticking out in dramatic disappointment. But before he could protest, Arian chuckled.
"Watch closely, Arsy."
With practiced ease, Arian raised Frostweaver and aimed it at a wooden training dummy reinforced with steel at the edge of the court. Vis energy pulsed through his palm, coursing down the blade as it began to glow with pale blue light.
"Cryo Magi…" he whispered.
The air turned cold. Arsy's breath came out in soft, visible mist.
Then, Arian shouted,
"Frostfang Crescent!"
The sword flared with power, wrapped in a swirling layer of frost. In a single slash, he unleashed a crescent wave of ice across the field. It struck the dummy—freezing it solid in a thick shell of crystal. The ground cracked with frost. The air stilled.
Silence fell across the field.
The young soldiers stopped mid-swing, eyes wide as they watched the aftermath. Some glanced at one another, as if to confirm they hadn't imagined it.
Even the village children froze in place. Whispers broke out.
"Did you see that?! That was ice magic!" one boy shouted in awe.
An older kid swallowed hard, his face caught between fear and respect.
The gray-haired instructor narrowed his eyes. He rubbed his chin and muttered, "Clean technique… raw power… just what I'd expect from Arian Gofdraig."
Arsy was stunned. His jaw hung slightly open. "That… that was amazing!" he exclaimed, stepping closer to inspect the frozen dummy.
Arian ruffled his hair. "This sword isn't just about raw strength. It requires control, strategy, and deep understanding of elemental flow. Starting today—you'll begin learning all of that."
Around them, murmurs rippled across the crowd.
Arian glanced at his son. "Ignore them, Arsy."
"I already am, Dad," Arsy replied, eyes still locked on the frozen sculpture.
"Good," said Arian. "From this day forward, there's a lot you'll need to learn. It won't be easy."
They packed up their gear and left the training ground as the sky deepened into dusk. By the time they returned home, night had fallen.
Elara greeted them at the door with a warm smile. From the kitchen, the aroma of Elda's cooking wafted through the house. At the dinner table, Arsy excitedly recounted his day, while Elara shared her own stories from her first year at Leonhardt's Secondary Academy.
That night, they shared food, stories, and laughter.
Incepto ne desistam.
May I not shrink from my purpose.