High above the wispy clouds and jagged mountains of Aeloria, a mangled body drifted through the world’s dark exosphere. The body belonged to a man of ethereal beauty, his face molded in the image of a god and his form sculpted to perfection.

  Vibrant gold tattoos ran beneath his skin, pulsing with steady light. The tattoos converged on his forehead, which bore the mark of a crown with ten crenellations. The crown’s spires seemed to flow across his skin into the roots of his disheveled, silver hair, creating ten golden locks that protruded vertically from his scalp.

  The only flaw in his celestial form was the countless bloody gashes carved across his skin. A gaping hole tore through his abdomen, exposing bone and inner organs.

  For a moment, his chest stilled. Then, with a groan, the man released a raspy cough, blood spilling from his mouth. He jerked awake, one eyelid lifting to reveal an empty, bloodied socket. His other ruby-colored eye was still intact, illuminated with celestial glyphs rotating in its cornea.

  Anger and pain flashed across his face, then hardened into something cold as he took in his surroundings. Floating in the expanse were the mangled bodies of ten gods, their colossal figures shifting in and out of real-space and void-space. Each celestial possessed a body the size of a moon, with their spiritual forms threatening to tear at the very essence of reality.

  Although the gods had their physical and spiritual bodies heavily injured beyond belief, they were very much still alive. He knew he would be outmatched once they regained their strength.

  He grunted, flexed stiff joints, and summoned ten transcendent weapons to his side. Each exuded divinity, and they began to quickly rotate around his body, their glow expanding with each revolution. The hole in his stomach was beginning to repair itself, but the man knew his body would not be able to withstand the melee to come.

  The gods stirred. Without hesitation, he charged into battle once more.

  Below the heavens, an endless war raged. Iridescent rifts in the sky had formed, blocking even the sun’s radiance. Out of these rifts poured numerous beings, each of indescribable horror.

  Opposite the ghastly swarms stood innumerable human legions. Each legionnaire was equipped with imposing, gold armor sculpted with intricate engravings. Runes circled their weapons, igniting their tools with various enchantments. With grim resolve, these legions charged into the horde of monsters, a single phrase reverberating from their throats: “Glory to the Empire!”

  As the monstrosities and legionaries clashed, the skies were once again engulfed in fire. The battle in the heavens had resumed. Battle raged for days on end. Peace vanished.

  The combatants no longer knew how much time had passed, and the fractured nature of their memories seemed to suggest anything from weeks to years.

  So when the war ended in a violent rupture of the heavens, along with the collapse of the countless foreign rifts that veiled the sky, the humans were confused. Had they won?

  But before they could indulge in their victory, an alien voice seemed to echo through the world.

  “Hey, ____. Wake up.”

  The world began to disintegrate. Reality resisted with a groan, attempting to fall back into its shattering illusion. But it was for naught. With a violent jolt, the sky fractured and the earth split.

  Soon, a teenage boy opened his eyes with a gasp as his body quickly shot up from his bed. Looking around, he saw a familiar face glancing at him with annoyance.

  “You're up. Get changed quickly. We’re late, Korrin.”

  With a sigh, the boy’s older brother turned around and left the room, leaving him alone with the fading remnants of the dream.

  The boy’s name was Korrin, meaning “lost one” or “the one without” in the local Karn dialect. This ominous name came from the fact that his parents had found him abandoned in a nearby forest when he was a child.

  Though Korrin was grateful his parents had raised him as their own, he wished they had been more careful when choosing his name; the stigma of being “lost” had followed him ever since.

  As Korrin rolled out of his bed, the area he called home came into view. It was a compact room with three beds and a central cabinet, wardrobes lining the opposite walls.

  On his side of the room, countless scrolls and books littered the floor. He had spent the night copying passages of ancient Ironhelm history, neglecting sleep entirely.

  Along with the usual clothes and trinkets, wooden swords and battered shields could be seen hanging from the walls. Korrin sighed as he looked at his own; he never made any fond memories when wielding a sword.

  Rushing to his wardrobe, he hurriedly threw on some of his most formal clothes, carefully wiping any dust or imperfections that had settled on the garments.

  The outfit he chose was a clean, well-fitted charcoal tunic that layered over a pale linen undershirt. Paired with it were dark, straight-cut trousers reinforced at the knees. On his shoulders, a short ash-gray wool cloak, fastened with a simple iron pin, rested, bearing an anvil mark.

  Subtle ink blotches stained the edges of his sleeves, but he made sure to hide them.

  Moving over to his mirror, he attempted to beat his hair flat. However, his short, ashen brown hair betrayed him, curling upwards throughout his scalp and fraying at the ends. His father was going to kill him.

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  Dejectedly, he looked into the mirror that reflected his grey-tinted eyes. What stood in his reflection was a standard frame of average height and build, a fact that set him apart from the other villagers. Unlike the hulking, dense-muscled Ironclads, the lean and lithe Bladesingers, or the short, stout Forgekin, Korrin lacked the defining physical traits needed to fit neatly into a single racial category.

  The village, including his own parents, had instead opted to consider him a racially defective Bladesinger, as that was the only race he remotely resembled.

  As he finished the last of his touches, Korrin grabbed his sword and secured it into the leather straps of his belt before leaving the room to meet his brother.

  As he ran through his kitchen, he saw his mother cooking stew in a small cauldron, the sweet smell wafting through the air. As she worked, her hand glowed faintly as energy transferred from her body into the stew. His father must have already left for the mines.

  Raising her head, she gave Korrin a slight smile and a wave.

  “Congratulations, Korry! Have a good day at the ceremony. Tell Rikka I’m happy for her too!”

  Korrin nodded and reached the entrance door where his brother was waiting.

  Leaning against the doorway was a tall, pale Bladesinger with narrow features and metallic-flecked eyes that watched the room with cool precision. His lean frame was held in effortless balance, long fingers resting near his blade.

  Korrin’s brother was named Vaelin, meaning “rough winds,” yet Vaelin was anything but rough. He was cold and precise, and Korrin knew there was little that could move Vaelin’s indifference.

  Some time ago, Korrin had stopped calling Vaelin “brother,” instead preferring to call him by his name alone.

  “Three minutes late. Follow me quickly. I’ll leave you behind if I must.”

  Vaelin’s words struck harder than they should have, but he knew he couldn’t fight back. The reason they were late in the first place was because of Korrin’s negligence.

  And then they were off. Jogging through the village, the two brothers gracefully moved through the village trails and structures—or at least Vaelin did. Because of Korrin’s Because of his awkward build, he wasn’t able to keep the steady pace of his brother, struggling to follow Vaelin’s agile motions.

  Finally, they reached the village square, which was remarkably bustling today. Throughout the square, other children of Korrin’s age were gathered in front of a rotunda, their family members and bystanders watching from afar.

  Quickly glancing around, he saw a familiar face in the cluster of children and quietly took his place next to her.

  “Korrin? Thank goodness. I thought you were going to miss this,” the girl said, a look of relief washing across her face.

  “I woke up a little late today,” replied Korrin sheepishly. “Anyway, my mother wanted to say congratulations.”

  “How sweet of her! I’ll have to get more of those silverbloom she loves so much. By the way—”

  However, before she could finish her sentence, a large horn blew through the crowd, and a figure emerged from behind the pillars jutting out of the rotunda’s stone base.

  The crowd fell silent as the figure, a towering Ironclad easily exceeding six and a half feet, stepped fully into view. Broad shoulders and thick, iron-gray skin caught the sunlight, faint metallic flecks glinting along his forearms and jaw, while his slate-gray eyes scanned the square with a calm, unyielding authority.

  Korrin knew of him well. Haldrek Vorn was the official Hammer-Chief of Hearthglen, Korrin’s home village, officially appointed by and representing the region’s Sub-Warden.

  Korrin had only ever seen him from a distance, giving speeches and assigning duties, so he had never felt the authoritative pressure that Haldrek exuded until now.

  Briefly clearing his throat, Haldrek looked at the youth in front of him and boomed, “Children of Hearthglen! Today, you stand before your village for the annual coming-of-age ceremony. For sixteen years, you have endured the trials of training, proving your strength, discipline, and readiness. Now, you step forward to claim your place and your duty—let your actions honor your family and our village!”

  He paused. The audience cheered.

  “I now call forward the fledgling warrior who, at the age of eighteen, has already achieved resonance! It is he who will lead these younglings through the Rite of Steel and guide them into adulthood!”

  Korrin swallowed. Dread suddenly engulfed his heart, his breath trembling.

  “Let all bear witness to his ascent: Vaelin!”

  The crowd erupted into thunderous applause as Vaelin ascended the stone steps. But as Vaelin walked to the center of the platform and bowed toward Haldrek, Korrin only had one word echoing throughout his head.

  ‘Fuck.’

  Once the opening preambles were said and Vaelin was sworn in, Haldrek began the ceremony. One by one, the children were called onto the stage.

  Vaelin would start the rite by giving a short sermon and blessing the children with mana. Finally, they would kneel in front of Haldrek and offer him their swords, which he would take with his right hand and use to tap both their shoulders before commanding them to stand.

  It was at this moment that the most important moment of the ceremony occurred. One would stand before their sword and swear on their honor to dedicate their life to a path.

  While most chose to pursue mining or farming as their future career, those destined for honorable and glorious lives—like his brother—chose to become warriors or guards.

  “...you may now be seated. Now I call forth Rikka! Bear witness to her ascent!” roared Haldrek as he motioned for the young girl.

  With resolve in her eyes, Rikka walked forward from the cluster and ascended the stone steps. Her beautiful, lithe Bladesinger frame scaled the platform fluidly as she strided, her silver-streaked hair catching the sunlight. Korrin swore he heard a boy next to him whistle.

  Moments later, she stood before Haldrek, her sword in his right hand.

  “Rikka of Hearthglen, do you swear on your honor to dedicate your life to the path you have chosen, to serve with courage, skill, and unwavering loyalty?”

  “I do.”

  “Then gaze toward the village with pride! Proclaim your path!”

  “I choose… the path of the sword!”

  The audience fell silent—then erupted into cheers. Indeed, it was the most obvious path for her.

  As the highest-scoring student in the village combat assessment, she was thought to have exceptional skill. Her mana manipulation had reached borderline resonance, meaning she had the potential to reach the same level as his brother, Vaelin.

  He watched her, equal parts pride and dread tightening in his chest. Rikka secretly peered at him and winked, leading Korrin to groan internally as he waved back. He knew Rikka would be bragging about this for the next month.

  “Rikka, you may now be seated. Now I call forth Korrin! Bear witness to his ascent!”

  ‘Let’s do this,’ Korrin thought, his grip tightening on his sword's hilt. Though he knew it was coming, the announcement still weighed on him. With a deep breath, he pushed through the crowd and climbed the stone platform.