Excerpt from the Anonymous Revelation, archived at the Forgotten Sanctuary.

  When the final hand of the ancient clock strikes the 999th year of the Seventh Age,

  The Gate, sealed with Blood and Will, shall creak open on its own.

  From the earth, long-lost remnants will rise with a dirge,

  In the sky, no dawn shall come—only a Great One shall appear from the void.

  Every living thing shall feel a heartbeat not its own,

  And on the flesh of the living, the seeds of the dead shall sprout.

  Flesh shall fall from the sky, blood shall surge from the ground.

  The Keeper of Flame will freeze. The Guardian of Ice will burn.

  The sun and moon shall reunite once more,

  A lone pearl drifting in the endless dark,

  And then... the world will not be torn apart by screaming,

  But will fall silent, like a child who will never wake.

  06/01/933 – Seventh Age

  The sun had yet to rise, but the darkness outside the barracks was already thinning. From the training ground came the heavy clang of metal striking wood. A tall man stepped inside, his boots struck the hard ground with a firm thud. He walked directly toward a young man relentlessly stabbing a battered training dummy.

  “Henry, give the poor dummy a break. It’s utterly broken,” the man said, his voice a mixture of sternness and wry humor.

  “Morning, Captain. It broke early because I’ve improved. Just forty more strikes and I’m done,” Henry replied, panting slightly, a proud grin on his face.

  “Care for a quick spar to stretch out a bit?” the man offered, his tone playfully challenging.

  “Gladly. Fifteen minutes, then,” Henry answered, eyes gleaming.

  After finishing his stabbing drill, Henry sat down to rest. His body drenched in sweat, breath heaving. Yet within minutes, he calmed, and a faint steam-like mist rose from his sweat-soaked skin.

  Captain Jacobs, a brawny, rough-edged man with a sharp mind and a biting wit, stood nearby. Exactly fifteen minutes later, he grabbed an iron sword and stepped into the training yard.

  “Let’s get started, shall we?” Jacobs said in his gravelly voice.

  Henry nodded, lowering his stance, gripping his sword tightly with the blade at eye level, eyes locked on his opponent.

  “Let’s see if I don’t beat you into taking a week off,” Jacobs chuckled as he moved into his guard stance.

  The training ground fell dead silent. Only the whisper of the wind stirred, rustling the dry leaves. In a flash, Henry lunged forward like a predator, thrusting with blinding speed.

  Despite his size, Jacobs reacted instantly. A quick backward step gave him space, dodging the powerful thrust. As Henry’s momentum slowed, Jacobs struck back with a powerful, enchantment-enhanced slash—his blade gleaming with a silver flash.

  Unfazed, Henry activated his own enchantment, blocking the devastating blow with his sword.

  CLANG! The metal-on-metal clash rang out. Henry dropped to one knee under the weight of the strike but held his ground. Before he could recover his stance, Jacobs followed with a knee strike straight to the face.

  Henry managed to block with both elbows. The blow wasn’t fatal, but it launched him over five meters away.

  Jacobs didn’t let up. He charged and brought his sword down in a vicious arc.

  This time, Henry was ready. He angled his blade, parrying the downward strike. Then, spinning around, he countered with a slash aimed at Jacobs’s side.

  THUD! Henry was once again thrown back over five meters—not by a sword, but by Jacobs’s fist slamming into his face mid-counter. A superficial wound opened on Jacobs’s side, but the punch had been enough to send Henry flying and protect himself.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  “Don’t overextend like that. Every strike you make leaves you wide open,” Jacobs reminded him.

  “Guess I’ve taken too many hits to learn better,” Henry replied with a bloodied smile.

  “Want a few more to help you remember?” Jacobs smirked, sword raised.

  The early morning air filled with the sound of steel and laughter as the two resumed sparring.

  At six o’clock sharp, the church bell rang. Jacobs stood tall, resting his broken sword across his shoulders. Henry, still in stance, held his battered weapon forward.

  “That’s enough for today. Can’t believe you held out again—broke my damn sword too,” Jacobs muttered, a hint of amusement in his tone.

  “These fifteen minutes always feel like the longest part of the week,” Henry groaned, collapsing onto the hard ground, dropping his cracked sword, exhausted but smiling.

  “You’re nuts, kid. Strength training, sword drills, then missions, then more night shifts. Don’t get cocky just ‘cause you’re young,” Jacobs chuckled.

  Henry didn’t reply. He simply picked up the sword and tossed it at Jacobs.

  After the match, they changed clothes and geared up. Breakfast was standard fare: bread, chicken stew, and potatoes—high energy, low flavor.

  Jacobs joined his friends, while Henry helped himself to an oversized portion.

  “Still eating double? Doesn't this get old?” Torsan, the youngest, asked, eyes wide.

  “Dry bread and stew’s fine. I could eat it for decades,” Henry muttered, his gaze fixed on his food. And strangely, he was dead serious.

  “Eight years of that kind of training and you still go hard. You deserve a medal for that,” Daniel praised.

  “You’re a mage, Daniel. If you ate like me, you'd blow up,” Henry grinned.

  “I’m doing strength training too, and I still can’t eat that much,” said Lumos, a hulking young man who seemed like a younger version of Jacobs.

  “None of you are working day and night like Henry. The kid needs fuel, not flavor,” Jacobs laughed.

  The group chuckled, teasing Henry as he continued his battle with his mountain of food.

  By seven, Henry and his breakfast companions stepped out toward the gates. A moment later, two girls in uniform approached.

  “Over here, Sophia, Melly!” Torsan waved.

  Melly had bright red shoulder-length hair and a fiery glint in her eyes. Sophia was more reserved, her brown hair neatly tied back, her gaze warm and thoughtful.

  “With the whole team gathered, this must be a big mission?” Melly chirped.

  “Captain says D-rank, or worse,” Daniel replied calmly.

  “For seven of us, even a D-rank is pushing it. Anything worse is just asking for death,” Henry said, half-joking.

  “Maybe it’ll just be a patrol?” Torsan asked hopefully.

  “No chance, kid. The Captain's on edge. He's gunning for promotions,” Lumos knocked Torsan’s head gently.

  “It’s Friday, right? So Henry, did you survive your usual fifteen-minute death match?” Sophia asked, with a tilt of her head.

  “Survived—with minor fractures, internal bruising, nearly a broken neck, and a cracked jaw. Otherwise, all good,” Henry smiled grimly, blood still oozing.

  “Fighting a higher-ranked officer and lasting that long? Not bad at all,” Daniel noted.

  “Torsan, think you could do that?” Melly challenged, eyes gleaming.

  “Over 500 soldiers here and only Henry’s mad enough for weekly death matches. No way,” Torsan shook his head.

  “Listen, kid. I challenged the Captain three times. Spent over two months in the infirmary. That guy never holds back,” Lumos said.

  “He’s a different breed. Not everyone’s got that kind of crazy,” Sophia smiled.

  The group shared a laugh until Jacobs finally showed up, his expression serious.

  “Over twenty scout missions have been posted. Three-quarters are missing persons cases. Two to seven people per case. That’s over sixty disappearances in a few days,” he reported.

  “I’ve picked a D-rank recon mission nearby. Good leads, should be doable,” Jacobs said grimly.

  In addition to rank-based power levels, missions were graded from F to S based on danger. F and E were minor crimes or beast exterminations. A-rank missions could destroy small nations. S-rank, entire empires.

  Everyone breathed a little easier. Recent missions had grown increasingly dangerous. Zephyros was facing an unprecedented crisis—external threats, internal uprisings, black guilds, and anomalies were straining the army to its breaking point.

  “We’ll head to the supply depot, stock up on extra gear. Gather back here in fifteen minutes,” Jacobs ordered, his tone sharp, commanding.

  Though Jacobs usually joked around, when push came to shove, he was all business—an elite Rank 3 leader, a blend of power, experience, and intellect.