The classroom shimmered like a pocket of dawn trapped in crystal.
Not because of some enchantment—though the glass walls were layered with runes that glowed faintly when emotions spiked—but because of the fairy floating gently at the head of the amphitheater.
Professor Aeval.
Her copper-gold hair rippled like liquid starlight, catching every beam of morning sun and scattering it across the class like glittering confetti.
No wings today; she didn't need them to command attention.
Her outfit was a living ensemble of crystallized aetherglass threads—an asymmetrical cascade of deep teal and glowing lilac that fluttered without wind.
One sleeve trailed past her fingertips like a comet's tail, while the other arm remained bare, revealing constellations of tiny gemstones that pulsed in time with her mana.
Her boots were midnight black, sharp-heeled, with violet runes etched into the soles—runework that left ghostly traces of light when she walked, like a star chart painted into the floor.
"Class," she began, voice calm but crystalline, like wind chimes catching meaning, "today we speak not of spells or swordplay, but of evolution."
She twirled slowly mid-air, trailing one glowing hand across the surface of a projected rune-circle, and the lecture room dimmed.
Seven points of light pulsed into existence behind her—hovering orbs, each glowing with different hues.
"Your class is not static," she continued. "It is not a badge. It is a seed. And like all seeds, it must be broken to grow."
Her eyes, sharp and warm all at once, swept across the young faces before her.
"We call the earliest stage of power Initiation. This is where most of you are now. In the First Realm."
A single orb—soft white—glowed brighter behind her.
"In this realm, you are known as Initiates. Simple. Crude, even. Your class grants abilities—yes—but they are rigid.
You are wielding potential. Not becoming it."
She gestured, and the next orb flared to life—a deep green.
"The Second Realm begins once your class fuses with your will.
We call these Pathwalkers. In this realm, your class starts to reflect your choices, your instincts.
You may unlock a variant path—or discover that your class was only the surface of a deeper root."
Professor Aeval's voice took on a lilt now, and her fingers danced as the third orb pulsed red.
"In the Third Realm, one becomes a Classborne. This is where the raw edges of power begin to smooth.
Your body changes. Your mana shifts. Skills become conceptual, not just learned."
"And beyond that?" asked a voice from the tiered seats—hesitant, wide-eyed.
Aeval smiled, slow and knowing.
"The Fourth Realm births the Ascendants. Those who carry power not just in their blood, but in their presence.
You've seen them, I'm sure. When they enter a room, the air remembers."
The next orb turned a deep cobalt blue, glowing like a frozen flame.
"Then comes the Fifth Realm. Where I reside."
She turned slightly, golden hair cascading down her back like a banner, and the orb flared violet behind her.
"In this realm, we are called Verdicts."
A hush fell over the class.
She let it linger before explaining.
"Because by now… your class is not a path you walk. It is a law you impose. You are no longer bound to what your class can do—you are what defines what it can be."
Then she raised one hand—and light shattered around her.
From her palm, a massive fractal structure bloomed—spinning, crystalline, delicate, terrifying. A storm of prisms locked in perfect orbit. Her core—fully revealed.
"I am Crystallo," she said softly. "An evolute class born from the Elementalist path.
In the early realms, I controlled crystals. Shards. Armor. Shaped barriers."
The fragments spun faster—hard-edged mirrors flashing visions of memory: a dome of crystal shielding students from a lava burst; razor-laced petals slicing through a wyvern; a spear blooming from her chest like frozen vengeance.
"But when I entered the Fourth Realm, Crystallo became more."
She flicked her fingers—and the shards fused into a perfect floating sphere.
"I stopped summoning crystals… and began rewriting physical law through them. Crystals became my domain, and domain became doctrine."
She clapped her hands softly, and the sphere vanished, the class breathing again as the pressure lifted.
"Now, as a Verdict, I no longer use crystal. I am crystal. Every spell. Every movement. Every breath. My mana lattice no longer conforms to human spellwork. It warps it."
Someone whispered something like woah.
Aeval's expression turned faintly amused. "There are still two realms beyond mine," she said.
She let the final two orbs hover at the edge of vision—one pulsing gold, the other obsidian and silent.
Professor Aeval's voice dropped to a note more hushed—reverent, even.
"The Sixth Realm," she repeated, letting the term resonate, "are the Mythkin.
The idea of a fixed class no longer applies to them.
They bend their class boundaries, merge incompatible archetypes, rewrite entire skill trees with instinct alone."
She floated higher, her hair glowing softly like dawn trapped in copper.
"They do not level up anymore. They adapt, constantly. Sometimes violently.
A Mythkin can undo an enemy's class mid-battle. Break the rules written in their soul. Replace their powers with their own."
A stunned silence fell over the class.
"But even they," she said, drawing the last floating orb—dark gold now—closer, "are bound by certain laws.
The Seventh Realm is different."
She didn't say its name immediately.
She let the tension stretch.
Then:
"The Paragons."
The word felt heavier than the room it was spoken in.
"Beings who do not walk within power… but as it.
Their bodies, minds, and souls are no longer distinct from their abilities. Their class is no longer a tool. It is a truth.
A Paragon doesn't cast spells. They are spells. Every step they take ripples through the fabric of reality."
She turned her hand, and the air around her shimmered—then warped, like gravity itself had bowed in deference.
"Reality shifts around them," she said softly. "When they awaken, the world must adjust. Mountains have moved.
Time has cracked. Kingdoms have fallen just from their arrival."
Gasps rippled through the class. A few students stared in awe, slack-jawed.
"No Paragon walks among the public. Most would never dare to appear in a city… because the strain of simply existing at that level can break the minds of lesser beings."
A raised hand from the front row. A young elf girl with trembling fingers.
"So… there are people alive who've reached that stage?"
Aeval turned her gaze slowly toward her.
"Yes," she said. "But only a handful. Less than ten in the known world.
Most have vanished into seclusion, into the folds between realms… or into wars the public never hears of.
Their very presence is a variable too dangerous to risk lightly."
Someone whispered a whoa under their breath. Another clutched his pen like it was a prayer stick.
Most of the class looked stunned.
Some inspired.
A few terrified.
But then—
Just when it seemed like the Seventh Realm was the final thread in the loom of power—
Professor Aeval's voice cut through their awe like a silver bell.
"There is… one more stage."
The lights dimmed again—automatically this time, as if the room itself understood what was coming.
The orbs all dimmed except one.
The very last. An orb that hadn't been visible until now—floating far behind her. Small. Pale. Faintly veiled in mist.
"The final evolution," she whispered, "is not counted among the seven realms."
Students leaned forward in unison.
"It is known only as The Veiled Ascension."
Not a whisper now. Just silence.
Aeval's expression turned unreadable—something between memory and mourning.
"No one knows its rules. No one knows its cost. No skill can trace it. No realm can reach it. It is not evolution. It is… departure."
Her voice lowered further.
"The last recorded being to reach this stage lived over two centuries ago.
A wandering monk. Name redacted in all records. History doesn't remember him—but the world still bears the scar."
Someone exhaled shakily.
"But no one from this era has reached it. Not a single one.
The Seventh Realm is where even legends stall.
And even that realm… only a handful of people in this generation have achieved it. Perhaps four, perhaps five."
The veil-orb shimmered once, dimmer than the others—but impossibly deep.
She turned slowly in the air, now fully facing the class again.
"Each realm," she continued, "is divided into three thresholds—called Tiers of Awakening."
With a flick, floating script hovered in front of the class:
Tier I — Manifest
Tier II — Embrace
Tier III — Transcend
"Until all three are mastered… you cannot ascend to the next realm.
It is not just power—it is understanding. Selfhood. Purpose."
And even as she spoke, her gaze flicked—more than once—to the back row.
To the boy sitting a little too still.
Eden.
His hood cast just enough shadow over his eyes. His arms were crossed loosely. His body relaxed to the point of disinterest.
A few students had noticed.
Most hadn't.
But Professor Aeval, with her crystalline perception… had.
Because Eden Prairie was asleep.
Not obviously. Not disrespectfully. His breathing was even, his pulse steady.
But his eyelids were just barely too still for a boy supposedly "listening."
His posture too intentional. A perfect micro-nap, masked beneath the guise of stillness.
Aeval didn't call it out. Didn't even stop her lecture.
But her lips twitched faintly.
And then—the chime sounded.
A cool, crystalline note that hummed through the domed ceiling. The end-of-period bell.
"Class dismissed," she said, already descending toward her desk, robes trailing light like comet tails.
"But next time," she added, just as the students were starting to shuffle, "we'll discuss Class Fragmentation—how certain bloodlines, trauma, or divine interference can break or mutate your class entirely."
Half the class froze mid-step. Murmurs rose like wind.
"Also," she added without looking up, "for those of you sleeping through greatness…"
A long pause.
"…you might want to be awake for that one."
The class went dead silent for a second.
Then scattered.
—
{She meant you, by the way.}
'Really?' I said without looking up, tugging the edge of my hoodie down as I blended into the mass of students pouring into the corridor.
'What gave it away? The emphasis? The thinly veiled disappointment?
Or the psychic glare she kept sending my way every ten seconds?'
{You were asleep.}
'I was... resting my awareness.'
{With your mouth slightly open and your chin on your chest? Revolutionary technique, really.}
I shrugged, hands buried in my pockets.
"Not like the lecture was for me anyway. I don't have a class, remember?
I'm not in any Realm, I'm just…" I gestured vaguely, "…existing. Spectator mode."
{Still. That stuff about The Veiled Ascension was interesting. You sure no one made it there in the game?}
I blew out a breath, fogging the cold air.
"It's like I've said fifty times, Echo—I never finished Eternal Realms.
I didn't even make it past Arc 6. The closest I ever saw were a few main characters brushing the Seventh Realm.
One even broke into it. And still got his spine turned into modern sculpture by the final boss."
{Charming.}
"Point is," I muttered, stepping around a clump of overly enthusiastic second-years, "even at the peak of their journey—those top-tier characters, with all the artifacts, followers, awakened classes, mythical companions—"
{—They still got wrecked.}
"Exactly. Which means either the game devs were sadists… or this world doesn't want winners."
A breeze cut through the hallway. Not magical. Just... cold.
I hunched a little deeper into the hoodie draped over my Silver Mist uniform.
Technically against dress code. But when it's snowing in the middle of freakin' June, dress codes can kiss my ass.
"How is it snowing right now?" I muttered, tugging the drawstrings tighter.
"It's summer. It was sunny literally yesterday. What kind of godforsaken climate system are we living under?"
{Silver Mist exists in a region where the Leylines intersect with multiple weather nodes. Meaning: nature has no rules here.}
"Oh good. Chaos weather. Can't wait to see fire rain next week."
{Already happened. Three years ago. Burned a third of the alchemy labs.}
"Perfect."
I didn't realize how far I'd walked until the crowd started thinning out.
Most students turned toward the training floors or cafeteria. I took the left fork toward the quieter upper halls.
Somehow—whether by luck, divine grace, or the unholy whim of whatever ruled this reality—I hadn't seen Cassia all morning.
No mischievous giggles from the shadows. No blood-slick notes slipped into my pockets.
No ambush hugs that ended in mild violence.
She was… absent.
Or at least distracted.
Good.
I had enough going on without adding "deranged vampire girl possibly plotting a wedding/murder combo" to the list.
I exhaled through my nose. A quiet moment. Finally.
I was just about to round the next corner—
"Eden."
I stopped dead.
There, blocking the hallway like she'd been waiting, stood Sylvara.
She didn't look tired. Or angry. Or annoyed.
Just… determined.
Those silver-green eyes pinned me with quiet intensity, and her arms were folded like she was holding something in.
"We need to talk."
I blinked.
"…Of course we do."