"To change the storm, you do not chase the wind. You bury a seed before the clouds remember."
— The First Whisperer
A young man with platinum-golden hair and golden eyes moved across the cold wilderness. He wore flowing white robes over a black shirt that was barely visible beneath it, alongside white pants that matched the snowy landscape.
His face was one of tranquility—even as he walked toward certain death.
"How far is it, Garren?" Nyr asked softly.
Garren walked beside him—a half-giant with broad shoulders and brown hair that matched his eyes.
In his hand was a colorful drawing of a snow-covered mountain. Behind it, the sun hung low—either rising or falling. It was hard to tell.
They moved carefully through the Frozen Forest—a mid-grade territory ruled by a Rank 4 monster.
Neither of them was strong enough to face a Rank 3. And a Rank 4? They didn't even dare to think about it. What if thinking made it real?
"If that old man wasn't lying—and those paintings are real," Garren said as he pointed toward the distant mountain, "Then that's The Wishspire."
Nyr stepped closer and studied the painting—then looked up at the distant peak. Then he spoke with an amused tone,
"That sketch looks old—but not as much as the ancient old man himself. And how has the landscape stayed unchanged all this time?"
"Don't make fun of the elderly," Garren said with a knowing smile as he lightly tapped Nyr's head. "Isn't that a good thing for you? Makes it more likely to be mystical."
Nyr rubbed part of his head and looked at Garren with a hint of resentment, but soon he had a sad smile on his face as he looked toward the mountain.
He took a slow breath to steady himself and asked with curiosity in his voice, "So… did the gods come down from that mountain?"
Garren shrugged. "Probably—if you believe in the myths."
Nyr chuckled. "If gods even exist—right?"
Garren smirked. "Who knows? Might just be a Bloomspire."
Nyr shook his head, and a bittersweet smile slowly formed. "It might be…"
'But I hope not,' he thought. 'If it is, wouldn't that make everything I've done so far pointless?'
Bloomspires were trials given by the Spirit System — brutal challenges for those seeking to ascend. If completed, then your rise would be massive—but if you failed, you'd have to start from the beginning… if you were still alive, then.
If the mountain ahead was just another Bloomspire, then everything he'd done for months might have been meaningless.
Nyr spoke softly, his voice carried away by the wind. "Wishspire."
He recalled the old myths that floated through Thyrm's Reach.
The Myth of Sereryn was well known in the Mystic Realm, told and retold in countless variations—each shaped by the voices and lands that carried it.
One version lingered in the snowy corners of Thyrm's Reach, passed from elder to child like a warm glow in the cold.
When the gods first descended into the mortal realm, they came in the form of hope through one of the great peaks hidden deep within The Frozen Forest. Mountains that are now called the Evercold.
Back then, the forest wasn't frozen. But when the gods' gaze, heavy with compassion, fell upon it, the warmth vanished. The land was transformed by divine sorrow. The nameless peaks were reborn as the Evercold Mountains.
Over time, the mountains became more than a legend. It became a trial—a test left behind by the gods.
Those brave enough to climb it and pass the trial were said to be granted a single wish by the gods themselves.
And therefore, it was named The Wishspire.
Many had tried to scale it, lured by dreams of answers, glory, or divine favor. None returned.
The legend faded. The name became a whisper—buried in old songs and snowbound silence.
Hope, much like the path itself was consumed by the snow and the silence.
But after months of searching, Nyr and Garren had done what few dared even imagine.
With the help of a reclusive old man—one of the last living keepers of the old stories—they had found its hidden location.
Now, with the ancient drawing in hand and the Evercold rising before them, the legend no longer felt like a myth.
It felt real.
They moved toward the mountain as the air grew colder and the fog thickened. The chill bit into Nyr's skin; his leg and hand had already gone numb.
Nyr stopped and drew his steel sword from the scabbard—unremarkable yet reliable. He also checked the small knife hidden in his pants around his thigh, then the enchanted bag slung across his back.
His eyes dropped to his boots—one of the laces had come loose, trailing in the frozen blanket. With a small sigh, he bent down to tuck it in; he'd never been great at tying them.
Before he could start, Garren knelt beside him and tightened the laces. His hands didn't shake like Nyr's since he was stronger, and as a half-giant, he was far more resistant to the cold.
"Someone can't even tie their boots and wants to climb the Wishspire?" Garren said, shaking his head as he stood.
Nyr coughed lightly and looked away.
"So be it."
They walked in silence, the only sound their light footsteps on the snow.
The giant trees of the Frozen Forest thinned as the slope grew steeper, and soon the mountain stood close before them. Nyr stopped, and his eyes followed Garren, and both of them looked at the mountain—The Wishspire closely.
The mountain loomed like a frozen monolith, its steep slopes buried beneath thick white snow.
Here and there, dark stone rose through the white, streaked with ice that shimmered faintly beneath the pale sky.
Narrow trail spiraled upward. It was barely visible, yet it matched the one in the paintings exactly—as if time had never touched it.
The summit was lost in the clouds, taking away any certainty of what lay above.
Nyr glanced at Garren, his voice calm yet resolute. "You should head back, Garren."
Garren frowned. "I can wait—"
"No," Nyr cut him off, his tone sharper than before. "You can't. How can you be sure I'll come back?"
Garren hesitated, his voice quieter. "I… believe you will."
Nyr shook his head. "No one's ever returned from this mountain. Most don't even try anymore."
He looked toward the frozen path, then back at Garren. "And even if I do return… who knows when? A month? A year? Longer?"
Silence stretched between them.
"So go," Nyr said quietly. "While you still can."
Garren took a breath and spoke, avoiding his eyes. "I'm just paying the debt I owe you."
"You've already paid it," Nyr said. "You found the paintings. You brought me here. That was more than enough."
His eyes softened. "That was your duty… as a friend."
Then, more firmly: "Now go. Fulfill your duty—as a father, and as a husband."
He let the silence settle.
"Think about your wife. Your son."
Garren muttered, his voice rough. "Fine, fine. I'll walk you to the base. But that's it."
They pressed on, the mountain becoming larger with each step, its shadow stretching long over the snow.
Then, without warning, Nyr stopped and turned. He pulled Garren into a brief and light hug.
"Thank you… for everything," he said softly.
Garren grunted, caught off guard, but didn't pull away. It was the first time Nyr had ever initiated touch.
"Don't start with that," he muttered. "Just come back alive."
After a pause, he added, "Nyr… if you turn back now, no one will blame you. We're all afraid of death."
Nyr didn't respond. His silence wasn't stubbornness, nor pride. It was grief—too sharp for speech.
He hadn't come to the mountain to gain anything. He came seeking a wish—to lose something. Perhaps… even himself.
The snow continued to fall.
Nyr offered a faint smile before turning and pressing on—now alone—toward the slope where the Trial awaited.
Garren remained rooted in place as he watched Nyr's figure disappear into the freezing mist. He exhaled slowly as his eyes fixed on the mountain's peak.
A torn piece of red cloth fluttered in the winter wind like a war flag. Maybe a warning or perhaps an offering.
Somewhere far away in the forest, a wolf howled—sharp and sudden—then silence reclaimed the air.
Nyr didn't glance behind.
He paused at the mountain's base. The air around him glowed—then shifted. The rocks and ice around Nyr began to shimmer like gold.
Jagged peaks reshaped themselves into large branches stretching toward the sky. From those branches, translucent leaves unfolded, each emitting a soft glow that lit patches of snow.
The bark, once cold and lifeless, now radiated steady warmth. Golden lines moved across it, forming slow, spiraling patterns—six full circles, and the last only half complete.
At the tree's base, the rising ground pulsed with a quiet rhythm. Thick golden roots twisted outward, coiling around a silver portal embedded in the earth.
The portal rippled faintly, reflecting falling snow and the golden glow of the tree.
Nyr stood still, watching. The sight was beautiful, yet strange—like something that didn't belong to this era.
He didn't speak. He just took a breath, then stepped toward the portal.
The blessings had long since turned into curses—and so must he.
In the stillness that followed, Nyr made a quiet promise: to face what waited ahead… or vanish into the cold.
Garren stood alone at the base, staring at the place where Nyr had stood. The stillness felt heavy—old, cold, and as deep as the mountain itself.
For a moment, his eyes shifted dark red, and within them—a brief glint, like a stone polished by time. Then it vanished, and he was just Garren again.
He knelt and spoke softly:
"O Great Giant Thyrm, guardian of these lands,
Watch over Nyr. Keep him safe through the storm.
And bring him back to us."
He bowed his head, then rose without hesitation. Turning from the mountain, he began the long walk down.
"Good luck, Nyr," he murmured.
Beyond the mortal layer—distant, yet real—something ancient stirred.
[Radiant Star! Welcome to the Wishspire.]
[Prepare yourself for the Trial.]