In the annals of history, wars were not merely conflicts fought for land or power, but cyclical eruptions of human (and non-human) folly. They were a testament to a deep-seated philosophical paradox: the desire for peace, ironically, being the most potent catalyst for violence. Each great war, a cacophony of ambition and despair, was waged in the name of a righteous end, only to beget the next, a seemingly endless chain reaction that threatened to fray the very fabric of existence. For a time, it seemed hope itself was a fool's errand.
But then came the Resistance. Not a military force, but a collective of four extraordinary individuals, each a leader of their respective species: the Beastkin, the Humankind, the Elfkin, and the Spiritkin. They stood together not as soldiers, but as architects of a new kind of peace—a peace forged not through conquest, but through a profound understanding of magic itself. They were masters of both Spirit Art and conventional magic, a rare feat that allowed them to manipulate the core essence of existence. They came to be known as the Vareya.
With their combined power, they created four majestic floating islands, each one a breathtaking testament to their skill and a home for their people. These islands, suspended high above the ground, served as the ultimate watchtower, a silent promise to overlook and protect against any Calamity that might threaten the newly-formed peace.
Magic, in this world, was a complex and deeply personal attribute. There are two primary magical affinities an individual is born with: Spirit Art, which draws power from the surrounding environment and elemental forces, and Magic, which is a more internal, structured power. Within these affinities, an individual's magical core defines their talent. There are three types:
* Praga: The most common core, allowing an individual to manipulate the raw elements of nature.
* Tysto: A core focused on enhancement, allowing one to strengthen objects, themselves, or others.
* Sulan: A rare and powerful core that can draw energy directly from the soul, offering both potent offense and impenetrable defense.
In the midst of this vibrant, magically-charged world, there was a single, perplexing anomaly.
His name was Hikoki. At seventeen years old, he possessed short, unkempt black hair and small, earnest brown eyes that seemed to hold a quiet, perpetual question. He was of a short but average height, his frame wiry and toned from relentless physical training. He lived alone in an old, rundown building on the outskirts of Veridian, a city known for its prestigious academic institutions and a gritty, nostalgic atmosphere reminiscent of a bygone era. The buildings were a curious mix of sleek, modern towers and soot-stained, red-brick structures that seemed to have been pulled straight from a 1990s London street.
Hikoki, however, was in Veridian for a reason no one could comprehend. For while the world around him hummed with magical energy, Hikoki himself was a void. He did not possess a magical core. He emitted nothing. Not a flicker of Spirit Art, not a hint of magical potential. He was, to put it simply, low-graded.
He stood in the center of a large, circular chamber, a contraption of his own design. This wasn't a standard training room—it was a Gravity Chamber, a swirling maelstrom of compressed magical energy that only a Tysto user could safely create and manage. But Hikoki had built it, piece by piece, from scrap and salvaged magical conduits, using nothing but his knowledge of engineering and a stubborn refusal to accept his own limitations.
He gritted his teeth, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the iron bars on either side of him. His muscles screamed in protest, every fiber straining against the pressure that weighed down on him like a physical hand. The air around him shimmered with the force, making it difficult to breathe, but his eyes burned with an unwavering fire. He wasn't training to become a mage. He was training to become a weapon...atleast.
A bead of sweat trickled down his temple, blurring his vision for a split second. In that fleeting moment, he saw it. A faint, glowing symbol, almost like a whisper of a forgotten language, etched into the wall of the chamber. It wasn't always there, only appearing at the absolute peak of his exertion. It flickered and vanished as quickly as it came, leaving him with a familiar surge of both frustration and intrigue. What was it? Was it related to the core that everyone else had and he didn't?
His deepest questions had no answers, and the academia of Veridian, for all its prestige, had no room for someone who couldn't even cast a basic cantrip. But he knew, with a certainty that defied all logic, that the answers lay not in a textbook, but in a physical artifact—an item of immense power that he needed to find. To do that, he would have to do the impossible: he would have to rise to the top of a world that had already judged him to be at the very bottom. He was a blank slate in a world of vibrant color, and his journey began with a simple, unanswered question: "Why?"