Seven years later.
The fires of Valoria still burned.
Great furnaces roared day and night, their bellows breathing life into molten steel. The rhythmic hammering of blacksmiths echoed through the streets like a heartbeat—unceasing, relentless, eternal. Smoke rose into the sky in thick, dark pillars, painting the clouds gray, as if the city itself was wrapped in armor forged from soot and iron.
Steel rang against steel.
Training yards were alive with clashing blades, the sound sharp and unforgiving. Sparks flew with every strike, and the smell of sweat, oil, and blood lingered in the air. Valoria had not softened with peace—it had hardened.
And so had Kaele Ashford.
He stood at the edge of the training grounds of Vasto's Class Academy, silent and unmoving, watching the final session unfold. His figure was tall for his age, broad-shouldered and lean, his posture straight from years of discipline. His black hair fell messily over sharp eyes, damp with sweat, refusing to stay neat no matter how often he tied it back.
His hands were scarred.
Not the shallow marks of careless training—but the hardened scars of repetition, of failure, of standing back up after being knocked down again and again.
At fourteen, by the standards of Aetherion, Kaele was no longer a child.
And today…
He would leave the academy.
Seven years.
Seven long years of relentless training.
Seven years of bruises that never fully faded.
Seven years of aching muscles and sleepless nights.
Seven years of discipline drilled into bone.
Seven years of silence.
Seven years of being ignored by instructors who favored talent over effort.
Seven years of being looked down upon by those born with blessings.
Seven years of being called Fallow.
The word still burned.
No secondary class.
No awakening ceremony miracle.
No bloodline blessing stirring in his veins.
No divine mark etched into his soul.
No noble lineage to shield him from the world's cruelty.
Only one class:
Warrior.
Pure.
Simple.
Ordinary.
And in this world…
Ordinary meant expendable.
Kaele tightened the worn leather straps around his gauntlets, the familiar motion grounding him. His gaze drifted toward the other students gathering nearby.
Scions.
They were easy to spot.
Some radiated mana so dense it distorted the air around them. Others carried weapons humming softly with enchantments, runes glowing faintly along their blades. Noble insignias gleamed on polished armor, crests proudly displayed as if strength itself could be inherited like land.
Servants hovered near some of them, adjusting cloaks, holding bags, offering water.
They laughed loudly.
Carelessly.
Confidently.
They spoke of futures already decided.
Of knighthoods granted by royal decree.
Of elite knight orders stationed near the capital.
Of prestigious guilds that only accepted Scions.
Of sponsorships from noble houses eager to invest in power.
Kaele stood apart.
No entourage.
No emblem.
No crest.
No mana aura.
Only a sword strapped to his back.
And scars earned honestly.
"Ashford."
A familiar voice cut through the noise.
Kaele turned.
Tarin Blackwood.
Tank-class.
Broad and heavy-built, his frame built like a wall. His arms were thick, his skin rough, marked with old training scars. Quiet, reserved, and like Kaele—born a commoner.
"You leaving today too?" Tarin asked.
Kaele nodded once.
"Adventurer registration."
Tarin exhaled slowly, the breath heavy.
"Same."
They didn't smile.
They didn't celebrate.
They didn't speak of dreams.
Between them was an unspoken understanding—one forged by shared struggle, not ambition.
Across the grounds, noble students gathered in loud clusters.
"Scions don't join low-tier guilds."
"We're entering royal service."
"Frontline knight divisions only."
"Elite expeditions beyond the borderlands."
"High-rank monster hunts from the start."
Laughter followed.
Mockery slipped easily into their voices.
A noble warrior glanced toward Kaele, eyes cold with disdain.
"Fallow warrior."
Another laughed openly.
"Trash-tier future."
Tarin's fists clenched, knuckles whitening.
Kaele didn't react.
Seven years had taught him a single, brutal truth:
Pride feeds weakness.
Endurance feeds survival.
The academy gates creaked open.
Heavy.
Final.
Beyond them stretched the real world.
The city of Vasto unfolded wide and unforgiving.
Bustling markets filled with shouting merchants.
Guild halls towering like fortresses of ambition.
Adventurer towers etched with names of the dead and the powerful.
Knight barracks standing disciplined and cold.
Roads leading outward—toward monster territories, forgotten ruins, and unmarked graves.
Opportunity and danger walked hand in hand.
Near the gates stood Dornin Ashford.
Older now.
More scars lining his arms and jaw.
His presence was still solid—unyielding, like forged iron.
Beside him stood Elara, her calm warmth cutting through the noise and smoke like sunlight through ash.
When Kaele saw them, his chest tightened.
"You're late," Dornin said flatly.
"You raised me," Kaele replied.
A faint smirk tugged at Dornin's lips.
Elara stepped forward, her hand gently touching Kaele's cheek.
"Fourteen," she whispered softly.
"My little boy is leaving."
Kaele swallowed.
"I'll come back stronger."
Dornin extended a sword toward him.
It wasn't magical.
It wasn't legendary.
No runes.
No glow.
But the steel was clean, balanced, and well-made.
Forged by Dornin's own hands.
"This blade won't choose you," Dornin said.
"It won't protect you."
"It won't save you."
"But if you don't abandon it…""…it won't abandon you."
Kaele bowed deeply, gripping the hilt.
"I won't waste it."
The Adventurer Guild of Vasto loomed like a beast of stone.
Bronze gates scarred by decades of conflict.
Runic pillars humming faintly with protection magic.
Crystal sigils glowing above the entrance.
Inside—chaos.
Adventurers of all kinds.
Bloodstained armor.
Scarred faces.
Weapons chipped and worn.
Fear mixed with ambition.
"Name," the registrar said without looking up.
"Kaele Ashford."
"Class?"
"Warrior."
"Secondary?"
"None."
The quill paused.
A brief glance.
Then indifference returned.
"Rank: Iron."
A dull iron badge slid across the counter.
The lowest rank.
Tarin received the same.
Same badge.
Same fate.
"First mission board is outside," the registrar said flatly.
The board was crowded with postings:
• Slime extermination — Iron Rank• Wolf pack removal — Iron Rank• Escort merchant caravan — Iron Rank• Sewer monster hunt — Iron Rank• Missing villagers — Iron Rank• Goblin nest clearing — Iron Rank
Low risk.
Low reward.
Low recognition.
Kaele's eyes fixed on one notice.
Goblin Nest — Border Forest Route — Casualties reported.
Tarin frowned.
"Too dangerous for Iron."
Kaele's gaze didn't waver.
"That's why it matters."
They took the request.
Beyond the city walls, the forest waited.
Dark.
Dense.
Alive.
Kaele drew his blade.
Not for glory.
Not for fame.
Not for acknowledgment.
But for survival.
Far away…
Beyond the seas.
At the center island.
The forbidden land.
Ash covered the ground like snow.
Ancient ruins jutted from the earth.
Black stone pulsed faintly with crimson veins.
Something stirred.
Something old.
Something watching.
A voice whispered through the ash.
"The flame returns."
And the world remained unaware.