Before gods carved names into the sky, before laws learned to bind motion and matter, there was permission.
Not creation—allowance.
The world known as Aurelion existed because it was permitted to exist, balanced delicately between beginnings that refused to end and endings that had not yet learned to speak. Its continents were not born equal, nor were its rulers chosen by fate alone. Each land endured because the Cycle did not object.
And so the world persisted.
Aurelion was divided into five great continents, separated by seas whose depths were measured not in distance but in silence.
To the north, beneath skies perpetually veiled in pale auroras, lay Frostholde, a continent of glacial plains and buried cities. It was ruled by no single crown. Instead, ancient councils of dwarves and humans governed from fortresses carved into mountains older than recorded history. Cold was not their enemy—it was their inheritance.
To the west, endless forests rose like a living ocean. This was Sylvaen, domain of the elves. At its heart stood the World Tree, roots piercing continents, branches brushing against ley currents unseen. Nature ruled here, not as mercy, but as law. The elven High Conclave spoke for the forest, though many suspected the forest spoke through them instead.
To the south, fertile plains and floating cities marked Elyndor, the heart of human civilization. Here lay the greatest concentration of academies, guilds, and systems. Progress was worshipped. Knowledge was currency. Power was categorized, refined, and measured—never questioned. Elyndor believed itself to be the center of the world. The world had never confirmed this belief.
To the east, lands scarred by ancient wars stretched beneath crimson skies. Varkhaal, realm of beastkin clans and wandering sovereignties, was governed by strength tempered with instinct. Wolves, lions, serpents, ravens—each bloodline carried memory in muscle and bone. Leadership here was earned repeatedly, never inherited safely.
And beneath the world, where continents thinned and reality bent, lay Infernum.
Not hell.
A kingdom.
The domain of demonkind—beings shaped like humanity, yet crowned with horns, tails, and in rare bloodlines, wings. Fire and shadow were common attributes among them, but intellect ruled above all. The Demon King sat upon a throne unchallenged for centuries, not through tyranny, but through a balance so precise no rebellion could find footing.
Between these continents stood an unspoken agreement.
A truce.
No world-spanning war.
No gods walking openly.
No extinction events.
The Cycle allowed peace—for now.
Rulers Who Knew Better Than to Claim Eternity
Each continent was ruled, yet none ruled absolutely.
The Demon King of Infernum, ancient and observant, ruled demonkind with clarity. He understood cycles. He understood endings. That was why he feared stagnation more than chaos.
The High Conclave of Sylvaen spoke rarely and listened often. They knew nature did not care for crowns.
The Councils of Frostholde recorded everything, believing memory to be a shield against oblivion.
The Clans of Varkhaal respected only strength that could be repeated.
And in Elyndor, humans built institutions to replace gods.
The greatest of these was the Grand Academy.
The Academy That Was Not Neutral
The Grand Academy of Elyndor stood at the convergence of ley lines, political borders, and silent accords. Its towers pierced clouds. Its foundations rested on runes no modern scholar could fully decipher.
Officially, it existed to train the chosen—those with talent, lineage, or exceptional systems.
Unofficially, it existed to observe. Every ruler sent their heirs, their prodigies, their experiments. The Academy was a proving ground where war could be rehearsed without consequence and alliances tested without treaties.
And something older watched through it.
In Aurelion, every being was born with a System, a silent construct that translated existence into measurable progression.
Attributes were the language of power.
Most possessed one.
Exceptional individuals possessed two.
Prodigies—rare and celebrated—possessed three.
Three was considered the absolute limit.
Anything beyond that was dismissed as myth, corruption, or error.
The world taught this as fact.
The Cycle did not correct them.
In the year recorded as 732 of the Truce, the Academy received its newest list of incoming students.
Names.
Lineages.
Attributes.
Guardians.
The list was verified by divine contracts, system seals, and continental approval.
And yet—
One name appeared without origin.
No lineage.
No guardian.
No birthplace.
Just a name, written neatly, as if it had always belonged there.
Kaeliv Aern
Three attributes registered:
Death. Darkness. Space.
The system accepted it.
The Academy archived it.
No alarms rang.
Because the one who entered that name was not bound by the system that read it.
Kaeliv Aern existed outside the universe that now prepared to teach him.
Elsewhere, Beyond Observation
Beyond time.
Beyond record.
Beyond fear.
Two entities observed the world in silence.
One watched the flow of beginnings—growth, motion, energy, life.
The other watched endings—death, ruin, erasure, finality.
They did not argue.
They did not intervene.
Continuation without change fascinated them both.
One has chosen to walk, one noted.
Again, replied the other, mildly amused.
You could have stopped him.
I could erase the concept of stopping.
Silence followed.
The Cycle turned.
And in the world that was allowed to exist, the Academy's bells rang—welcoming students who believed they were chosen.
None of them yet understood what it meant
when the End started to get curious.