3rd of Carnsmoon, Year 506 of the Magical Era:
Far to the north of Urbus Rigarden, near the edge of Paradise, nestled in a jagged mountain range, stood the dwarven stronghold—the one and only dwarven-ruled settlement in the world:
Garzaronso.
It was a heavily guarded citadel, carved into the stone itself. The mountains acted as natural walls, and centuries of vigilance had honed the dwarves' instincts against magical beasts and would-be invaders alike.
The people of Garzaronso, like most dwarves, were not rich. But what they lacked in wealth, they made up for in grit, wit, and relentless drive.
Through sheer determination, they turned their barren and desolate homeland into a fortress of steel and stone—a sanctuary they could proudly call home.
They cultivated crops in poor, dry soil, slowly coaxing life from the mountainside. Deep underground, they mined rare ores found only in the most dangerous caverns—ores valued by all races.
These precious minerals became their lifeline, traded for food, tools, and occasional luxuries. Enough to bring some light into their hard lives.
Despite their efforts, the dwarves were still mocked by the elves, scorned by the Rhizanth, and ignored by the highborn mages. To them, dwarves were glorified laborers—slaves with beards.
But the dwarves didn't break. They endured. Every insult was a spark, every act of condescension another stone in the foundation of their resolve.
It was that stubborn pride that had driven them to seek independence in the first place.
But that tale—how Garzaronso earned its sovereignty—was for another time.
What mattered now was that the dwarves' patience, once legendary, was wearing dangerously thin.
At the highest peak of the mountain range, the royal palace clung to the cliffs like a jewel in the rock. Its stone beams were inlaid with diamond, gold, and violet ore—rare treasures of the deep.
The one and only display of wealth for this humble kingdom.
Inside, in the heart of the palace, the war-room buzzed with tension.
King Thorgar Balin III sat upon his throne of gold and copper. His back was straight, his eyes sharp. His long, white beard was neatly trimmed, and though his age showed in his face, he radiated strength and authority.
His hazel eyes swept over the men and women gathered around the council table below. Dwarven generals. Clan chieftains. Ministers of war and supply. All dressed in light armor, their brows furrowed, arms crossed, mouths set in hard lines.
The thick stone walls of the chamber could not cool the fire in their blood.
Clack. A fist slammed the table.
Thorgar's nephew, Bael'gar—the highest-ranked general in the kingdom—stood directly across from his uncle.
"The mages have gone too far this time!" he roared, face flushed crimson with rage.
King Thorgar merely stroked his beard, unshaken. His gaze stayed fixed on Bael'gar, unreadable.
One of the ministers, hunched and gaunt, spoke in a gravelly rasp.
"Compose yourself, Bael'gar."
The Right Minister looked like a man who had already stared down death—and was now just biding time. Skin drawn tight over bone, beard thinner than any dwarf's in living memory.
It was clear he didn't have much time left.
Bael'gar gritted his teeth, nostrils flaring, but dipped his head in deference.
"Forgive me, Right Minister."
The old dwarf nodded without ceremony.
Beside him stood a younger dwarf in near-identical robes, a quiet steel in his eyes. He looked to his senior and addressed him evenly.
"Elder, his outburst aside... Bael'gar speaks the truth. The mages are truly shameless."
The Right Minister clicked his tongue, shaking his head.
"Left Minister, your title mirrors mine. Showing me such reverence in council does no one any favors—it only sullies His Majesty's name, and this kingdom's dignity."
The younger minister bowed, just as Bael'gar had.
"My apologies, Right Minister."
A sigh escaped the old man as he leaned slightly against the table for support.
"I've still got a few good years left in me, you know. You younglings needn't treat me like I'm already halfway to the crypt... I'm not that delicate."
The room remained respectfully silent, but a few ministers exchanged glances.
The old dwarf gave a dry chuckle and continued.
"I've always advocated for patience. For tolerance. I wasn't even born yet when, a hundred and sixty years ago, General Gareth rallied ten thousand of our kin against Solphis Neamhain..."
Bael'gar shifted, arms crossed. The room quieted even more, every eye on the elder.
"It was a battle that gave us this kingdom. One carved into the stone by blood and sacrifice. A tale our people hold in pride—yet we here know the truth."
He paused. No one interrupted.
"The Wand of Wind didn't see us as equals. That mercy? It wasn't earned. It was pity. We landed one blow—one—before Gareth joined the fallen. The Vander could have wiped us out, yet chose to show benevolence. Without that, we'd still be in chains."
He spat the words like ash.
"And what has changed since? Free in name alone. Tools to be used and thrown away."
His tone sharpened as anger laced the weariness.
"During the lastest invasion of Rigarden, our people bore the brunt. Our warriors were the shield. And when it was over? No burials. No honors. Not even a whisper of thanks."
He closed his eyes briefly.
"They said our corpses were too dirty. Filth that would sully mage cemeteries. Like dung tracked into a golden hall."
The room darkened with rage. Faces clenched in silence. Even the king's eyes narrowed. The Right Minister's withered hand curled into a trembling fist.
"This..." His voice trembled, not from age, but fury. "This is the last straw."
He looked across the council chamber, making eye contact with each leader in turn.
"The time for restraint is over. The time for swallowing humiliation is done."
Bael'gar straightened, emboldened.
"We've proven diplomacy means nothing when you stand beneath them. So even if it costs us ten thousand more brothers and sisters—" he drew his axe and set it against the table "—then let us raise our weapons."
He met his uncle's eyes.
"And march to Rigarden once more!"
The dwarves straightened, pride returning to their stances. Most looked satisfied, some even emboldened.
All except the Left Minister.
His brow furrowed slightly. Hesitation flickered in his eyes.
"…But what will the Finns think of this?"
He spoke quietly, but the words hit like a drumbeat. They echoed in every corner of the war room—and in the hearts of all present.
A few shoulders stiffened. Others exchanged uneasy glances.
Bael'gar scoffed, the sneer already forming before the question had fully landed.
"Why should we care what they think anymore?" he spat. "They've always been cozy with the mages. Frequenting the tower, praised like equals, while we rot in the dirt!"
He stepped forward, voice rising.
"They enjoy the kind of respect not even our king is granted. Forget those traitors—they abandoned us for that Mage Queen!"
"Here, here!" barked one of the chieftains, slamming his fist to the table.
Others quickly followed, grunting in agreement. Nods passed around the chamber like sparks catching dry straw.
But even amid the chorus of support, both ministers turned in perfect sync and bowed low before the throne.
The room fell silent at once.
Without a word, the rest of the council followed suit. Heads lowered. Voices stilled. Every dwarf now waited.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
King Thorgar's knuckles rapped softly against the throne's armrest. The sound echoed like distant picks against deep rock.
He finally spoke, voice cold and level.
"I will deliberate… and seek her counsel."
A pause.
"This meeting is adjourned. Return to your posts, and await my decision."
The mention of her hung in the air, heavier than any blade.
There was only one person among their people besides the Finn tribe, the king would speak of that way—someone outside the clans, above even the ministers. Someone whose opinion he valued as much as, if not more than, his own blood.
The dwarves exchanged solemn, knowing looks.
A flicker of anticipation passed between them as they turned and filed out in a single line—first the ministers, then Bael'gar, then the rest of the council.
None spoke a word.
A moment later, Thorgar let out a deep sigh and slowly rose to his feet.
Rather than follow the council out through the grand golden doors, he turned toward the stone wall behind his throne. Without hesitation, he pressed one of the bricks.
Click.
The block sank inward an inch. A soft creak followed as the throne began to shift.
With a low mechanical whine, the massive seat twisted and slid aside, revealing an arch-shaped passage hidden within the wall. A narrow tunnel stretched beyond, bathed in warm light.
Without a word, the dwarven king stepped through.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
His iron boots echoed with weight and purpose as he marched down the corridor. The walls were lined with flickering torches, casting shadows across the stone floor. It felt more like a dungeon than a royal passageway.
Yet Thorgar showed no signs of fatigue, his stride steady despite the minutes dragging on.
Eventually, a second archway appeared at the tunnel's end. From beyond it spilled a strange, unnatural light.
He stepped through—and was suddenly outside.
Above him, a false sky shimmered—an enchanted dome suspended over the mountain's peak. Below it sat a marble-floored terrace, shaped like a cliffside balcony and encircled by tall stone beams.
At its center stood a lavish gazebo-like structure, all elegance and comfort. And seated at the wooden table beneath it, devouring a spread of steaming food that was but a dream for Garzaronso before her arrival, was a young woman barely taller than Thorgar himself.
She was four-foot-eight, with shoulder-length black hair and gleaming green eyes. At the moment, she was messily gnawing on the roasted leg of some magical beast, grease smudging the corners of her mouth.
She swallowed, raised a hand, and shouted through a full mouth.
"Rill! Another!"
Behind her, a man moved with frantic energy. Human, tall and slender, his aqua-blue hair was tied back beneath a stained apron. He was sweating as he rotated sizzling meat over a fire pit, stirred a pot of bubbling stew, and chopped onions all at once.
Despite the chaos, Rill Boismortier looked over his shoulder and beamed.
His smile was tired… but smitten.
"Yes, Charmy-dear!"
Thorgar's eye twitched—half in exasperation, half in quiet amusement—as he cleared his throat and folded his hands behind his back.
He stepped forward with deliberate respect.
"Greetings, Food Goddess."
Rill and Charmy Pappitson froze in place. Then, Charmy beamed and waved enthusiastically, grease still glistening on her fingers.
"Hey, Uncle Thor! Came here to join us for yummies? Come on, sit down!"
The dwarven king winced slightly.
Uncle Thor... His eye twitched again.
He coughed and shook his head. "A-ahem. I'm afraid not, Food Goddess—"
"I told you I don't like that name," Charmy cut in flatly.
"...I mean, Lady Charmy," he corrected quickly. "I'm here for another reason."
Charmy blinked, her round eyes wide as ever, bits of bread and crumbs clinging stubbornly to her chin.
"Then... what're ya here for?"
Thorgar straightened his posture. His tone shifted, low and heavy.
"A week ago, Rigarden was attacked… and they used our brethren as cannon fodder."
Rill froze, his cheerful demeanor vanishing. Wordlessly, he reached out and snuffed the flame beneath the roasting spit, then sat down beside his wife.
Charmy's expression darkened. The sparkle vanished from her eyes. The feast in front of her no longer seemed to matter.
Only the smear of sauce and crumbs on her face remained from the earlier cheer—but even those now felt out of place.
"I see…" she murmured. "And what does that mean… for Garzaronso?"
Thorgar's fists tightened at his sides.
"My people… and I—we want answers. Not revenge… just justice."
He paused, then added more quietly, "We can't keep swallowing our grievances…"
He dipped his head, ashamed yet resolute.
"Lady Charmy. Lord Rill. Will you help us seek it?"
For a moment, nothing passed between the couple except a glance.
It was all they needed.
Then Charmy turned to face him.
Her body began to glow with quiet radiance, pulsing with restrained magic. Her form grew, shedding her plump, childish figure. Her black hair fell like a curtain down her back, and her frame shifted—slender, powerful, composed.
When the light faded, she stood eye to eye with her husband.
Her previous playful demeanor was nowhere to be found, as now she looked her age.
And she acted like it too.
"I will," she said simply.
Thorgar's eyes lit up—but she held up one hand.
"However… we both know this won't be a peaceful protest."
She met his gaze directly, her voice steely and sharp.
"Take time to gather your army. Stock up on supplies. Only those who are willing should come. No conscription, no pressure. I won't accompany those forced to follow."
Her hand clenched into a fist.
"When it's time… we'll lead the charge."
Thorgar's face, so often a mask of stone, finally brightened. His voice cracked with restrained emotion as he bowed low, fists to his chest.
"Thank you, Food—Lady Charmy! We'll be ready in three weeks!"
Then, without another word, he turned on his heel. His footsteps echoed briskly down the tunnel, lighter than they had come.
For the first time in years… there was fire behind them.
Rill sighed and glanced at his partner.
"Things are going to get messy, you know."
With a soft poof of cottony smoke, Charmy reverted to her impish form. She grinned, cheeks puffed, and downed a mug of ale in one gulp.
"I know."
Rill reached over and gently wiped her face with a napkin.
"This won't be easy… not even for us. Maybe we should stop by the other cities on the way. Ask some of our friends for help—"
"Are you crazy?!" Charmy cut in, shivering as she clutched the mug. "T-there's a scary lady in Samios, you know!"
The thought alone made her shrink into her seat.
Forget help—if they ran into her, they might not even make it to Rigarden alive.
Rill shivered too, his smile faltering as he tried to stay optimistic.
"R-right… well, if we're going around it anyway… are we stopping by Terallis?"
Charmy composed herself, but shook her head.
"No."
Rill narrowed his eyes.
"Why not?"
Unusually quiet, Charmy set down her food. She turned to face him, voice low and serious.
"What we're about to do… it's going to completely ruin the plan, right?"
Rill nodded without hesitation.
"Absolutely."
Charmy bit her lip.
"B-but I can't just sit back and watch these nice people suffer. Not anymore."
Rill gave a soft sigh, nodding again.
"Then all the more reason to ask our friends—"
"No," she said firmly, cutting him off again. Her gaze was steady now. "If this goes wrong, we're the ones who'll take the fall. Let the others act like they've got nothing to do with us. That way, they'll be safe."
She clenched her tiny fist.
"This is my choice. So I'll take responsibility."
There would be no detours to the east or west. They would do their best to sneak past all settlements along the way unnoticed and head straight for Urbus Rigarden.
Rill studied her face, then smiled faintly.
"Charmy… knowing our friends, do you really think they'd just look away while we're in trouble?"
Charmy ducked her head.
"If they've matured even a little over these last six years," she muttered, "then they better."
Far away, in several corners of the world, a certain group of refugees were unknowingly on the brink of a major headache.
In less than a month, their peaceful lives would be upended—and their world permanently turned upside down.
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
Urbus Rigarden:
"Wisdom."
"Inspiration."
"Learning."
"The three tenets of Rigarden Magical Academy. Only those who have fully embraced these…"
That very morning, a measured, charismatic voice echoed from a long, elegant store on the edge of the town square.
The boutique stood lavish and immaculate, its glass windows proudly displaying embroidered cloaks, bejeweled gloves, and robes laced with gold thread.
This was Les Ailes—the premier luxury fashion house of Rigarden.
And the man speaking?
Brandtal Les Ailes, tenth-generation owner, stood tall before them. His red hair was wild yet refined, matching the intricate suit and floral cape he wore like a second skin.
He smiled warmly at the group assembled before him—Team Lihanna, each garbed in a crisp, white uniform trimmed and tailored with subtle touches reflecting their individual style.
"...May don the Colorless Gloria, marking them as high mages."
"You all look so splendid," Brandtal said with genuine admiration, his eyes lighting up as he clasped his hands in a light, celebratory clap.
"I'm honored to provide the garments for this new chapter of your journey."
Sion adjusted his gloves, testing their snug fit, then gave a rare, appreciative smile. "It fits perfectly. You do good work, Brandtal—just like your father."
Brandtal's smile softened, touched and almost apologetic. "You're too kind, Young Sir. And... I do apologize for the delay. I wish the uniforms had been ready sooner."
Sion shook his head gently. "It's not your fault. We're all still trying to recover after the Terminalia incident."
His gaze flicked to the far side of the boutique, where faint scratch marks remained etched into one of the inner walls.
Les Ailes had been one of the many establishments damaged during the invasion. Its pristine windows had once been shattered, fabrics singed, mannequins toppled in chaos.
"Honestly, I'm impressed you managed to restore the place and tailor fifty uniforms in a week," Sion added, voice low with something between awe and concern.
"Heh," Brandtal let out a sheepish laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "Sleep is a luxury when fashion's involved."
A faint chuckle came from the back room—probably one of his employees—before the group fell back into reverent silence.
Brandtal simply beamed, bowing slightly with a hand over his heart.
Sion returned the gesture with a nod, eyes glinting with silent respect for the big-brother figure who first showed him the wonders of magic.
If only he knew the true reason for the wait...
He wouldn't be nearly as understanding.
Sion scanned his allies—not friends, because god forbid the tsundere boy ever admit that.
They were admiring their new outfits too, expressions ranging from giddy to quietly pleased.
Team Lihanna had chosen to visit the boutique together that morning, the day of their official recognition.
Whether they realized it or not, they'd wanted to stay together as a group.
Colette spread her arms wide and bounced excitedly on the embroidered rug.
"They're so light and flexible! And they even have built-in magical resistance!"
Lihanna knelt beside her, fingers brushing the hem of her skirt as she smiled with a faint blush.
"The academy cloaks were excellent protective gear, but this is clearly superior."
Wignall adjusted his collar, inspecting the stitching with a thoughtful look.
"You mages really do have a knack for this sort of thing."
There was a reason all of Paradise's greatest artificers had been Rhizanth.
Not as deft with tools as dwarves, nor as innately gifted in magic as elves—yet unmatched when it came to merging both.
Their creations were marvels of precision and enchantment, each one born from balance rather than dominance.
Standing a few paces behind the elf, Julius eyed himself in the mirror with a discontented frown.
"So this is our formal wear… for when we enter the tower…"
Colette stepped up behind him, peeking at his reflection with a curious smile.
She tilted her head. "What's the matter? You look kind of glum—"
"SHUT UP!" he snapped, spinning around with fury and irritation. "Leave me alone!"
"Eek?!"
Colette stumbled back, her boot heel catching in a narrow gap between the floorboards.
Before she could regain her balance—plop—she landed squarely on her rear.
Worse still, her shoulder knocked into a mannequin beside her.
Bump.
That mannequin tilted precariously and tapped the one next to it.
Bonk.
And so began a disastrous chain of events.
Bonk.
Bonk.
Thump.
The final mannequin teetered, then fell—its stiff plastic fist swinging down like a guillotine.
Smack!
Julius yelped as it struck the top of his head.
"Hnng!"
He crumpled onto the floor, one hand rubbing over his scalp as if nursing an invisible wound.
"Grr… damn it! You're like a walking earthquake, you abominable Earth Princess!"
Colette just stared, stunned into silence.
Then, without a word, she stood up, brushed the dust from her skirt, and turned to leave.
As she glanced back over her shoulder, she caught a glimpse of Julius—his eyes lowered, lips pressed in an anxious line, gaze unfocused.
So he's not just mad… he's worried… but of what?
Scratching her cheek in confusion, Colette stopped just short of bumping into Lihanna.
"What's his problem?" she muttered. Stupid Julish... hmph!
Lihanna answered with a question of her own. "Colette, have you heard from any of the tower scouts?"
Colette blinked, puzzled. "Huh? Of course. I got a letter from the Earth Faction a while ago."
Isn't that normal?
She tilted her head. Her friend's tone didn't match the question.
Fortunately, Lihanna didn't leave her guessing for long.
She spread her arms slightly, voice calm and clear. "That's just it. I've been scouted by the Thunder Faction, Wignall by the Elves, and Sion by Incindia Barham… but no one has approached Julius yet."
"That's his problem."
"...?"
Colette's eyes widened, brows knitting together.
Clak.
Before she could respond, Brandtal stepped forward, carrying a tray of finely crafted medallions.
One by one, he pinned them carefully to each of their chests.
Snap.
"Our establishment has had the privilege of crafting the gloria for many who have set out for the tower," he said with a polished smile.
That familiar, servile charm returned in full force. "May the Mage Queen's blessing be upon you all."
The five young mages nodded in unison, offering quiet thanks as they stepped outside.
Brandtal stood by the door, watching them go, his perpetual grin still etched across his face.
Sion was out first, not even looking back.
Maybe if he had taken another look… he'd realize there was something not quite right about it.
As a fresh breeze swept through the square, tousling their hair, Wignall turned toward Colette.
"By the way, where's Will? I don't see him here…"
Colette froze. Her cheeks flushed as she quickly turned her head away, lips pulling into a pout.
"A-and why would I know?!"
"?!" Wignall blinked, confused.
Sion and Julius both gave her a strange look—somewhere between suspicion and surprise.
Lihanna, oblivious to the tension, simply pointed past them. "There he is."
They turned to look. Colette hesitated, swallowing nervously before turning with them a beat late.
Will approached from the far side of the street, already dressed in his Colorless Robe. Kiki perched neatly on his shoulder, tail flicking lazily.
In his hand, he held a sword.
A new sword.
Its blade was long and sleek, shaped in a subtle triangle tapering to a fine point. Both edges gleamed with polish, lined in delicate gold trim.
At the center where the blade met hilt sat a deep violet gem, oval and glassy, pulsing faintly with magical light.
The guard flared out like twin wings, giving it a cruciform silhouette, though the grip sank deep into the base—almost merging with the metal as if the whole thing had been forged from a single piece.
A faint shimmer of color peeked out from beneath the guard, hinting at a violet blade beneath the finish.
It was a thing of beauty.
The kind of weapon you'd expect mounted above a noble's fireplace, not carried into war.
But they all knew Will.
He couldn't afford ornamental luxuries.
And even if he could, he'd never waste money on something he couldn't use.
Sion, hands in his pockets, gave Will a once-over, eyes narrowed in apparent indifference.
"Where were you, Flunkee?"
Will didn't take offense. If anything, his grin only brightened.
"I got fitted early this morning so I'd have time to visit Mister Donnan!"
"Because you broke your last sword?" Sion snorted, though his voice lacked bite. "Hopefully this one isn't as unreliable as the last."
Will's smile never wavered.
He was starting to get a read on his fiery companion.
Honestly, if not for the hair color and opposite elements, I'd think he and Mrs. Silva were siblings.
Both try so hard to act like they don't care… and fail miserably at it.
"Don't worry, Sion. I'll take good care of it—and I won't get hurt!"
The Ulster heir turned beet red.
"W-who's worried about you?!"
Before things could escalate, Colette slipped past Sion with her face nearly as red.
"I-it looks nice," she mumbled, barely above a whisper. "W-what's it called?"
Will froze for a moment. Then his own face flushed to match hers.
"W-Wist-Set Silver… Mister Donnan embedded a Wist Gem into Moria Silver. So not only should it cut through magic like before, but it should also amplify that power of mine."
He hesitated, glancing aside.
"...Mister Donnan gifted it to me."
Colette tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, heart thumping erratically.
"T-that's nice," she squeaked.
Will nodded—stiffly, silently, trying not to combust.
Off to the side, Lihanna tilted her head. Wignall and Julius mirrored her expression, the three of them visibly confused.
"??!"
Seriously… what's with those two?! (×3)
Sion was already walking away, hands still jammed in his coat, snorting louder than before.
"Hmph!"
Forget it… women… love… they're all overrated!
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
A few minutes later, all fifty would-be high mages stood assembled in Rigarden Academy's inner garden.
They gathered beneath a towering pair of castle-like, ornate black doors—massive and ancient—that marked the threshold into the revered Tower.
After six long years of struggle and heartbreak, Will was finally here.
In reach of Mercedes Caulis… and his goal.
He clenched his fist as the crowd buzzed around him—small talk, excitement, speculation.
But he didn't hear any of it.
His eyes turned back over his shoulder, past the Academy walls, past the city.
His gaze stretched over the inner districts, over the crumbling slums, all the way to that lone, humble cabin resting on the grassy hill.
Home.
For a moment, his chest tightened.
For a moment, he was remorseful.
For a moment, he was hesitant.
For a moment, he was… sad.
…So this is it. Once I step beyond these gates, who knows when I'll see them again…
He briefly considered it—running back to the cabin. Saying goodbye to them… to Workner-sensei… to the dwarves.
But he caught himself and shook his head.
No! That'll just make it harder to leave…
You'll see them again—definitely. And next time, with her by your side… the real her!
Huff.
Will sniffled, brushing under his glasses before his eyes could tear up.
Then, just like that, the anxiety faded.
And in its place—was resolve.
Brr.
A light breeze swept across the garden, silencing the crowd.
All eyes turned skyward as a familiar witch descended, balanced effortlessly on her broom. She landed gracefully in front of the towering black doors.
With her eyes hidden beneath a curtain of blonde hair, Clairie Serah—the Tower Arbiter—grinned brightly as she scanned the assembled students.
"Looks like that's all fifty of you!"
Her gaze lingered, admiring. Such glowing young skin... it's not fair, she pouted inwardly.
Then, her voice rang out again, cheerful but echoing with authority.
"Those Gloria are really blinding! We're extremely short-staffed right now… you know, with all the deaths… so it's just me for your welcoming committee."
She threw up a playful peace sign.
"But not to worry! I'll get you kiddies where you need to go!" Tee-hee! ദ്ദി(｡•̀ ,<)~✩
The crowd stared blankly.
That's supposed to be a high mage?
More than a few students looked unimpressed. Many of them had outperformed their supposed superiors during the invasion.
If Clairie—or any high mage, really, outside the adjutants or Vander—wanted to impress this new generation, they had their work cut out for them.
Unless, of course, you happened to be a certain tanned-skinned lightning ninja.
Clairie sweatdropped, letting out a small cough as she turned to the massive doors and pressed her palm against them.
A glowing white magic circle flickered to life under her hand as the doors began to vibrate softly.
Vmm.
She smiled again.
"They seem ready to welcome us—and you all definitely look raring to go, so… shall we?"
The doors creaked open, soft smoke pouring from within, adding a theatrical touch to the moment.
Her skirt fluttered in the breeze as she glanced back over her shoulder, smile widening.
"Welcome to the paradise of scientific inquiry… and the hell of endless research, my little chickadees."
Wordlessly, all fifty students climbed the stairs and entered the circular chamber.
Bang.
The doors slammed shut behind them, plunging the room into a darkness fit for a dungeon.
Thanks to their night vision, most could still see clearly—everyone except Will.
Even so, unease crackled through the crowd. Eyes shifted. Whispers stirred. The tension was starting to creep in.
Strangely, Will was the calmest of them all.
His senses were locked onto the Arbiter's ki like a homing beacon. Focused. Tuned.
She's playing with us…
But only a little.
Clairie raised her wand and pointed it toward the metal ceiling above.
"Access Code: Clairie Serah…!"
Vrmm.
Just like the outer gates, the ceiling began to vibrate as glowing magical runes activated in a flash.
Gears clanked to life—once invisible, now pulsing with enchantment—as the ceiling panels started to shift and slide apart in a smooth, heptagonal pattern.
"Gate Unlock!"
Without warning, the floor beneath their feet began to rise.
Not shake. Not tilt.
Rise—slow, steady, deliberate.
Rumble. Rumble. Rumble.
"Huh?!"
"The floor's moving?! No—wait, we're floating!"
"C-Can Levitation Magic even lift something this massive?!"
"Forget that—look! The ceiling's opening up!"
The students' nervous murmurs turned into cries of disbelief as the platform rose through the ceiling.
And then—they saw it.
Metropolis. That was the only word that came to mind.
A city that dwarfed even Urbus Rigarden.
Towering castles rose like titans—gothic spires with pointed arches and stained-glass windows, each structure grander than the next. They looked more like cathedrals than any city block.
Bridges and hallways of the same architectural style stretched endlessly, some crossing entire chasms, others vanishing into the distant haze.
Even mountain peaks could be seen far off in the background, framed by clouds and sunlight.
This was the first floor of the Tower: Colorless Garden.
"An all-white—no, a colorless city?!" Lyril's eyes sparkled in awe.
Rose rushed to the edge of the platform, leaning over eagerly. Colette scrambled after her, gripping her sleeve in panic.
"There's a sky! And a horizon! And actual light!"
"R-Rose, watch your step! You'll fall!"
Other students pointed up, stunned.
"L-look! Floating castles!"
"How's that even possible?! Are we really inside the Tower?!"
Clairie, still smiling, floated confidently beside them, posture a little straighter—like she'd regained some of her lost majesty.
She tried to sound casual, like what stood before them was hardly worth noting. Her voice took on the tone of someone explaining things to a crowd of country bumpkins.
"Oh, this? This is the Tower's first-floor facility—Colorless Garden. When people outside the Tower mention the Upper Institute, this is usually what they're talking about."
Still riding her broom, she spread her arms wide with exaggerated grace.
"It's the foundation of daily life and production inside the Tower. Also the highest seat of learning, where we develop new spells, enchant magic items, that sort of thing. Nothing special."
She glanced down at them with an airy smile.
"Only those recognized by the Academy can enter, so it's a total honor to even be here. But still—no big deal for people like us, right?"
"Oh, and there's also—"
Most of the students had already tuned her out, eyes glued to the impossible scenery.
Only Will was still listening, if only barely.
His eye twitched. A bead of sweat rolled down his cheek.
Clairie's grin grew increasingly smug with every not-so-humble brag. Her nose practically stretched like Pinocchio's with every nothing special, no biggie, or just so-so tacked onto her sentences.
Eventually, she leaned forward on her broom and bared her teeth in a wide, fangy smirk.
"Of course, whether you get to stay here… is entirely up to you."
"...?"
Will's eyes narrowed behind his glasses. A creeping unease prickled at his spine.
That tone… that pause…
If his instincts were right—and they usually were—this wasn't a lucky break.
It was a warning.
Not for some fortuitous encounter but rather an ill omen of things to come.
Not giving anyone a chance to ask questions, Clairie snapped her fingers and zoomed ahead on her broom.
"Now, come along! You're today's guests of honor! Everyone's waiting at the central ceremonial hall!"
Team Lihanna followed from the rear of the pack, their pace steady.
Lihanna leaned slightly toward her best friend. "Wignall, the sky and light here…"
The elf smiled, visibly proud. "Yes, I'm positive it's some form of advanced elven inclusion magic."
"They must've used Magnaturas Ringal—a vision of Paradise woven right into the Tower."
His heart thudded in anticipation.
Finally… I'm going to see her again.
And he wasn't the only one excited.
Colette—no longer a blushing mess around her long-time crush—stepped up beside Will and tapped his shoulder twice.
Whap. Whap.
"Look, Will!"
She pointed ahead to a stable where Colorless robed mages were tending to cow-like magical beasts with enormous, curled ram horns.
"All those people are wearing Gloria just like ours!"
Will's eyes followed her hand. "A magical creature testing site…?"
"And that—" she spun to point behind them, where more Colorless worked in tidy rows, inspecting clusters of faintly glowing plants, "—that must be a Moly Garden!"
Her voice rose with excitement.
Colette Lorie pumped her fists with a grin.
"We really are on the front lines of magical research… I'm finally starting to feel like a high mage."
A light red dusted Will's cheeks as he nodded, eyes scanning the world around them.
"Yeah… it's a dream come true—"
He froze mid-sentence.
Only now did he notice the subtle looks being thrown their way by the nearby Colorless.
Some stared with open envy. Others, with thinly veiled resentment.
A few… with pity.
Or apology.
"..."
Will clenched his fist.
Colette didn't notice. She was in her own world, pointing at everything with wide-eyed wonder.
"Oh? There's even a crepe stand over there!"
Twitch.
Lihanna suddenly blurred past them, lightning crackling beneath her heels. She darted around Wignall and appeared in front of the crepe stand like a streak of yellow electricity.
"Five," she said flatly, dropping several gold coins on the counter. "Keep the change."
This little glutton…
Colette stared blankly for a second, then sighed and stomped over.
She grabbed Lihanna by the collar and began dragging her away as the girl munched contentedly on her crepes.
"We're in the middle of orientation. Let's go."
Lihanna didn't resist—too absorbed in the flaky, sugary bliss.
Will watched with mild amusement, then glanced at Wignall, who was visibly cringing.
He offered him a pitying smile.
"Lihanna's really into food, huh?"
The elf nodded stiffly, jaw tight.
"Yeah… she claims it's because she's a close-combat mage and burns through calories fast."
He exhaled slowly. "But honestly? It's hard to believe her."
The tension in the air loosened a little. Will chuckled—just once—but didn't get the chance to enjoy it for long.
Sion brushed past him, muttering darkly over his shoulder.
"Don't get too excited, Flunkee. The Tower isn't all sunshine and rainbows."
Will paused.
His eyes shifted back to the Colorless watching them, their stares layered in too many emotions to name.
He sighed and followed after Sion.
"I know…"
Workner and Edward-sensei had reminded him of that fact countless times. Sometimes with concern. Sometimes with open threats.
A part of him had hoped it was just drama. Something to scare him off his dream.
But reality?
…Reality was usually disappointing.
So very disappointing.
Noticing Julius nearby—fists clenched, jaw tense—Will let out another breath.
Elfie… Julius isn't that bad, you know…
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
"Here we are!"
They arrived at another towering castle, carved with so much detail that even an hour wouldn't be enough to describe it all.
The twin black doors—again—opened on their own.
Rumble.
Clairie floated aside with a grin. "Go on, then. Head inside."
The former students exchanged hesitant glances. Then, as usual, Sion took the lead, strolling in with casual confidence and a curious eye.
"This is the ceremonial hall?" he whispered, awed.
His father had told him about it more than once—but seeing it in person was something else entirely.
A wide marble chamber stretched before them, crowned by a massive pillar that floated through the ceiling, likely connecting to the upper floors.
Floating bleachers lined the circular room, suspended mid-air like stadium stands. Several were already occupied.
On one, the Wind Faction—Solphis Neamhain—stood assembled. Behind an empty grand chair, just one tier below a throne, were their first and second seats: Arvin Olus and Monica Orphan.
Their faction head, it seemed, had still yet to return.
On another, a trio of hunched, bearded elders sat quietly, dressed in dark orange robes and leaning on ornate canes.
You'd almost think they were dwarves at a glance.
These were the Earth Faction's ruling council—Grantina L'Abysse.
Of all the factions, this one seemed most in need of fresh blood. Earth magic, once mighty, had faded into obscurity.
Now it was mostly used for convenience—crafting furniture or tools—rather than anything of magical prestige.
Only water magic had fallen further from mainstream glory.
Few Multos, if given a choice, chose to specialize in either.
Another stand was occupied by a group of figures draped in pitch-black robes. Their faces were entirely hidden beneath hoods, and their presence alone sent a chill through the hall.
Naturally, they belonged to the Dark Faction—Tenebrias Noctane.
On the final stand stood a tall, bespectacled man with jet-black hair and a pale, stone-like face. A sweeping cape covered his Colorless robes.
This was the Director of the Upper Institute—Kreutz Harlon.
At his side, wearing a long robe that flowed into a zippered high-collar jacket, stood his assistant.
Charles.
With long, unruly black hair and a quiet demeanor, Charles almost looked friendly—at least compared to his superior.
Paramount Kreutz's cold stare swept across the new arrivals like a blade, making more than a few of them shrink back under the weight of it.
Colette's bright smile began to falter slightly.
"Are mages from every faction going to be here...? They're just staring at us—it's kinda scary."
Rose glanced toward the Earth Faction's bench.
When she didn't spot her grandfather—or that disgusting pervert among their representatives—she let out a long sigh of relief.
Gong.
Heads snapped upward as four circular platforms descended smoothly from the ceiling, humming with magic. They aligned themselves in a neat row, hovering at the same height as the floating stands.
Gasps rippled through the group.
Their eyes widened as they saw who sat atop the thrones.
"It's… the Magia Vander!" Sion couldn't help but exclaim.
Each of the four great faction's heads sat regally, flanked by their adjutants standing dutifully behind them.
The Ice Faction's Albis Vina, with Elfaria Serfort seated calmly.
The Thunder Faction's Thorzeus Fudge, led by Zeo Reinbolt.
From the Fairy Faction: Ellenor Ljos Alf led Elleaf Canaan.
And representing the current top-ranked faction, the Fire Faction: Incindia Barham, with their leader, Cariott Wiseman.
One platform, however, remained noticeably absent.
Aaron Oldking's master—Noah of the Light Faction—was nowhere to be seen.
Not that it surprised anyone.
The Light Faction had long been a faction in name only. With no new light mages among this year's graduates, there was no reason for Noah to waste time on ceremonies like this.
He only showed up during the Terminalia, when he had to.
Events like these held no interest for him.
Better to leave it to his proxy—Cariott—to handle formalities and preside in his place.
As the Vanders remained still and silent, the young mages couldn't help but gaze up at them in awe.
Wignall's eyes glistened.
Ellenor—
"Hmph."
The moment their eyes met, she turned her head with a snort.
"..."
Wignall's heart dropped. Years of effort… wasted?
He forced a smile.
Calm yourself, Wignall… you know what kind of girl Ellenor is. You still got the invite to her faction—it's not like she wants nothing to do with you. She's just… playing hard to get.
Yeah… that's definitely it.
He exhaled and steadied his nerves.
Meanwhile, Will's eyes were locked onto the Hallowed Icemaiden.
Her movements, posture, and ki... they overlapped too perfectly with a memory.
An androgynous boy.
A friend from long ago.
His heartbeat quickened. His eyes misted. A quiet smile formed on his lips.
Elfie… all this time, you really were—
"Hmph."
Just like Ellenor, Elfaria scoffed and turned her gaze away.
Will blinked, stunned.
"?!"
Did I do something wrong? She seems… upset!
Panic flared in his chest, only to be silenced by something else.
A flicker in her ki.
Remorse.
Will froze.
The atmosphere grew heavy.
That same foreboding sensation settled in again, gnawing at the edge of his thoughts.
He sighed wistfully, voice barely a whisper.
"Nothing ever comes easy… does it?"
Moments later, Clairie floated upward on her broom, rising across the platforms before bowing deeply in midair.
"O Magia Vander, a thousand thanks for descending from your high seats atop the Tower!"
Her tone was formal, but the reverence was all performance. Appearances had to be kept, after all.
Cariott didn't bother standing.
"All part of the job, unfortunately," he drawled. "So do get on with it—lest we perish from boredom."
Clairie's brow twitched, a vein pulsing as she gritted her teeth behind a strained smile.
Grrr… Ed, how could you lose to this smug bastard?!
She cursed her absent friend yet again, baring her fangs in a grin that didn't reach her eyes.
"My dearest underclassman. You've truly risen far. I see you're quite comfortable lording over us from your precious throne!"
Cariott remained unbothered, his crescent-moon smile unwavering.
Messing with his old seniors was one of the few joys left in his otherwise joyless, overworked life.
"Ha ha! That I have—and all thanks to my delightful upperclassmen's brutal instruction."
Clairie looked ready to lunge.
Thankfully, Logwell stepped in before she could act on that impulse.
"Lord Cariott."
"Yes, I know, Logwell," Cariott replied with a faint sigh.
Clairie glanced at the blindfolded adjutant, reading something in his quiet, unmoving presence.
She turned back toward the high mages below.
Raising her wand like a microphone, her voice echoed across the hall, magically amplified and crisp.
"The mighty Magia Vander have spoken! Without further ado—let's begin the Bloom!"
Will blinked.
The what?
Clairie offered no explanation. She just kept going, all smiles and energy.
"First! You little chickadees who were scouted at the Grand Magic Festival—or sometime during your six-year education—I award you the Blessing of Color!"
Boom!
Boom!
Boom!
Dozens of magic circles flared to life beneath a third of the students. In the next instant, beams of light shot down from above.
The once-colorless Gloria cloaks transformed before their eyes, shifting to match the colors, cuts, and aesthetics of their new factions. Emblems shimmered into place on their brooches.
Fire. Fairy. Thunder. Ice. Earth. Wind. Dark.
The seven true factions claimed their chosen, who began to float upward—levitated toward their new mentors in the stands.
One by one, the chosen disappeared into the sky.
And then… silence.
Only thirty-five students remained standing on the floor below—still wearing plain Colorless garb.
Will was one of them.
And honestly?
He couldn't even pretend to be surprised.
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
Author's Notes:
[1] The Magical Calendar aligns with the Gregorian calendar as follows:
Carnsmoon (January), Radelmoon (February), Suzamoon (March), Serzamoon (April), Nullsmoon (May), Arzhelmoon (June), Hallasmoon (July), Roemoon (August), Shannamoon (September), Luchsmoon (October), and Ellsmoon (December).
Note: The magical counterpart for November is currently unknown.
[2] I originally wanted to wait before introducing Garzaronso until we got more canon information. But with Wistoria's slow monthly release and pacing, there's a good chance we'd either never see much of it—aside from a few mentions in Q&As—or not until years from now, long after I'm done writing this fanfic.
So, in the meantime, I've thrown in a few quickly—and admittedly poorly—constructed OCs just to keep the story moving.
[3] One thing I don't think I ever mentioned: when I listed the names for the eight Tower factions, we never actually got the Dark Faction's official name.
So I made one up—Tenebrias Noctane, which loosely translates from Latin to "Darkness of the Night" or something along the lines of "Shadowed Night Energy."
[4] I know it's been a long wait—chalk it up to a mix of laziness, procrastination, chores, and life in general—but at last, it's finally time for the Tower Saga to begin.
[5] If you'd like to chat, discuss the story, or hang out, feel free to join the Discord: https://discord.gg/s3MME8X8ar