The morning sun scorches my skin, relentless and unforgiving. Yet, it's the Stormbreak Spiral that commands the sky—its blackened iron peak seething with heat, a monstrous conductor of nature's wrath. The tower drinks in the sunlight, its darkened surface radiating a furnace's worth of energy, churning the air above into a swirling vortex of low pressure.
Like iron filings drawn to a magnet, the clouds cling to the Spiral's crown, dense and seething, while the land below bakes in cruel clarity. No stray wisp dares drift beyond its grasp; the tower's electrostatic pull—a silent, crackling hunger—lures every droplet inward. The rest of the world remains parched, a sun-blistered wasteland, while the Spiral feasts on the storm.
My legs ache, but I push forward—4 hours and 17 minutes. The numbers ring in my skull, a merciless countdown. Just four hours. Four hours between this hell and something resembling safety. Between collapse and survival.
[ Stamina: 9% ]
The phantom HUD flickers in my vision, a cruel joke. Single digits now. Every step is borrowed time.
Wind Walker. The ritual snaps into place like a rusted gear forcing itself to turn. Intent. Mental Blueprint. Incantation. The Request. Invocation. Run. My body lurches forward, muscles igniting in protest as I surge into another sprint. How long? Right. Thirty minutes of this agony. Then back to the death-march jog.
.
.
.
E.T.A: 3 hours and 47 minutes.
I hit the dirt shoulder-first, rolling to bleed momentum before my knees give out. The impact rattles my teeth, but I'm up again before the pain can root itself. One foot. Then the other. The rhythm of a machine that's running on fumes.
[ Stamina: 43% ]
Good enough, I begin jogging again.
.
.
.
.
.
One more cycle.
The end of this rotation between jogging and magic finds me past the Stormbreak Spiral and the wastelands around it. Now, embraced by the vast grassy plains that surround the academy.
I find the road that merchants and travelers use to travel in and out of the academy, a sure sign that I'm close. One more round of bone-deep fatigue and mana burn, pushing until Wind Walker's magic sputters out—then raw stubbornness will carry me the final kilometers.
…
My lungs ache, cough after cough erupts from my dry mouth. Some water would be nice. But where's the sun?
I look up…
I arrived.
The gates loom before me, but 'academy' feels too small a word. Elenos's Institute of Magical Academics—in EAA, it was just pixels and lore text.
Reality steals my breath.
This isn't a school. It's a sovereign city-state of spellcraft, its walls pulsing with enchanted veins of magically reinforced steel and stone. 150 square kilometers in diameter of pure arcane dominance—the beating heart of the Elenos Kingdom, funded by the royal family's bottomless coffers. They too reside in the capital. In a mansion. No. A commanding castle of pure marble and power that sits at the edge of the city.
The Elenos name isn't just nobility here.
They're monarchs amongst kings, so entrenched in power that other crowns themselves hesitate before their influence. A dynasty of mage-kings wearing scholar's robes.
"I knew the Principal was powerful— 'Powerful' is a child's word for what he is. A living calamity in tailored robes, the kind of mage who rewrites history between sips of tea.
Yet even he kneels.
When the Monarch of House Elenos speaks, the continent holds its breath.
Or… they did.
The game never included the current Monarch's character model—just whispers of their fate.
A king that died shielding their heir from 'that' Boss in the Final Acts.
A death so brutal, the devs left it as a bloodstain on the lore documents. No resurrection. No secret quest could change it.
The last act of a ruler: Not a spell or a decree—just outstretched arms between their child and the abyss.
And I…
Now I stand here—a nameless speck of dust clinging to their gilded gates. But these towering walls are my only sanctuary. The same horror that tore through the Monarch like parchment couldn't breach these barriers, not until the game's final moments.
That means two things:
Behind these walls, I might survive. OR Beyond them? Certain doom.
No middle ground. Do or die.
I force my trembling legs forward. One step. Then another. The guards snap to attention—swords tilting down like lightning rods, the force of the unsheathing blows wind past my face. I swear a hair follicle was just cut by the wind. Their battle hardened gaze acting as watchmen and overseers of this fortress.
These are no ordinary sentinels. No clanking tin suits from some backwater kingdom's army. The Guardians of Elenos move like living blades—their uniforms a blasphemy of opulence and lethality:
White as moonlit bone
Gold like exposed nerve endings
Blue deeper than a strangled sky
Every thread hums with enchantments. What a peasant might mistake for royal finery is battlefield alchemy—silk that turns dagger points, embroidery that whispers parry patterns to the wearer.
But the true threat lies beneath the fabric.
Each Guardian is a Mana Swordsman, their very existence a mockery of mortal limits. Genius prodigies who cut equations as easily as flesh. Living storms who duel with the precision of atomic clocks. The kingdom's razor edge, deployed only when bloodshed requires artistry
They stand utterly still.
That's what terrifies me.
Real warriors fidget. Breathe. Blink.
The Guardians?
They've already calculated my death twelve ways before my shadow touches their gates."
For a heartbeat, we're frozen in this silent exchange.
It's still funny. Even in this foreign world, certain dialects remain universal. Well, it's expected since the game had an English dub.
First, the rustle of reinforced robes—subtle, but unmistakable.
"Halt."
A single syllable, flat as a whetstone.
Then the silence. That swelling vacuum between order and execution.
"Speak."
I swallow hard, tongue sticky with adrenaline.
"I'm lost. Seeking refuge."
A half-truth wrapped in desperation. The lie tastes bitter, but fear makes it smooth.
"Proof." The lead guard's head tilted. "Name yourself."
Shit.
No identification. No backstory that would hold under scrutiny. Every second of silence tightens the noose. I can practically hear their fingers curling around hilts.
Gambling everything on a lie, I let the words spill:
"I can't provide proof. Last I remember I awaked in a goblin village. I ran toward that spiral thinking it was shelter."
A dry, humorless laugh to try and lighten the mood
"Severe mistake. I then ran till I saw a path and followed the road here."
Another heartbeat of silence. Then, softer:
"I'm Isaac Mun." Simple, I'll use my old name to prevent mishaps where I confuse my current name and my old one.
The guards don't move. Don't react. But the air itself crystallizes with tension.
…
After a long silence, the lead guard speaks up, sheathing his sword and approaching
"Where was the village?"
"About 100 kilometers in that direction"
I point. Hoping they use the same units of measurement…
"And you walked here?"
"Yes"
"Time taken?"
"About 7 hours total"
No points lying now
"100 kilometers… in 7 hours?"
"Precisely"
His face turns curious. And… Mocking?
"You're telling me, you ran, let alone jogged 100 kilometers in under a day?"
"I alternated jogging and using magic. Yes I did"
"You don't possess a sword nor do you wear a sect's garments. Are you a mage?"
"Not quite, I don't have the official certifications and qualifications"
"And you used magic? What spell and element?"
"I'm attuned to the wind. I used the Apprentice-Class Spell Wind Walker"
His expression shifts to one of surprise
"You have no qualifications to be a mage. And you used an Apprentice-Class Spell? Let alone Wind Walker the hardest Apprentice-Class Spell?"
"Affirmative Sir"
"Prove it" He draws his sword "Cast… Lacerate at me, if you know what that is"
"Will do Sir"
Intent, Laceration was described as a faster and improved version of Wind Slash. The 3-Star variant of it basically. So same concept, the image of a crescent arc in my mind, but as thin as possible. Next, the incantation call upon the wind to cut:
"Lacerate!"
And third, the flick of my entire wrist. The air doesn't rumble like it does with Wind Slash. Instead, a silent sliver of green flies out, fast and deadly towards him.
[ Remaining MP: 85/300 ]
However, with an upward curve. His sword parries my spell perfectly. A sign of a true mana swordsman. But, is his face impressed?
"To think someone with no magical background can cast a spell higher than the Intermediate-Class. Let alone a fairly strong one. How do you know the spells?"
He sheaths his blade again and walks up to me with a smile.
"I came across a book about them, then practiced"
"Then you're talented. Although I cannot fully believe your story. I will grant you permission to enter.
"Thank you sir, I will"
The lead guard gives a single nod. But…
A ripple passes through the others—not deference, but something colder. Mechanical. Then the gate groans to life.
Wrong. All wrong.
In EAA, Elenos' gates were whispered open on silver threads of magic—a seamless parting of enchanted stone. What stands before me now is...
A carcass of machinery. MagiTech.
The cogs scream loudly. Chains thicker than my torso ratchet taut with metallic irony. The entire structure shudders, not with arcane elegance, but the convulsions of something being forcibly reanimated.
This isn't accurate to the game. How much has the story deviated…