From the Anonymous Revelation, unearthed from the dust-choked archives of the Forgotten Sanctuary, a prophecy etched in chilling verse:
When the final chime of the ancient clock echoes through the Ninth Century of the Seventh Age,
The Gate, sealed by the crimson oath of Blood and the unyielding fortress of Will, shall groan open as if by spectral hands.
From the long-silent embrace of the earth, forgotten remnants shall claw their way back, a chorus of the damned rising in a mournful dirge.
In the heavens above, no golden dawn shall paint the sky - only a Great One, a cosmic horror, shall tear through the veil from the fathomless void.
Every beating heart in the realm shall shudder with a phantom rhythm, a pulse not its own,
And upon the tender flesh of the living, the cold, parasitic seeds of the dead shall sprout in silent, grotesque bloom.
Tainted flesh shall rain down from the blighted sky, and rivers of blood shall surge forth from the weeping ground.
The Keeper of Flame shall succumb to an eternal frost. The Guardian of Ice shall be consumed by an unholy fire.
The sun and moon, estranged for eons, shall writhe and reunite in a final, terrible embrace,
Leaving behind a lone pearl of existence adrift in an endless, lightless abyss,
And then... the world shall not be shattered by screams of agony,
But shall descend into a silence more profound than death, like a babe who will never draw another breath.
06/01/933 - Seventh Age
The pre-dawn air, though losing its deepest indigo, still clung to the barracks like a shroud. Yet, from the training grounds, a relentless rhythm of steel against wood shattered the lingering quiet. Boots crunched with purposeful force as a tall figure entered the dim interior, heading directly towards a lone youth whose blade danced with furious precision against a battered training dummy, already scarred beyond recognition.
"Henry, for pity's sake, give the poor thing a rest. It's practically begging for mercy." the newcomer's voice rumbled, a blend of weary authority and dry amusement.
"Morning, Captain," Henry grunted, his breath misting in the cool air, a flash of pride in his sweat-slicked face. "It gave way earlier than usual. Progress, you see. Just forty more strikes."
"Fancy a quick spar to shake off the last vestiges of sleep?" the Captain's tone held a playful challenge.
"Gladly. Fifteen minutes, then the world." Henry's eyes gleamed with anticipation.
He finished his drill, collapsing moments later, his body a sheen of perspiration, lungs burning. Yet, with surprising speed, his breathing evened, and a faint, ethereal steam curled from his sweat-soaked skin. Nearby stood Captain Jacobs, a man built like an oak, his features rough-hewn but his mind sharp as a honed axe, a sardonic wit always lurking beneath the surface. Precisely fifteen minutes ticked by before he hefted an iron sword and stepped into the training yard.
"Let's see if I can't finally put you out of commission for a week." Jacobs chuckled, settling into his guard stance.
The training ground fell into an expectant hush, broken only by the whisper of the wind through the brittle leaves. Then, a blur of motion - Henry lunged, a predator unleashed, his thrust aimed with blinding speed at Jacobs's heart.
Despite his bulk, Jacobs reacted with lightning reflexes. A swift step back created the necessary distance, the lethal point whistling past his chest. As Henry's momentum faltered, Jacobs retaliated with a sweeping, enchantment-infused slash - his blade momentarily blazing with a silver light.
Undaunted, Henry channeled his own nascent enchantment, his sword meeting the devastating blow with a resounding CLANG! The impact forced him to one knee, the weight immense, but he held his ground. Before he could fully recover, Jacobs followed with a brutal knee strike aimed squarely at his face.
Instinctively, Henry raised both elbows in a desperate block. The blow, though not fatal, sent him hurtling backwards over five meters.
Jacobs pressed his advantage, charging forward, his sword arcing down in a vicious, killing stroke.
This time, Henry was ready. He angled his blade, the parry echoing through the quiet yard. Then, spinning on his heel, he countered with a swift slash aimed at Jacobs's exposed flank.
THUD! Henry was slammed backwards again, another five meters, not by the Captain's sword, but by the brutal force of Jacobs's fist connecting with his jaw mid-counter. A shallow cut opened on Jacobs's side, but the punch had served its purpose, sending Henry sprawling and protecting his superior.
"Don't overextend like that, kid. Every strike you throw leaves you wide open." Jacobs's voice, though stern, held a hint of respect.
"Guess I need a few more beatings to really drill it in." Henry replied, a bloody grin splitting his face.
"Care for a few more reminders?" Jacobs smirked, his sword held ready.
The crisp morning air soon filled with the clang of steel and the gruff laughter of men pushing their limits.
At the precise chime of six o'clock, the church bell resonated across the training grounds. Jacobs stood, his broken sword resting casually across his broad shoulders. Henry, still in a combat stance, held his battered weapon forward.
"That's enough for today. Can't believe you held out again - and broke my damn sword in the proces." Jacobs muttered, a grudging amusement in his tone.
"These fifteen minutes always feel like the longest damn part of the week." Henry groaned, collapsing onto the hard earth, his cracked sword clattering beside him, utterly spent but a faint smile playing on his lips.
"You're a lunatic, kid. Strength training, sword drills, then missions, then more night shifts. Don't let a few lucky blocks go to your head just because you're young." Jacobs chuckled, shaking his head.
Henry offered no verbal reply, simply picking up his broken sword and tossing it towards Jacobs's feet.
After changing and strapping on their gear, breakfast was the usual Spartan fare: dense bread, a watery chicken stew, and bland potatoes - fuel over flavor.
Jacobs joined his usual companions, while Henry piled an oversized portion onto his plate.
"Still eating enough for two? Doesn't that ever get old?" Torsan, the youngest of their group, asked, his eyes wide with disbelief.
"Dry bread and stew's fine by me. Could eat it for decades." Henry mumbled, his gaze fixed intently on his food, a strange intensity in his voice that belied his simple words.
"Eight years of that kind of training and you still push yourself this hard. You deserve a damn medal for that, Henry." Daniel, a quiet mage, offered his praise.
"You're a mage, Daniel. If you ate like me, you'd probably spontaneously combust." Henry grinned, finally looking up.
"I'm doing strength training too, and I still can't stomach that much." Lumos, a hulking youth who bore a striking resemblance to a younger, less weathered Jacobs, chimed in.
"None of you are working day and night like this maniac. The kid needs fuel, not fancy flavors." Jacobs laughed, ruffling Henry's hair.
The group chuckled, their teasing banter a familiar comfort as Henry continued his silent war with his mountain of food.
By seven, Henry and his breakfast companions emerged from the mess hall, heading towards the city gates. A moment later, two figures in uniform approached, their voices bright.
"Over here, Sophia, Melly!" Torsan waved enthusiastically.
Melly, with vibrant red hair that bounced to her shoulders, possessed a fiery glint in her eyes that matched her hair. Sophia was more reserved, her neatly tied brown hair framing a face that held a thoughtful warmth.
"With the whole team assembled, this has got to be a big mission, right?" Melly chirped, her energy infectious.
"Captain's muttering about D-rank, or worse." Daniel replied calmly, his usual stoicism unwavering.
"For seven of us, even a D-rank feels like tempting fate. Anything worse is practically a death wish." Henry added, a sliver of genuine concern beneath his half-joking tone.
"Maybe it'll just be a routine patrol?" Torsan asked, a hopeful note in his voice.
"No chance, kid. The Captain's got that twitch in his eye. He's gunning for those promotions." Lumos gently knocked Torsan's head.
"It's Friday, isn't it? So, Henry, did you manage to survive your usual fifteen-minute death match?" Sophia asked, a slight tilt to her head and a knowing glint in her warm eyes.
"Survived - with minor fractures, internal bruising, a near-broken neck, and a cracked jaw. Otherwise, all good." Henry replied with a grim smile, a thin trickle of blood still visible near his lip.
"Fighting a higher-ranked officer and lasting that long? Not bad at all, Henry." Daniel noted, a rare hint of admiration in his voice.
"Torsan, think you could manage that?" Melly challenged, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
"Over five hundred soldiers here, and only Henry's insane enough for weekly death matches with the Captain. No way in hell." Torsan shook his head emphatically.
"Listen, kid. I challenged the Captain three times. Spent over two months in the infirmary. That guy never holds back." Lumos added, a weary respect in his tone.
"He's… a different breed. Not everyone's got that kind of crazy." Sophia smiled softly, a hint of something deeper in her gaze.
The group shared a laugh, the tension easing until Jacobs finally appeared, his usual jovial expression replaced by a serious, almost grim countenance.
"Over twenty scout missions have been posted. Three-quarters are missing persons cases. Two to seven people per case. That's over sixty disappearances in just a few days." he reported, the weight of the numbers heavy in the morning air.
"I've picked a D-rank recon mission nearby. Good leads, should be… doable." Jacobs said, his voice lacking its usual confidence.
In this world, power was tiered by Rank, but danger was graded from F to S. F and E were petty crimes or simple beast exterminations. A-rank missions could shatter small nations. S-rank, entire empires.
A collective sigh of relief rippled through the group. Recent missions had been growing increasingly perilous. Zephyros, the mighty nation they served, was facing a crisis of unprecedented scale - external threats lurking in the shadows, internal unrest simmering beneath the surface, clandestine black guilds operating with impunity, and terrifying anomalies defying explanation were stretching the army to its breaking point.
"We'll head to the supply depot, stock up on extra gear. Gather back here in fifteen minutes." Jacobs ordered, his tone sharp, brooking no argument.
Though Jacobs often cloaked himself in jokes and camaraderie, when the line was drawn, he was all business - an elite Rank 3 leader, a formidable blend of raw power, hard-earned experience, and keen intellect.