The Beginning

Magic was born into this world long, long ago — so long, in fact, that no living soul could recall a time before its gentle hum suffused the very air they breathed. From the moment humanity took its first faltering steps, magic was there, woven into the threads of their lives as intimately as the beating of their hearts. It illuminated their cities with glowing lanterns that never dimmed, carried voices across vast distances, healed grievous wounds with a tender glow, and made fields flourish even in lean seasons. For most, magic was simply life itself — a gift as natural and unquestioned as sunlight.

There were countless varieties of magic to be found in this sprawling, vibrant world. From the elemental arts that bent fire, water, earth, and wind to the caster's will, to rarer, stranger talents that meddled with shadows, danced with illusions, or called whispers of fate from the void. Magic was as diverse as the people who wielded it, shaped by countless cultures, traditions, and individual spirits.

Yet even as it brought wonder and ease to daily life, the old saying endured: "Power brings chaos."

And chaos did come. Almost as if drawn by the very birth of magic itself, dangers began to crawl out of the darkness, wearing forms so fearsome that the mere mention of their names sent chills racing down spines. Chief among these horrors were three ancient terrors: Aboxoth, Chayula, and General Lioneye. Colossal, abominable creatures, they seemed to exist for the sole purpose of unraveling the fragile peace of the world. Even now, their true origins remained shrouded in mystery. Scholars filled entire libraries with treatises trying to trace their lineage or decode the wellspring of their power, yet all efforts ended in speculation and unanswered questions.

Legends spoke in hushed, fearful tones of what would happen should these three monstrosities ever cross paths. It was said that when Aboxoth, Chayula, and General Lioneye gathered in one place, a dreadful convergence occurred. Their combined presence pulled other vile beasts toward them as though by dark magnetism, creating a seething maelstrom of monstrous hordes. Entire kingdoms had been swallowed by such calamities, their proud banners trampled beneath clawed feet and shattered under thunderous roars. Brave mages had ventured forth to confront these nightmares, hoping their combined might might stem the tide, but none had ever returned victorious.

Still, hope glimmered stubbornly in the hearts of humankind. Among the oldest prophecies it was written that the only true way to overcome these dread beasts lay in uniting different kinds of magic. Fire and water, earth and wind, light and shadow — woven together by many hands and many wills. Throughout history, daring coalitions of mages had banded together to attempt such a feat. Few succeeded; most failed. Fortunate, then, that such dire convergences of Aboxoth, Chayula, and General Lioneye were blessedly rare, the tales of their carnage fading into distant, almost mythical memory for most.

Yet even distant memories cast long shadows. As magic continued to spread its roots deeper into every corner of civilization, so too did the awareness that its wonders came at a price. Fear was never far behind, lurking just out of sight, a cold reminder of the past.

To guard against these ever-present dangers, the leaders of the known world established the Council of Magic, an august body composed of the wisest and most powerful archmages. Their solemn charge was to oversee the use of magic, to regulate it where necessary, and, above all, to protect ordinary people from its excesses and from the monsters that still prowled the dark places of the earth. Under the Council's watchful eye, young mages were gathered and trained, molded into defenders of the realm. They were taught not just to wield power, but to temper it with discipline and compassion — to ensure their gifts would heal rather than harm.

The backbone of this vast endeavor was the system of four great legions, each with its own grand Academy of Magic. Scattered across the world in the cardinal directions, these academies stood as bastions of learning and power. In the east rose the storied spires of Himwarrry, while to the west lay the intricate marble halls of Baewiths. To the sun-soaked south stretched the lush courtyards of Drotora, and to the cold, majestic north loomed the towering keeps of Klosort.

Each academy governed itself with meticulous rules and traditions. They were rigorous, sometimes harsh, demanding excellence from their students in every aspect of magical study. Yet they also recognized a crucial truth: not all people were born with the gift of magic. Those who were, the so-called gifters, displayed an innate connection to mana that allowed them to channel the elements. But the world also belonged to the non-gifters, whose talents lay elsewhere. Far from dismissing them, the academies embraced these individuals, training them in alchemy, engineering, and the creation of defensive mechanisms that could stand toe-to-toe with spells. Indeed, some of the most lauded figures in history had been non-gifters whose mechanical genius saved entire cities.

In this way, the academies stood as microcosms of society itself — places where every person, gifted or not, could find their strengths and hone them into something that would shape the world.

Despite their individual prides and rivalries, all four academies shared the same solemn mission: to stand vigilant against dark magic and the monstrous forces that threatened to spill into the realm. Once every year, they even came together in grand contests, testing their students' prowess through dazzling magical duels, mind-bending trials, and contests of invention. While the stakes were high — the winning academy earned both glory and a rare magical artifact — these competitions also fostered a sense of camaraderie, of shared purpose that transcended rivalry. Even fierce competitors might clasp hands afterward, having forged respect through the crucible of friendly combat.

It was into this vast, teeming world of magic and danger that Aether Ryens was born. Just yesterday, he had crossed the threshold of fifteen — the age at which young hopefuls first presented themselves at the academies' selection ceremonies.

Standing in front of his small bedroom mirror, Aether regarded his reflection with a wry, almost embarrassed grin. Auburn-brown hair fell in long, unruly strands down his shoulders, short bangs cutting across his forehead and refusing to be tamed no matter how many times he pushed them aside. His eyes, a curious shade of light-dark blue that seemed to gleam differently under shifting light, stared back at him with a mix of excitement and trepidation. At 170 centimeters, he was neither particularly tall nor short, his build lean yet deceptively strong — a body tempered by countless afternoons spent climbing trees and racing along the sunlit hills outside his village.

"My name is Aether Ryens," he whispered to himself, testing the sound of it as if it might change overnight. "And today… today I go to Himwarrry."

Aether's family bustled about downstairs. His mother, flour still dusting her hands from kneading the morning bread, paused to press a gentle kiss to his forehead. "We're proud of you, you know that?" she murmured, eyes bright though suspiciously wet. His father, tall and broad-shouldered, clapped a hand on his back with a grin. "Try not to burn anything down your first day kid."

Aether laughed despite the knot in his stomach. Soon, he would step beyond the familiar fields and winding streets of home, out into a world that held both dazzling promise and unspeakable peril. The academy awaited — with its soaring libraries, echoing training grounds, and whispering corridors where students from every corner of the legions mingled.

Yet beyond even that, a darker truth loomed. Somewhere out there, perhaps prowling the shadowed edges of civilization, lurked Aboxoth, Chayula, and General Lioneye, along with countless lesser terrors. The Council's proclamations might keep the masses calm, but every child knew the old stories whispered around hearth fires. It would fall to him and others like him to stand firm, to learn not just how to wield magic, but how to master themselves — to ensure that power brought not chaos, but hope.

Welcome to this journey, dear reader. Here, amidst spells that dance like living flame, ancient beasts that haunt the edges of dreams, and friendships that might shine brighter than any magic, the tale of Aether Ryens is just beginning.

And in time, perhaps he would learn that the greatest magic of all was not in the elements, but in the choices of the heart.