Mob_Siko

In a sprawling fantasy world called Eldrenvar, where towering sky-cities float above a scarred wasteland, power belongs to the "Gifted"—those born with innate magical abilities called Sparks. These Sparks let them wield elements, manipulate minds, or bend reality itself. The Gifted rule as nobles, warriors, and gods among men, while the ungifted toil below in the dust, mining Etherstone to fuel the sky-cities’ levitation.
Follow Tomas Kael, a 28-year-old laborer from the wasteland town of Dustcrag. Tomas is no hero—he’s a wiry, sweat-soaked grunt who hauls Etherstone 14 hours a day. He’s got no Spark, no lineage, just calloused hands and a stubborn belief: hard work beats talent. While the Gifted coast on their powers, Tomas trains relentlessly—running laps with stone sacks, swinging a pickaxe until his muscles scream, studying old texts by candlelight. His dream? To climb to the sky-cities and prove an ungifted man can stand equal to the elite.

The Grinder’s Blade(DROPPED)

The council's verdict sent Tomas to a barracks beneath Solvaris's arena, a stone cell with a cot and a view of the training grounds. Sereth was whisked away—her shard, her status pulling her elsewhere—leaving him alone with his pack and his thoughts. The arena loomed outside, a coliseum of marble and Etherstone, its roar a distant pulse.

He dropped his pickaxe, stretching his bruised shoulder. The climb, the fights, the council's scorn—it weighed on him, but he shook it off. Hard work beats talent. He'd prove it here, or die trying.

Footsteps echoed. A girl entered—slight, with dark hair and a faint Spark glowing at her fingertips. "Tomas Kael?" she asked, voice soft.

"I'm Elara. Sereth sent me. Said you're… different."

He snorted. "Different's one way to put it."

She smiled, tentative. "You're in the trials tomorrow. Beasts first, then Gifted. I'll train with you—if you want."

Tomas eyed her. "Why help a Dull?"

"Because I don't think you are," she said. "Just ungifted. There's a difference."

He shrugged, grabbing his pickaxe. "Show me, then."

They stepped into the yard, a ring of sand and stone. Elara conjured a breeze, testing his reflexes. He dodged, swinging his pickaxe, adapting fast. She nodded, impressed, and they drilled—hours of blocks, strikes, and footwork. His muscles burned, but he pushed harder, sweat soaking the sand.

By nightfall, a rival appeared—Gavric, tall and smug, his Spark a whip of shadow. "The Dull thinks he's a warrior," he taunted, lashing out. Tomas parried, grit outmatching flair, driving Gavric back.

Elara clapped. "You'll do fine tomorrow."

Tomas grinned, tired but ready, the arena's shadow a challenge he'd meet head-on.

Chapter 9: The Arena’s Shadow