Within the ruins of a long-lost civilization buried deep beneath the earth laid the remnants of a country that once served a goddess who worshipped the taste of blood.

In the crevasses of the ancient forgotten necropolis, life stirred. Or to be precise, it was only a single life that stirred while the rest of the movement were that of the walking dead.

A lone figure in a ragged and aged cloak slowly made his way up a spiraling tower. With his dark-hooded figure, half-decayed clothing, and the way he used his staff like an old man would use a cane, it would be easy to assume that this person was an ancient being that was on his final days of life.

Yes, that was the impression the Necromancer Telsin gave off to those that were fortunate, or perhaps unfortunate, enough to catch sight of his figure. There were none that knew what lies beneath that drooping hood, or it would be better to say that all of those who had seen his visage no longer existed in the world.

There were rumors, of course. The stories whispered among mothers to their disobedient children. Many believed that as one who has mastered undeath, the Necromancer was much like the monsters he commanded, and beneath the dark hood, one would see the paleness of white bone, hollow sockets, and an unearthly grin that only a human skull would have.

Some believe that the Necromancer was a mortal that was bestowed a curse. Doomed forever to walk the world, he sought to conquer death by becoming death himself. The most foolish of adventurers would remark how they would be the one to bring such a person to their demise and end the curse once and for all.

Of course, there were also those that believed the Necromancer was not a man, but a magical beast. They believed that the Necromancer was originally an undead monster that survived for hundreds of years, eventually gaining sentience as it passed into the realm of Divine Beast, and such was the reason why he always wore a ragged cloak.

Then there were the few that had an inkling of what and who the Necromancer truly was. These were the Divine Beings or Beasts that had dealings with the enigmatic individual. From those tense encounters, they learned two things.

One -- The Necromancer was a man, or at least took the persona of one. The voice beneath was unmistakably male, yet it was dry and raspy as if he had not drunk a single drop of liquid in years. It wasn’t far fetched to describe it as guttural and inhuman, yet it was said that his mastery of languages was second to none -- given of course, you could make out his words.

Two -- The Necromancer was an alchemist of sorts. This was knowledge restricted to only those that had dealings with the individual in person. It was whispered that the Necromancer slaughtered a noble family just to gain access to an once-in-a-century ingredient after they refused to hand their heritage over. Yet, at the same time, it was well known that Necromancer paid handsomely -- even to the point where he would gladly assassinate others if the allure of the reward was enough to even spark his greed.

Necromancer Telsin did not know of the stories and tales that were told about him. As he continued to travel up the spiraling steps and neared the tip of the tower, his gait slowly increased in pace and exuded a vigor that one would not think possible for someone of his stature.

He soon arrived at the highest point of this dead necropolis, a gigantic flat disk that say atop a thin spire. In the past, ancient maguses would battle here, fighting to prove themselves so they may sacrifice the other to their goddess. It was on this disk that the Necromancer stood, looking at the legions of the undead that occupied the forgotten city..

This necropolis was a graveyard, and to many, it would be apparent why the Necromancer would be in such a place. But as he stood and gazed at the dark place that was illuminated by teal-green crystals, it was evident that he had not wished to be here.

The object of his heart’s desire wasn’t here after all.

Yet he had still commanded his undead to continue tunneling down to this place, and the reason for that was what many would have speculated -- to gain more troops.

What they wouldn’t have guessed is the reason why he would need more troops.

As the Necromancer gazed off into the distance, one of his gloved hands reached up and touched at the wooden mask that covered his face. For centuries, this mask was always in pristine conditions due to its magical nature with nary a scratch or dust, but today, there were four large cracks and two small craters on it.

Even the Necromancer had to pay a price to defeat a Divine Being.

Of course, to him, it would have been a lot easier if he was allowed to use whatever methods he please. However, the corpse of that man’s beloved was not in the grave, and he was not allowed to use his son or daughter’s corpse either.

The corpse of a close family member could easily cause a distraction in battle, and in such a high level battle, a small lapse in concentration can decide a victor and loser.

Such were the thoughts that the Necromancer harbored. After all, it was one of the few fights in this decade that had him harbor any feelings of fear or danger. As he held up his pitch-black staff in the air, the faint stirrings of another long-buried emotion started to rise once more in his chest.

Contempt.

Anguish.

Melancholy.

Devotion.

Anger.

And finally, hope.

Now is the time for the departed to walk the earth once more.

And it was all in search of, and for, one individual.

“Councilman Levint is requesting for three additional reserved seats.” Minerva walked into the messy paper-filled conference room toting several letters in her arms. “His wife wants to invite a few guests of her own, from what I managed to understand between the confetti-filled words.”

“Write him back that the prime seats are already full.” Padan, who was diligently reading through the pile of paperwork, replied without looking up. Jaela, who was seated next to him, was in a similar position, except her hands were moving in a nigh-impossible pace writing replies to the letters requesting for an invitation to the upcoming tournament.

“The Holy Land of Ecclisa won’t be sending anyone to participate this year.” Padan sighed. “Quite a shame, they were always the sight in their glittering armor and noble attitude. There were many admirable duelists in their ranks.”

“Why is it that the good ones are always the ones we have to send invitations to?” Curtis scowled. On the other side of the conference room, he was writing out rejection letters while Sime was dutifully assembling them.

“The audacity of some people to want to participate when they don’t even use a sword.” Curtis continued to grumble, holding up another letter. “This man uses a club, for fuck’s sake!”

“Language.” Padan cautioned half-heartedly. He was too tired to scold Curtis, especially since there were still so much paperwork to go through. Curtis continued to grumble, but he made sure to use more neutral-sounding words.

“A lot of important figures didn’t answer the invitation this year. Shouldn’t we just sell the seats?” Minerva asked, frowning. “I’m sure there will be plenty of people who would gladly pay for a prime view of the dueling arena.”

“Unless they replied specifically that they aren’t coming, then we leave the seat open.” Padan shook his head as he got started on the next batch of letters. “I told you last year that we don’t ‘sell’ seats, Minerva. This is a friendly competition, not a grab to make money.”

“We have to make a living somehow.” Minerva grabbed a seat while rolling her eyes. In the blink of an eye, all of the letters in front of her had been neatly sliced open, and the only gesture seen was that of Minerva moving her hand away from the hilt of her weapon.

Normally Padan would scold and shake his head disapprovingly at this act, but this time he pretended to be immersed in his letter and turn a blind eye. The members of the Six Swords were well-respected and perhaps even feared, but few knew of this seldomly seen side-- that is, being a steward for Lord Dumeis.

And that includes managing almost all of his affairs while Lord Dumeis does whatever he wants to do. Whenever there was a big event, they were the ones that dealt with all the logistics, and by no means was it a glorious job.

As the eldest and originally adventurers, Jaela and Padan were quite used to such treatment, so they trudged onward without saying much. The sooner done, the better.

Curtis and Minerva however, only did it with a grudging demeanor. Curtis would complain about how he wanted to practice the sword instead of being cooped up in a room. When he had brought it up with Dumeis, the Sword Emperor had simply laughed and told him ‘the pen was stronger than the sword’. Naive as he was at the time, he had diligently worked through tons of paperwork before realizing there was no real insight to be gleamed.

On the other hand, Minerva, who came from a rich merchant family, had argued that she could just hire servants, clerks, and other man-power to do the deed. Although she was definitely the most skilled when it came to diplomacy and writing, she had all but abandoned those skills once she became one of the Six Swords.

Compared to all of the others in the room, Sime was happily shuffling papers and marking them to be dealt with based on their priority. He was a young boy that disliked conflict, and this sort of work appealed to him more than going around to represent the Sword Emperor.

“Not many people this year that can skip the preliminaries.” Jaela commented as she stamped another set of letters. “The League of Adventurers is occupied in the Kingdom of Four Winds, and none of the S-ranked adventurers has answered the call.”

“Well, at least that man from the Petrified Dragon’s Crypt has been confirmed.” Sime replied, much to Curtis’s annoyance.

“Klaris was quite interested in that apprentice… what was his name, Airen?” Jaela added.

“He is… a strange child.” Padan said quietly. “I am not surprised that Klaris is interested in him, seeing as how she also has displayed experience beyond one’s years.”

“Speaking of Klaris, where is she?” Minerva grumbled. “I’m hungry, and she was supposed to back an hour ago.”

As if on cue, Klaris came bursting into the room carrying enough bags to dwarf her small frame.

It was dinnertime.

On a certain page written in a certain old tome that has not seen the light of day for aeons, hidden away in a vault of knowledge that has been locked from the eyes of man. The words within were written in bold strokes and tiny dashes like the scriptures of medieval monks, and every so often, the trailing words would break off and curve into the shape of a flower.

There are many forms of so-called ‘homes’ that the mightiest of the spirits reside in. But before we delve into their many functionalities and abilities, it is necessary to go over what a ‘Great Spirit’ is.

In the language of humans, there is no word that can directly describe the term that was roughly translated to ‘Great’. In the tongue of the beings from Ava Na Isla, the word has a multitude of meanings, each more complex than the last.

The origin of this term, after lengthy interrogation and coercion from a spirit of wind, is said to come from the birth of a spirit themselves. As reviewed in ‘The Wellspring of Spirits’, a spirit is born from a font of knowledge that differs from, yet still closely resembles, the Archives that the Keepers of Knowledge govern. However, instead of the random tidbits of knowledge those elusive Keepers horde and funnel away from the world, the knowledge of the Wellspring is that of memories and memoirs.

To be precise, it is the memories and memoirs of great people and extraordinary deeds. Much like their existence, they are a race that lives and thrives on epic deeds. It is quite amusing how sometimes the simplest answer was the correct answer.

After all -- the very origin of a spirit is that of a fairy-tale. In death, a spirit will return to the realm of Ava Na Isla, where they become one of the Wellspring. Their memories and deeds will then go on to give birth to the next generation of spirits.

Yet sometimes, so great is the deed, so heroic is the fairy-tale, so memorable is the fable that they become what is known as a ‘Great’ Spirit. These are beings capable of creating miracles -- for their very essence is a miracle.

It can be said that the race of spirits is in decline. It is rumored that they have left their homeworld in search of more stories, and thus they have entered the world of other beings. However, all of this is mere speculation on my part. [The next part could not be made out]

What can be verified however, is that the races of spirits possess what is known today as ‘magic’ and their entrance into other worlds brings with them that power. Further thoughts on how this works can be found in Chapter III of ‘The Sounds of the Spirit’, as well as why they are usually only wield one of the so called four main elements.

Ah, but I digress.

There is no way to describe what a ‘Great’ Spirit is in our language, without the use of the word ‘Great’. Their power cannot be simply measured in battle alone, for in many ways, their very existence leads to shifts in the natural forces of the world. It is unknown how many ‘Greats’ there are, but it is surmised that there is an agreement of sorts between those of similar elements so that their actions do not rend the reality of the worlds they reside in altogether. They will not openly commit evil without reason, and sometimes even serve as tenders of the land they will settle and call home.

The children of Ava Na Isla seem to place great emphasis on life, or rather, ensuring the continuance of it. Usually hidden away in the far corners of the world they call their home, they will seldom make an appearance to deal with a great calamities, regardless of what form those calamities take.

There are many scenarios where their intervention occurred, but the most well known to us involves Ilvea-Urfi Herich, a young Keeper of Knowledge. The cause for conflict is unknown to us, but the resulting battle proved that Great Spirits have the ability to challenge even a Keeper of Knowledge. It is believed that Ilvea’s vault was sought after for containing the very sort of stories that the race of spirits need, but this is mere speculation.

Returning to the concept of the ‘Domains’ that the Great Spirits possess, there are a variety of theories of what they truly are. Many proclaim them to be an extension of their power -- a very persona of what their origin story of birth is like, but after several leaps in logic and guesswork - I believe that this is not to be true.

These palaces, fortresses, castles, citadels, mazes, portals, airships, mini-verse, etc... always seem to appear where a Great Spirit is. In some ways, it is a very extension of that individual’s will -- being able to change forms at command. One particular individual mentioned a floating cube that could transform into all manner of absurd shapes. These ‘spirit castles’ are many things, and there is no doubt of their abilities as well. Not only are they capable of transformation, many come with a garrison -- yet even less is known about what these ‘soldiers’ of the castles are.

Further questioning and investigation is normally necessary, but it is nigh impossible to be able to capture a Great Spirit alive. Besides their great strength, not only they can self-destruct, all Great Spirits are capable of returning to Ava Na Isla at any time, although it is guessed to be a one-way trip.

The history of the land of spirits, Ava Na Isla, is itself no doubt a great tale, yet there are few humans that have ever managed to enter that plane. The few who have managed were once known as enchanters. Refer to the tome ‘On Enchantments and Enchanters’ for further explanation.

The Great Spirits ...

[The page ends there.]

Desolate Tundra, Stone of Cuava.

“This isn’t right. We should be honoring our agreement with the Holy Land of Ecclisa, and be riding to assist.”

Two men could be seen arguing over a campfire, one of many, in the middle of a camp. The surroundings were quiet, as if all of the populace of the camp was listening to the conversation. There was a serious atmosphere as it should be, for this was a conversation that would decide their futures.

“The elders are dead. There is no reason to abide by their old ways!” The young man continued to insist. “Why must we wander these blasted and cold lands, forever haunted by those abominations?”

There was a murmur of assent in the crowd. Many of them had watched as their parents, or grandparents, sacrificed themselves so they could survive. This land was far too dangerous for life.

“I say we sell the animals. Start life in the south. All of us have been trained in the use of the bow since we were children. Even if we cannot rely on others, we can always rely on our bows. We can become mercenaries on the side.”

“...It is not our way.” Eckard shook his head. “I used to be just like you, young and believing I was invulnerable. I, too, made a journey to the south to see the world for myself.” Eckard’s words quickly hushed the dissenting crowd, which consisted of the naive young.

“It is not so easy to cross the borders as you think. As soon as we approach, they will send their armies at us, thinking that we are legions from another country. Who would simply allow a group as large as ours to simply pass?”

“If we split up to slowly pass through one by one… We will become prey for slavers, recruiters, and various other factions that mean us harm. You said it yourself that we are proud and strong archers, and that alone is a value for others.”

“And above all. Where will we go?” Eckard said quietly. “To the Kingdom of Ecclisa, who believe in the righteousness of their god and nothing more?”

“Or to the Whitefrost Mountains, a place not suitable for human life and is colder than even these tundras?”

“Or will we go to the Kingdom of Macha, who will no doubt recruit us into their army? Will you have our children become murderers?”

“Or will we go to the Heroes’ Desert, where great beasts roam the sands of a graveyard?”

“Or to the Red Slate Republic, where we will live in poverty and fear of being enslaved?”

“Where then, shall we go? Tell me, Allen.” Eckard’s words sounded lonely, but with a hint of anger. “How will we make our way through the armies of men and monster?”

Silence hung in the air as Eckard’s words rang through the silent Shepherd camp.

“If you wish to go, then by all means. Go.” Eckard said flatly. “Go out into the world and find yourself a place. And if you fail at all else, you may return here, if we are still here.”

“That too, is your choice.”

“...” Eckard suddenly went quiet, and only a few that knew him well enough was aware of what he was actually thinking about -- the two visitors from a distant land. Many have forgotten, but there were still a few who remembered the prophecy their elders told them,

“But if the stories are true, then irregardless, our time is coming.” Eckard said quietly.

Within the Archive.

Fieluri made her way through the depths of the Archive of the Ancients, passing thousands of books that contained long-lost knowledge. These were tomes of knowledge that many would have died in search of, yet Fieluri simply passed by them without a glance. Here they have been filed and archived away, and here they will remain until the Archive passes on.

Some might believe that that the reason Fieluri could pass by these books without glimpsing at them was because she had already read them all, after all, she was the Keeper of this Archive, was she not? But the truth was something very far from that belief, a truth that was both technically correct, and incorrect.

She weaved through those endless shelves and hidden corridors, passing all manner of objects from statues to paintings to murals to displays with all manner of creation within them. If there was any similarity, it was that all these things belong to her -- no, it would be more correct to say that they belonged to the Archive.

If there was anything out of the ordinary, then it was the atmosphere that surrounded the History Eater. There was none of the usual nonchalance or bored look, none of the lazy shuffling movement of an individual that could not be bothered to walk from place to place and used magic instead. Her movement was far from casual, and was instilled with a great purpose.

She was, after all, going to a location in the Archive that she had even went as far as to seal with magic into a different realm, both for her own sake, and for the sake of the Archive. She first moved to the great telescope that was a Kaleidoscope of her memories, where she reached into the ivory-white surface and pulled out a marble.

It was a pretty little thing at first glance, bound to capture the heart of any child, yet at a closer look, it seemed like a space, for it was literally a vast, empty void speckled with brilliantly-colored stars. What was contained within the strange tempered glass that something seemed to draw in all visible light, yet at the same time, it almost emitted it.

Fieluri then turned around and walked in a different direction. This time, back into the depths of the Archive, between ancient shelves of books that have been opened for aeons. One might wonder why she had gone through the trouble of fetching such a small item, but the reasoning wasn’t anything peculiar or part of a special process.

She had simply forgotten that she needed this spatial marble to get to ‘that place’. In fact, the solemn and somber atmosphere had dispersed the moment she realized she had forgotten the pearl-like artifact. Even now, as she walked back to the lattice-stone arch that was pried from a different realm, she lightly tossed the marble in the air and caught it with her other hand.

A simple and childish gesture, one might say, if not for the fact that had she ever misjudged her catch and the marble were to crash against the floor, a good chunk of the Archive will have been sucked into the void.

It took her ten minutes to arrive at the arch. With her abilities, she could have easily bend space so she arrived in mere seconds, yet she did not do so -- for she was lost in thought. Even now, as she absentmindedly recited a long and ancient spell in a lost and forbidden language, she was still thinking of the things that were to follow.

A dark portal appeared at that arch -- and on the other side, one could make out a pitch black darkness, as well as the brightness of lights that resembled stars in the sky. In many ways, this other realm was a prison -- a prison that was built not just by Fieluri.

Yet it was impossible to know for whom it was built.

Or rather, because the Archive does not contain the living- for what.

Yet it was with the same nonchalance that Fieluri stepped into that void.

After all, it was a deed that she had done many, many times before.

Enough times where she had began to give a name to this fractured world.

Time’s Scar.

League of Adventurer Camp, Desolate Tundra.

Farrel the Crow made his way into the old, run-down building. This depilated, half collapsed ruin had only been recently renovated and moved into, but not by the League of Adventurers.

Farrel gazed around the room, his eyes occasionally landing over the many tents that had been set up by the others that were -- well, like him. Ever since the boundless night fell that fateful week, all of the forward scouts and battlefield observers have been unable to return to the Holy Land of Ecclisa.

Many have tried, but they would eventually be forced to retreat. It was nigh impossible to make any ground when they would be assaulted by Shadowless, Shadeless, or even those strange alien creatures that resembled golems. With the appearance of what many deemed to be even more ‘forms’ of the Shadowless, morale was at an all time low on this side of the veil of darkness.

Having been cut off from supply lines, many of the stranded knights were forced to hunt magical beasts for their meals, or make their way to Greygrave and asked to be housed by the Wuuther Warlocks. It was easy for the few that were trained in wilderness survival-- like the Glade Scouts, Harbinger Crows, or Vitkta Rangers.

The other knights that did not have the survival training were not so lucky. However, since they were reasonable combatants and mages, it wasn’t too hard for them to acquire food.

The problem was that they did not know what it meant to not take away too much. The desolate tundra itself was already quite devoid of life, but with the ever growing number of stranded Knights, it continued to dwindle even further.

“Where are the Shepherds? Shouldn’t they be riding to our aid? That herd of theirs can feed us for months…” One particularly hungry knight could be heard complaining to his compatriots that were huddled around a tiny campfire, one of the few that actually had a flame alight.

Firewood was hard to come by on the Desolate Tundra, and what was used for fuel was monster fat, skins, and occasionally some of the sparse shrubbery that adorned the landscape. The only small comforts offered to these bedraggled men were that no Shadowless assaulted them in their sleep.

“Hey, you there! I recognize you. You’re a crow, aren’t you?” A voice suddenly called out towards Farrel, but he did not heed it and continued to keep walking. It was a standard part of their training to not heed calls of ‘crow’ or ‘spy’ or any other term that a normal person would react too.

It was when Farrel heard the sound of clanking footsteps that he realized there would be trouble. Still, he maintained a surprised demeanor as a gauntleted hand grasped his shoulder and pulled him around.

“Were you talking to me?” Farrel asked, staring at the large man that stood in front of him. His eyes darted over the man’s apparel and armor that marked him as a commander of one of the Mage-Knight Corps, likely one of the earth-magic groups.

“You crows always play stupid.” The man snorted and released Farrel. “None of those tricks now, we are all worn and tired and in dire need of answers.”

“You must have-” Farrel started to argue, but seeing the man’s ragged features and the hope-filled eyes of those that looked in his direction, he fell silent. “... I suppose desperate times calls for desperate measures.”

“I’m the same as you all.” Farrel started, glancing around the room. “I was sent to Greygrave to investigate a few things for the High Priestess in relation to the upcoming war. I have spent months there with little results for my efforts… until one day, I ran across a certain man I have once met before. Hearing this story, I investigated the withered and ancient libraries of Greygrave before I came to a conclusion.“

“With all due haste, I made to return here. This was information that was way above my paygrade. What would be done with this information was not up to me. And thus I managed to make my way back here only to find that shroud of darkness barring the path.”

“....I’ve tried sending couriers, messages, and even invoked the ancient method of communication that is only granted to Knight Commanders.” Farrel nodded his head at commander. “Nothing has managed to get past that veil.”

“I cannot say much for what has happened here, for I have only returned. But I can tell you a little about what I’ve learned in Greygrave.” Farrel’s eyes narrowed. “But mind you all -- if you are to hear what I have to say, you may question the nature of your reality, and what our Church truly is.”

A murmur broke out in the restored building. Many of Knights placed their hands onto their weapons- was this talk of treason and heresy?

“I know what you are thinking-” Farrel said quietly. “-But I will say this because I was very much just like you. Ignorant.”

“Some of you may have heard of the Stormcrow. This story tells the reasons why he turned his back to the Church.”

“Some of your grandfathers and great-grandfathers have told you about the splitting of the dark element individuals from the Holy Land of Ecclisa, creating what we call Greygrave. This story is also theirs.”

“And above all, this story tells the origin of the Shadowless. Or at least, a trace of that story. I was on my way back to confirm it before I was stuck on this side of the veil. Perhaps what is happening is the Goddess’s Wrath.”

“Knowing this, do all you here still wish to hear what I have to say?”

Sometime in the past.

“Come on now, Airen. The great and almighty History Eater is sending you on a quest.”

“As if, you’re just sending me to be your little messenger again. With all your methods and abilities, surely you have some sort of long-distance communication with Cordellia.”

“Why of course I do, but for you- this is a journey. It’s good for you.”

“What’s the point!? What’s the difference!?”

“Why why, what an uncultured savage, to not know the difference between a quest and a journey. If only your teacher can see you now…. Oh wait, he’s probably dead.”

“....”

“I’d tell you to cheer up, but you’ll just sulk and mope and pretend everything is fine. Why don’t you go on an adventure? You did recently get your badge after all, even if the name isn’t yours.”

“... You’re playing with me, aren’t you?’

“A momentary respite from the monotone is good for the mind.”

“Fine, I’ll humor you. What’s with the word play? Journey, trip, adventure, quest…. What’s the difference?”

“Why- a quest is a trip to complete a task. A journey is where the trip is more important than the destination. An adventure is a trip without a destination.”

“And why are you using all of them at once…?”

“Because Airen, my foolish disciple, ask yourself this. Are you on a quest, a journey, or an adventure?”