"Wow."
The captain of the vanguard gazed skyward, awe painted across his face as he beheld the colossal floating island drifting in the clouds.
"It really is as big as they said... I wonder what's up there," he murmured to himself, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight.
"KEEP MOVING!"
A booming voice cut through the still air. The captain turned to see a man on horseback emerge from around the bend. Clad in radiant silver armor, the figure rode with the ease of command.
It was Sir Partey, the commander assigned to this operation.
His armor gleamed under the sunlight, forged from pure Mythril, the rarest and most durable metal known to man. Chainmail cascaded beneath his plated armor, tailored and cut just above the knees to allow for ease while riding. The intricate craftsmanship was unmistakable.
The captain stole a glance at his own equipment. Hanging from his neck was a single sliver of Mythril fashioned into a pendant—his only possession made from the fabled metal. Compared to Sir Partey's gleaming ensemble, it felt pitiful. With a grunt of resignation, he returned to his duty, rallying his squad forward. The vanguard moved as one, with the vast army following behind in steady unison.
...
Far to the north of the Altaira continent, nestled high upon a frozen ridge where snow blanketed the land year-round, stood a vast and imposing structure: the Magicademy.
Built in the shape of a pentagram, the academy featured five towering spires at each corner, encircling a massive central tower known as Mystica. The crystal walls of the towers shimmered under the dancing auroras, their surfaces reflecting hues of blue, purple, and white. The blue-tinted glass gave each spire an ethereal glow, as though the entire place pulsed with magic.
Founded by the great Archmage Malvin, Magicademy was a haven for knowledge seekers from all walks of life. Whether the son of a humble blacksmith or the daughter of a highborn noble, all were equal here. Rank and birthright faded before the pursuit of arcane mastery.
Unlike warriors, who converted mana into raw energy to fuel their strength, magicians learned to draw power directly from the environment. The academy taught five primary schools of magic: Lightning (Northern Tower), Ice (Northwest), Air (Western), Fire (Southern), and Mystic (Eastern Tower and Mystica).
At this moment, a class was in session within the central Mystica tower. The room was dimly lit, save for the radiant bluish aura surrounding a man at the front of the room. His black robe barely concealed the energy illuminating the contours of his form. He was Professor Jord, one of the leading instructors in Mystic Magic.
"...Mystic Magic is neither Air, nor Ice, nor Fire, nor Lightning," Jord explained, his voice calm but commanding. "It is its own unique force. To wield Mystic mana, one must first learn to control one's inner energy."
A hand shot up from the middle row—a smaller student, younger than most.
"But isn't energy and mana different, Professor Jord?" the boy asked hastily.
"Student Harley, correct?" Jord smiled warmly. "An excellent question. Energy is what we are born with—it is intrinsic to all life. Mana, however, surrounds us, fills the air and ground. Pure mana, untainted and undisturbed, is what we call Mystic. Humans cannot naturally access it. What we use is but a remnant. But when one learns to wield their inner energy, they can bridge the gap between themselves and the Mystic."
He paused to scan the room, letting the words sink in.
"To tap into Mystic energy, you must harness the essence within. Watch—"
...Creak...
The door to the classroom swung open, revealing a white-robed elf who glided silently into the room. Her robe was trimmed in light blue, matching her short, snow-white hair. Her eyes glowed like lightning.
She approached Jord, leaned in, and whispered something into his ear.
His face remained unreadable. As she turned and left the room, he cleared his throat.
"It seems we must end today's lecture here. Have a good afternoon. Class dismissed."
Whispers broke out as students gathered their things.
"Wasn't that Eudores, the Head Professor of the Lightning Tower?" one girl whispered.
"I think so. I've never dared go near the Lightning Tower—too many shocks," her brown-haired friend replied.
"She is. That's Eudores, the 'Lightning Elf'—though she hates that nickname."
A voice interrupted from behind them. They turned to see a small girl, maybe thirteen, standing there. She wore a red and white corset dress with puffed sleeves, her hair styled into oversized twin buns—one red, one black.
"Did we ask you, gloom?" the older girl snapped.
The two students quickly gathered their things and scurried out, leaving the girl alone.
"See, Gloom? They're scared of me," she murmured, her large, glowing pink eyes glistening.
A small, round creature floated up beside her. It had only eyes, a nose, a mouth, and a fuzzy brown coat.
"Not everyone hates you," it said softly.
"Reall—" she began, only to be interrupted by a familiar voice.
"Lylia! There you are!"
It was Harley. His tousled blond hair bounced as he jogged over, his bright blue eyes lit with relief. He wore the classic blue mage's robes and hat, staff in hand.
"I told you to stay with me. You had me worried!" he said, cheeks tinged pink.
"Since I'm older and we're from the same city, I should be the one protecting you!" he added proudly, puffing his chest. "Come on. If you have any problems, I'll help."
"Th-Thank you." Lylia beamed, grabbing the hem of his robe as she followed him out.
They stepped into the corridor, where students hustled between rooms.
"Hey! You little rascal! Stop using magic in the hallways! "
" And to his own classmate " shout another girl
A voice boomed behind them. Harley froze.
"There he is!" shouted a girl with newly yellow hair. "He used magic to dye my hair from Red to Yellow!!"
"Run, Lylia!" Harley grabbed her hand, and they darted through the crowd of bustling students.
...
Back within the depths of the academy, Jord stood beside Eudores in a restricted chamber beneath Mystica. Before them lay a strange corpse, part-caterpillar, part-fungal, with hardened, scaled flesh.
"What are the odds this creature came from another world?" Jord asked, his voice low.
"I can't confirm yet," Eudores replied, extending a finger as a spark of lightning danced from it. She poked the creature gently. "But it's unlike anything in our records. We need to send investigators to the Wastelands. Immediately."
Jord nodded, his face grave.
Something was coming—and whatever it was, it wasn't from their world.
---