The moment George stepped through the shimmering archway, it felt as though the world itself turned upside down. The stone platform beneath his boots dissolved into motes of golden light, and suddenly he was falling—not into darkness, but into a sea of sunlight. Wind roared in his ears, tugging at his coat, whipping his hair back as the ground spun far below. Only… it wasn't ground.
An ocean of clouds rolled lazily beneath him, their edges catching the glow of the sun until they looked like mountains carved from pure gold. Between those clouds hung colossal islands, floating effortlessly in the endless sky. Each one was shaped like a piece of shattered land pulled from some forgotten continent—some jagged and mountainous, others lush with green fields and rivers that poured straight off the edges, the water turning into glittering mist before it vanished into the blue.
On the closest island, a sprawling arena of white stone gleamed like polished ivory. Its walls curved in a perfect circle, crowned with banners that snapped in the wind—deep blue cloth embroidered with silver wings. The air around it shimmered faintly, as if wrapped in a spell to keep it aloft. And above the arena, flocks of strange bird-like creatures wheeled lazily, their wings trailing sparks of light.
George's eyes widened. "This is… Skywars?" he breathed.
The voice beside him—deep, steady, and just slightly amused—replied, "Not even close to all of it." It belonged to the chaser, the man who had brought him here.
The chaser lifted a hand, and for a moment the clouds seemed to pull back like curtains, revealing more. Dozens—no, hundreds—of floating islands stretched to the horizon. Some were no bigger than a cottage, others were the size of cities. On one, George saw what looked like a dense forest of crystal trees, each branch refracting light into a rainbow. On another, towers of black iron climbed into the clouds like jagged spears. And there—far away—a waterfall of molten gold poured endlessly from one island to another, casting a warm glow over everything nearby.
But what caught George's attention next made his stomach tighten.
Shadows moved. Not on the islands themselves, but between them—ghostly figures flickering in and out of sight. They wore the shapes of people—some tall and broad-shouldered, others small and wiry—but their edges blurred and shimmered, as though they were made from smoke and moonlight. Their eyes glowed faintly, like embers. They hovered near the islands, watching.
George frowned. "Those… they won't attack, right?"
The chaser said nothing. His expression didn't change.
"They won't do anything, right?" George asked again, this time more urgently.
Again—silence.
George swallowed, unsure if that was meant to reassure him or worry him more.
Before he could press the matter, the wind shifted, and the floating arena loomed ahead. A magic circle pulsed faintly in the air, and the chaser grabbed George by the shoulder. "Brace yourself," he said.
A moment later, George's feet slammed into solid ground with enough force to rattle his teeth. His knees buckled, and he staggered forward before catching his balance. The arena floor beneath him was smooth white stone, etched with intricate patterns that seemed to hum faintly under his boots. The stands were empty now, but he could imagine them filled with roaring crowds.
A tall figure stepped into view, his boots clicking against the stone. His hair was jet black and tied loosely at the back, his coat a deep crimson trimmed with gold. His gaze was sharp—like a hawk sizing up prey—and the way he carried himself made it instantly clear he was used to being obeyed.
"My name is Ryo," he said, his voice cutting cleanly through the air. "From now on, I'll be your coach. Whether you rise or fall in Skywars will depend entirely on how well you listen to me. I don't have time for lazy students, so either give me your best… or don't waste my time."
George nodded quickly, though he could feel a knot of nerves tightening in his stomach.
The next days blurred into a whirlwind of practice and exhaustion.
Morning after morning, Ryo drilled him on speed, reflexes, and aerial movement—making him leap across suspended platforms, dodge enchanted projectiles, and fight against the wind itself with bursts of magic. George's muscles ached so badly that by the second night, he fell asleep face-down on his desk in class. He wasn't alone; Max, who had also been dragged into Skywars training, snored softly beside him, drooling on his notes.
Ryo was relentless. "If you can't think with your heart pounding and the ground falling away beneath you," he barked one afternoon, "then you'll never last a single round out there!"
By the end of the week, George could barely keep his eyes open, but something inside him had changed. His steps were surer, his movements sharper.
And then—the day came.
The arena was no longer empty. Thousands of voices echoed through the sky as spectators filled the stands, their cheers rumbling like distant thunder. Banners flapped in the wind, the scent of magic thick in the air. Above the battlefield, dozens of small floating platforms hovered—each one a stepping stone in the deadly game he was about to play.
George stood at the edge of the starting platform, his heart hammering in his chest. Across the arena, his opponent waited—a tall, armored figure whose blade glimmered like liquid silver.
Max leaned over from the sidelines, cupping his hands around his mouth. "Don't fall! I didn't come all the way up here just to watch you splatter!"
George grinned despite himself. His fingers tightened into fists.
The horn sounded.
And Skywars began.