The chamber of the Five Guilds lay in the heart of Ul'dah, carved into stone that was older than the city itself. Its domed ceiling arched high, gilded lanterns spilling warm light over polished tables of oak. Maps, aether-scrolls, and ledgers of trial results cluttered the surface, but none of the masters had touched the wine or bread brought to ease long councils.
There was too much to discuss.
The memory of the collapse hung heavy in the air — five portals shattering into one, the aether screaming as if the world itself had cracked. The monster that had emerged was no simple trial beast, but an abomination stitched from all five challenges: armored scales of Thanalan's scorpions, burning claws from the Black Shroud's sprites, wings of Gridania's wyverns, fists like a pugilist golem, and the roaring maw of a sea-beast from Limsa's coast.
Five guild initiates had stood against it.
Five, who should have been overwhelmed.
Five, who should never have fought together.
And yet they had prevailed.
Jenlyns of the Gladiators stood first, armored as though still in the arena, though his brow was furrowed with unease.
"Do you all understand what happened that day?" His voice rang against the dome. "The portals should never have touched. Each trial is bound to its guild, its beast confined to its own aether. But they crumbled. They merged. And what rose… gods above, no initiate should have faced such a monster."
E–Sumi–Yan, serene even here, folded his long sleeves, his masked face unreadable. "The flow of aether was twisted, knotted, as though fate itself forced them together. Yet, instead of breaking beneath such strain, those five adapted. They drew upon one another's strengths as though it had always been so."
Hamon Holyfist slammed his fist onto the table, sending parchment flying. "Hah! Adapted? They thrashed it! I've not seen fists, blades, or spells strike with such fire in decades! Did you see the young man with the bastard sword? He guarded his companions as if he were born a Paladin, though he bore no shield!" His face broke into a grin despite his age. "Champions, the lot of them!"
Ywain of the Lancers leaned forward, his sharp eyes shadowed with thought. "Champions, aye, but champions with a weight we do not yet comprehend. When the beast fell, its aether scattered across the chamber, and I saw it — their forms shifting. Did you not see? They changed."
"Changed?" echoed Wyrnzoen, the Marauder master. His voice was rough as salt-air and iron.
Ywain nodded. "That sword-bearer — a Paladin without a shield, yet holy fire clung to his every swing. The healer — her staff bloomed with lilies, her conjury far beyond a novice. The elder pugilist, fists wrapped in aether like steel gauntlets. The prince-like lancer, leaping with dragonfire. And the quiet Marauder boy — axe and shield both in his grip, fighting as if born to stand against tides."
The room fell silent, the guildmasters recalling the sight.
Jenlyns broke it, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. "They are no longer mere initiates. In one trial, they became more. Paladin. White Mage. Monk. Dragoon. Warrior. Titles not lightly earned."
The weight of awe and dread mingled.
Jenlyns's pride warred with suspicion. He had seen gladiators rise, but never transform so quickly.
E–Sumi–Yan felt the tremble of the Twelveswood even here in Ul'dah, whispers of elementals disturbed yet strangely soothed.
Hamon laughed, but behind it was envy — he, too, remembered being young, when his fists burned with endless vigor.
Ywain, more cautious, feared what such strength would mean if unchecked.
Wyrnzoen's heart stirred with respect, but also a sailor's wariness — storms gifted power, but also destruction.
Jenlyns finally asked, "So what now? Do we bind them as a party, shape them into a company of champions under our banner? Or do we scatter them, let each forge their own tale?"
E–Sumi–Yan's voice was soft but certain. "The forest whispers caution. Together, their strength is bright but blinding. If they are to endure, each must first temper their soul alone."
Hamon slammed his fist again. "Solo, I say! Let the wind carry them! A true fighter learns not in shadows of comrades but in the blood on his own knuckles!"
Ywain inclined his head. "A lancer's leap is his own. If he falters, it is no one else's burden. Solo."
Wyrnzoen crossed his arms. "A warrior tempered by solitude is unbreakable when the shield-wall comes. Solo."
At last, even Jenlyns bowed his head. His voice carried reluctant respect. "Then solo it is. They proved their worth together. Now, let them prove it apart."
E–Sumi–Yan spread his hands, finality in his tone. "Then it is decided. They shall adventure on their own, for now. Not forever — but until their legends demand reunion. Each will carve a path worthy of Eorzea itself."
The masters exchanged glances, the decision sealed.
Zack, once just another gladiator hopeful, now walked as a Paladin in all but name.
Aerith, the gentle conjurer, had bloomed into a White Mage whose touch restored more than flesh.
Galuf, the laughing elder, struck like a true Monk, his fists a storm.
Noctis, the quiet drifter, leapt with dragonfire, a Dragoon awakened.
Reks, the forgotten soldier, bore axe and shield as a Warrior, anchoring all.
They had come to Ul'dah, Gridania, and Limsa as strangers. They left the trial as heroes.
The council adjourned, lanterns flickering as one by one the masters departed. Outside, the desert winds carried sand across the stars, the night alive with unseen currents.
And across Eorzea, five new heroes prepared to walk alone — their fates diverging, yet tethered by bonds none of them could yet name.
"Solo paths," the guildmasters had decreed.
Solo paths, until destiny called them together once more.