A letter to a writer:
Thank you for 20,000Someone who has read this novel promises you something better is coming.
Golden threads of sunlight brushed against the leaves, piercing the dense green canopy and painting dancing patches of light across the forest floor. A gentle breeze carried a soothing chill, healing the wounds in Keelin's soul that had yet to close. He had chosen the forest carefully; it was the only place that granted him the peace he lacked, far from the noise of people and their whispers that reminded him of Ilthra's tragedy every time.
He began running with burning enthusiasm, his chest rising and falling in a rapid rhythm. The desire to reach the third level was no longer just an academic ambition—it had become a necessity for survival.
"I must open the Eye of the Spirit… I must see what others cannot," this obsession pushed him forward.
Gradually, he slowed until his pace became a calm walk. The crunch of dry leaves under his boots and the brushing of his clothes against the tall grass were the only music in that beautiful emptiness. The forest was vast, teeming with quiet wildlife—birds chirping melodies he had never heard in the city, and pure air filling his lungs with raw aether energy.
"I think I'll be able to reach the third level here," Keelin muttered to himself as he wiped sweat from his forehead. A sudden fatigue settled into his body; he had exhausted himself sprinting since entering the gate. He decided to take a short rest to gather his thoughts and plan a permanent training spot.
He leaned against the trunk of a massive tree and sat on the grass, staring at the patches of blue sky visible between the branches. Dark thoughts returned to attack him—the image of the beast with the large red eye, and the scarred man swallowing his friend's heart.
"The academy never taught us anything about the kingdom's true history," he thought bitterly. He remembered Hanabi's words about the "Great War" between humans and demons, and how the legendary king, Farnis Alencoro, had been the hero who ended it.
"Was that scarred man a demon? Or a member of some organization that worships them?" he wondered quietly.
A sudden rustling sound cut his thoughts. A small squirrel skillfully climbed the tree beside him. Keelin laughed bitterly as he watched it.
"I have to become stronger, my friend… strength is the only guarantee I won't end up another victim."
He stood up, dusting off his back, and looked sadly at his academy uniform, which had already begun to get dirty.
"Damn… these fancy academy clothes will look like my old torn ones in a few days," he muttered sarcastically as he ventured deeper into the forest searching for a water source or a small cave.
On the other side—
While Keelin sought peace among the greenery, Janero was battling gravity in the "Rocky Plains Zone." The sun there was harsher, and the wind hurled sand into the eyes. He was climbing one of the towering mountains that nearly touched the clouds, his hands dripping with blood. The sharp rocks had torn his fingers, yet he didn't stop.
"I must become stronger… I won't let myself be the burden again," Janero whispered with every grip he tightened on the stone. The distance between him and the ground was enormous, the houses below looking like grains of sand. One slip meant death.
He reached a critical point near the summit. He stretched out his right hand to grab a protruding rock, but the moment he put his weight on it, the rock shattered in his hand. His balance slipped, and gravity pulled him toward the abyss. Desperately, he tried to grab another rock with his left hand, but it was too smooth, and his bloody fingers slid off.
At the moment Janero saw death opening its arms, he felt a steel-like grip seize his wrist with overwhelming strength.
"Hold on tight, boy! Don't lose hope now!" a deep, dignified voice shouted.
Janero was pulled upward with incredible force until he landed safely on a wide rocky ledge. His entire body trembled, adrenaline surging wildly through his veins. Slowly, with tears forming from the shock, he raised his head to see his savior.
The man was tall and imposing, radiating authority. He wore spotless white clothes untouched by the mountain's dust, and his hair fell calmly over his shoulders. In his other hand, he carried an old leather-bound book, as if climbing mountains were nothing more than a stroll through a library.
"Are you alright, boy?" the man asked in a calm tone that soothed Janero's terrified heart.
"Y-yes… thank you… I saw death with my own eyes," Janero replied, trying to catch his breath.
The man glanced at Janero's attire. "What brought you alone to these dangerous heights? This mountain shows no mercy to beginners."
"I'm here for an exam," Janero said while trying to stand. "I must reach the third level to prove myself at the academy."
The man smiled mysteriously, as if the word caught his interest.
"An academy? You mean the one at Arcanum Peaks?"
Janero nodded. "Yes, I'm from Section B."
The man slowly closed his book and extended his hand.
"It's a pleasure to meet you then. My name is Soren… one of the Five Philosophers."
Janero's eyes widened. In this world, the word "Philosopher" didn't mean wisdom alone—it meant unimaginable aetheric power.
"And what is your name, brave one?" Soren asked.
"My name is Janero," the boy answered.
Soren nodded. "A fine name… but what is your lineage? In our world, lineage defines a person's essence. Names may repeat, but origins remain constant."
Gathering his strength, Janero replied proudly, "My lineage is Barnelig."
Soren's eyes gleamed strangely, as if he had heard a name that echoed through history.
"Then I am truly honored to meet you, Janero Barnelig. It seems fate did not bring me to this peak by mere coincidence today.