Beneath The Mountain, Above The Sky

The morning sun creeps in through cracks in the stone dorm window. Ash still lines Ronan’s knuckles. His Cinder Coil rests beside him like a sleeping serpent, slightly scorched at the edges from overuse. He sits up slowly, eyes puffy from lack of rest.

His voice echoes inwardly:

“The flames don’t just burn out there. They burn in me. I saw it in their eyes. They don’t need a savior… they need a spark.”

He opens the window, breathes in the air — heavy with stone and heat.

“Relicspire’s Combat Exams… guess it starts now.”

CUT TO: Stone Empire — Mulgrin’s Office

Mulgrin stands in a grand circular room of jagged marble and polished obsidian. A relic-core communicator hums quietly on his desk. He speaks into it, stern, guarded.

Mulgrin:
“The shipment arrived. Fifty-two. Strong builds. Five already collapsed from exhaustion, but the rest will hold.”

Voice (calm, silky):
“Hm… Efficient, as always, Mulgrin. But careful — brutality leaves a scent. And even fire follows the wind.”

Mulgrin (annoyed):
“You didn’t call to quote poems. What do you want, Aurex?”

CUT TO: Wind Empire — Aurex Zepharo’s Chamber

This is the shift.

We see Aurex seated inside a pristine glass palace hovering on a cliffside — all white stone, blue sky, and gold trim. Feathered banners flutter in the breeze. Aurex lounges on a throne-like seat — robe draped lazily over one shoulder. His silver cuffs gleam. His slicked-back, obsidian hair glistens under natural light pouring through towering windows. His smile is faint, eyes sharp — not a ruler, but a predator dressed as one.

Aurex:
“I’m merely curious. The boy… your youngest. Jiro, is it? Does he have a relic yet?”

Mulgrin (off-guard):
“…He does. Won’t tell me what it is. Says I’ll see it during the exams.”

Aurex (grinning):
“Children are fascinating. So many little secrets. And sometimes, those secrets grow teeth.”

He sips from a crystal glass filled with something pale and swirling — clearly expensive, clearly unnecessary.

Aurex (returning to business):
“Anyway. Your delivery is en route. Two crates of crystalline steel. A relic-carver from the Cloudforge. And… ten wind-bound slaves.”

Mulgrin:
“Wind-bound?”

Aurex (still smiling):
“Fast. Obedient. The kind that doesn’t scream when they’re branded.”

His voice never shifts pitch, never raises. Always smooth. Always quiet.

Aurex:
“A pleasure doing business with you, as always.”

He ends the call.

A moment of silence.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

A voice blares from outside with enough volume to wake the dead.

???:
“FIGHT ME, SLAVE BOY!”

Ronan’s eyes flutter open. He sits up in bed, stares at the ceiling for a beat, then exhales through his nose like a man already done with the day.

Cut to: the door creaks open. Ronan stands in loose pants, shirt half-tucked, hair messy. Eyes heavy, unimpressed.

Standing outside is a boy who looks like he suplexes mountains for fun. His arms are crossed, biceps twitching with anticipation, wide grin carved across his face like he hasn’t stopped smiling since birth.

Ronan (dryly):
“...You woke me up to get your ass beat?”

Boy (booming):
“YOU'LL HAVE TO EARN THE RIGHT TO TALK LIKE THAT, SLAVE BO—!”

Ronan (cutting in, already annoyed):
“My name would be more pleasing to hear than whatever medieval insult you're aiming for.”

Boy (shouting over him):
“YOU'LL EARN THAT PRIVILEGE IN COMBAT, NORMAN!!”

Ronan (rubbing his temple):
“It’s Ronan. Not Norman. Not slave boy. Just Ro-nan. Not a hard name.”

Boy (unfazed, electric with excitement):
“WHATEVER! YOU’RE STRONG. I CAN SMELL IT. LET’S THROW HANDS!!”

Ronan (sighs, muttering to himself):
“I really need to move…”

The scene cuts to trees trembling in the wind, a wide circular patch of open ground. Dappled sunlight pours through the leaves. Ronan stretches one arm over his shoulder lazily. Across from him, the battle maniac cracks his knuckles like a pyromaniac in a firework store.

Ronan:
“Still didn’t catch your name, by the way.”

Boy (proudly, grinning like a beast):
“I’M RYKER! THE FUTURE WIND PILLAR!!”

Ronan (blinks, unimpressed):
“...Wind’s gonna be embarrassed.”

Ryker (laughing):
“YOU’VE GOT JOKES?! GOOD. EVEN BETTER WHEN I SMASH YOUR FACE IN.”

Ronan:
“You know, most people introduce themselves with a handshake.”

Ryker (grin widening):
“I DON’T SHAKE HANDS. I THROW THEM!”

Ronan (under his breath):
“…This world needs therapy.”

Ryker:
“READY WHEN YOU ARE, SLAVE BO—”

Ronan (cutting him off with narrowed eyes):
“Call me that again, and I’ll break more than your ego.”

Ryker (eyes flash with excitement):
“OOOOOH—YES!!”

Time folds for a split-second.

Ryker vanishes — then reappears directly in Ronan’s face, grinning ear to ear.

Ronan (eyes widen):
“SHIT-.”

CRACK.

The punch lands. Pure kinetic force. Ronan is launched backward like a missile, crashing through branches, dirt, and bark — finally slamming into a boulder with a brutal CRUNCH.

Ryker (laughing from the clearing):
“WELCOME TO RELICSPIRE, BABY!!!”

Wind rustles through the trees again. Silence... then a stone shifts.

The dust is thick. Rubble from the shattered stone wall settles in crumbling heaps. Leaves float down like snowflakes. Silence… then footsteps.

From the edge of the clearing, Jiro stands—as if he’d been there the entire time.

Jiro (calm, voice soft like a warning):
“He hit you pretty badly. You should probably get up.”

Ronan lies motionless, half-buried beneath stone and dirt. His arms limp, eyes shut. A trickle of blood runs down from his lip.

Jiro stares.

This isn’t pity. It’s curiosity.

He tilts his head slightly, the white in his eyes flickering for a brief second. A whisper of mist stirs around his body, not fully activating — just there.

Suddenly—BOOM!

Ryker (yelling with gleeful fury):
“YOU’RE NOT DONE YET, ARE YOU?!”

He flies in like a cannonball, a dropkick aimed straight for Ronan’s gut — no hesitation, no mercy.

CRASH!

The wall collapses entirely as Ronan’s body is driven through it like a meteor, dust and rock exploding in every direction.

Ryker lands hard, breathing fast but smiling wide, as though he just played the best game of his life.

But when the dust clears…

Ronan is gone.

Ryker (blinks, then snarls):
“Huh…?”

A few feet behind where Ronan once laid, Jiro stands — now empty-handed. Just mist hanging in the air, shimmering faintly, like a fading echo.

Stone Empire guards rush in — four of them, clad in layered obsidian armor, spears in hand. Their faces twist with frustration the moment they see who caused the damage.

Guard 1 (shouting):
“IT’S THAT BOY—RYKER!”

Guard 2 (annoyed):
“One more incident like this and you’ll be banned from the Combat Exams!”

Guard 3 (spits):
“This freak again…”

Guard 4 (tossing shackles):
“Take him away. Now.”

Ryker stands there, arms outstretched with a look of defiance.

Ryker:
“Oh, come on! He was enjoying it!! He was smiling—I think—”

The guards don’t respond. Two of them grab his arms, dragging him away.

Ryker (grinning as he’s hauled off):
“Tell him next time he better hit back!”

A low wind brushes over the fractured battlefield.

Somewhere, hidden from sight, Jiro moves silently through the shadows — Ronan in his arms, barely conscious.

And for the first time…

Jiro glances down at the boy.

Not with cold detachment.

But with the faintest trace of... interest.

The door creaks open quietly. Jiro lays Ronan gently on the couch, his body still bruised from Ryker’s savage blows.

He lingers a moment.

Not out of sympathy.

But thought.

Then he turns. The door shuts behind him with barely a sound.

And like a shadow…

He vanishes.

Fog curls around jagged cliffs like coiling serpents. The mountain rises like a giant’s broken tooth into the heavens, a place spoken of only in half-whispers and legend.

Carved into its base, hidden by snow-laced trees, stands an ancient mansion — silent, eternal, and foreboding.

Jiro walks the winding path alone, the wind slicing across his cheeks. He approaches the titanic stone gate, nearly three stories tall.

He places one palm gently against the cold stone.

Then steps back.

Jiro (clear voice, resolute):
“My name is Jiro Dureth.
I have business with the Mawguard.”

For a moment, nothing.

Then — creaaaak — the gates grind open slowly, revealing darkness behind.

A single figure stands at the center.

At first, only a silhouette.

Then light spills in, chasing the shadow away — revealing a young man, dressed in layered, flowing black, like a wraith sewn from silk. His stance is relaxed, his grin disarming… but his eyes?

They’ve seen too much.

Ezran (warm, amused):
“Hello, Jiro. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.
My name is Ezran Krynn.”

Jiro (wide-eyed, unable to hide it):
“…The author of Krynn Kronicles?”

Ezran (grinning wider):
“A fan, I see.”

Jiro (recovering, skeptical):
“You don’t expect someone of my level to believe that you’ve got five siblings strong enough to rival Champions, right? That book said ‘based on a true story’ but I don’t—”

??? (yawning voice from behind):
“Hey Ez... yawns... who’s the kid?”

No footsteps. No breath.

But he’s just there — towering beside Ezran like a phantom carved from granite.

At least 6’6”, shoulders like mountain ridges, draped in midnight-black fabric that shifts silently with the breeze. A greatsword rests against his back, thick as an oak trunk, covered in old runes.

Jiro’s jaw slackens. For just a moment, he’s not the mysterious prodigy. He’s a fanboy.

Jiro (under his breath, eyes wide):
“…Orik.”

He immediately coughs and straightens up, his expression sharpening.

Jiro (voice cracking back to calm):
“You’re… real.”

Orik Krynn.

The walking mountain.

The blade-bearer said to have split canyons with one swing.

The myth who once stopped an army alone.

He looks Jiro over once, with eyes heavy like stone.

Then grunts.

Orik:
“…Huh. Small.”

“Well, brother. Sometimes the sharpest blades come in the smallest sheaths.”

Jiro (trying not to smile):
“This place… the Mawguard. It actually exists.”

Jiro steps through the grand doors of the Mawguard estate with Ezran and Orik. The massive, cold halls echo with mystery and untold training to come.

CUT TO:

INT. STONE EMPIRE – REGISTRATION HALL – NIGHT

A boy stands hunched over a form, pen in hand. His sharp jawline, cold stare, and familiar eyes make it clear—this is Jinen Dureth, Jiro’s older brother.

He signs the page with deliberate force:

JINEN DURETH

“I won’t let my weak brother stain my father’s legacy as Stone Champion…” he mutters to himself, eyes dark with resolve. “I’ll bring pride back to the name Dureth—even if I have to do it alone.”

CUT TO:

INT. RONAN’S ROOM – DAWN

Ronan jolts awake in his bed, groaning softly. His arms ache, ribs sore—but he's… not as broken as he expected.

He slowly sits up, flexing his fingers. His breathing steadies.

RONAN (internal):
“That dropkick should’ve put me in a coma… but I’m still standing. Guess my body’s tougher than I thought.”

He winces, standing with effort and dragging himself toward the mirror. Dirt, dried blood, faint bruises—but nothing’s shattered.

RONAN (internal):
“Still… I got clobbered. By some loud freak with a hero complex.”

He clenches his fist, a small flicker of heat rippling around it.

“Was he really that strong? He said ‘Welcome to Relicspire’ like he was a damn gatekeeper. If that’s what I’m walking into… then what else is waiting for me in this place?”

Ronan looks at his reflection. Determined. Quietly furious.

“What about Jiro...? He’s like a ghost. Always vanishing. Always showing up when no one hears a thing. Fast? Or... something else? Maybe teleportation? Tch—no. Doesn’t matter.”

He walks to the window, staring out toward the institution’s direction. The wind picks up. The fire inside him flickers with it.

“Whatever this exam is… whatever freaks are waiting in that ring—I’ll be ready.”

“This world’s made of monsters… and I refuse to be prey.”

Wind howls. Clouds part violently.

A stone-crushing boom echoes in the sky as a figure rockets past—Mulgrin Dureth, cloaked in his battle garb, soars through the upper atmosphere with relentless speed. Earth and dust orbit around him, small relics on his person glowing faintly.

This is the first time we see him fly. A reminder.

He’s not just a brute. He’s a Champion.

EXT. FLOATING DOMAIN – ABOVE THE CLOUDS

Floating in the heavens—a monolithic temple-like citadel hovers weightlessly, supported by arcane wind relics. Massive golden spires spiral skyward.

Mulgrin lands with a thunderous impact that shakes the very platform.

He walks into the grand chamber—stone halls shimmering with floating relics, the architecture whispering of ancient wars and divine ascents.

INT. FLOATING DOMAIN – COUNCIL CHAMBER

The seat of power.

A long obsidian table. Four seats.

Only three are filled.

Aurex Zepharo—Wind Champion—lounges with a wine glass in hand, emerald ringed fingers resting on the table.

His robe flows like living silk. His eyes are half-lidded, voice always smugly playful.

AUREX
(chuckling, rich and venomous)
“You’re late, Mulgrin. Very unlike you. Or perhaps I just move faster than a landslide.”

He sips his drink, flashing a crooked, calculating smile.

MULGRIN
(gruff)
“I called this meeting. Don’t forget that, Zepharo.”

Before Aurex can respond, an intense stillness cuts the air.

Footsteps.

Measured. Commanding.

Kaer Sythren enters—the Flame Champion.

His crimson robe ripples as if touched by unseen fire. Every detail on him, from his black hair to the deep red irises, screams earned nobility. His presence is impossibly balanced—refined yet savage. Like a king forged in war.

He says nothing, simply sits.

But his stare alone silences the others.

Aurex’s grin fades for just a moment. Mulgrin shifts uncomfortably.

If there were ranks among the champions, we now see it clearly.

Kaer sits at the top.

MULGRIN
(gruffly clearing throat)
“We’re not here to stroke egos. I called this because of—”

Then—
The air drops.

A wave of electric pressure floods the chamber like thunder rumbling behind your bones.

The camera pans up.

The fourth chair is filled.

Dravok Terynox, the Thunder Champion, is already there. No one heard him enter.

At 7’1, he's massive—shoulders like mountains, arms crossed with tension under his dark battle garb. His entire body radiates stored destruction.

His eyes remain closed.

DRAVOK
(low, commanding)
“There better be a good reason for this meeting… Dureth.”

His voice doesn’t echo. It cracks.

Mulgrin nods, sweat beginning to bead beneath his temple.

MULGRIN
“There is…”

The tension has settled into a simmer—until Mulgrin leans forward, dropping a line heavy enough to crack the room.

MULGRIN
(quietly, but firmly)
“I believe… we’re dealing with another reincarnation.”

A slow, cold silence.

And then—

Dravok’s eyes open.

Twin storms surge in his pupils, silent lightning behind closed clouds.

Even Kaer Sythren turns slightly—not at the claim, but at what’s missing.

His gaze flicks toward the fifth chair. Empty.

KAER
(flatly)
“Where is that woman.”

DRAVOK
(deadpan)
“She never leaves her empire. Don’t expect her.
Reduce your expectations to zero.”

Kaer scoffs quietly, more annoyed than surprised.

AUREX
(swirling his drink)
“We haven’t had a reincarnated soul in… 3,000 years.
Are you absolutely certain, Mulgrin?”

MULGRIN
(gruff, but uneasy)
“It’s not confirmed. But… it’s considerable.
He’s already met two of the five requirements.”

A shockwave of disbelief surges across the table.

ALL (except Kaer):
“TWO?!”

DRAVOK
(rising, voice booming)
“You’ve let it get that far without informing us?
Two out of five is crucial. What is his relic?”

Mulgrin’s jaw clenches. He doesn’t like being shouted at—even by Dravok.

MULGRIN
(lowly)
“I don’t know yet. But once the Combat Exams begin…
We’ll see.”

AUREX
(amused, fingers steepled)
“So. Let’s count. The first requirement—he rebels entirely against the natural order of this world.”

Kaer’s eyes flick briefly.

AUREX (cont’d)
“The second—an 85% synchronization chance with a legendary relic.
So what if he bears a Creation Relic… or a Time Relic…
Or worse… the Destr—”

KAER
(cutting him off, sharp and dismissive)
“No. That’s not possible.”

He leans back, the flames on his robe shimmering.

KAER (cont’d)
“If he had one of those, his aura would crack the sky.
We’d each feel it—individually.
I feel nothing. Not even a whisper.
Which means…” (smirks) “He probably pulled one of the trash pulls.”

AUREX
(grinning again)
“A legendary relic is never trash, Kaer.”

KAER
(quiet, but steely)
“Until it’s in the wrong hands.”

DRAVOK
(firmly)
“Whether or not he has one…
If a reincarnation is truly blooming—we stop it here.
Before it roots.”

MULGRIN
(tight-lipped)
“Let’s wait. The Combat Exams will show everything.”

A heavy silence returns.

And then—

Kaer chuckles softly.

Not from amusement.

But from anticipation.

Waves crash gently against marble piers. The water is impossibly clear, a kaleidoscope of deep blues and shimmering cyan. A fleet of flying manta-rays glides under the surface. It’s the kind of place that humbles even the wind.

We hear a voice—calm but laced with disdain.

VELMIRA (V.O.)
“I don’t have time for meaningless meetings, Clair.
Get out of my face with this.”

INT. SEA PALACE – THRONE HALL

A sprawling throne room forged of coral and glass. Pearlescent light filters through cascading waterfalls. Everything glows—but nothing shines brighter than the woman standing at the center.

VELMIRA THALUN.
The Sea Champion.

Her long, silver-blonde hair dances like ocean foam with every motion. She wears a flowing white dress—not because she’s not a warrior, but because she doesn't need armor. Her presence alone is a defense.

Her eyes are the color of the sea during a storm—beautiful, but dangerous.

A golden tattoo glows faintly on her left shoulder:
A clear number 5.

We haven’t seen numbers on the others. Are they hidden? Or is this… hierarchy?

CLAIR, her assistant, stands nearby. A vision of grace and discipline. Blonde. Pale skin. Eyes closed. Always. But her steps are flawless. Her balance, too perfect.

Is she blind? No… it’s something more.

VELMIRA
(turning, annoyed)
“You know how I feel about those relic-hungry warlords. Let the stone brute and the fire prince posture. They’re obsessed with relic rankings and reincarnated myths—fairytales for insecure men.”

CLAIR
(calmly)
“Still, the meeting was called by Mulgrin himself.”

VELMIRA
(scoffs)
“He’s panicking. As always.”

She walks to a wide window, gazing out over her ocean kingdom.

VELMIRA (cont’d)
“I protect my people. I don’t go playing chess with the other Champions to stroke my title.”

Clair walks forward with silent precision.

CLAIR
“…And what if the myth is real?”

Velmira doesn’t turn. But her fingers curl ever so slightly on the railing.

VELMIRA
(quietly)
“Then let the ocean decide. Not their council.
When the reincarnated one steps into my waters—
I’ll know.”

EXT. MT. VAROKK MAW – NIGHT

The wind drifts like breath through ancient stone. Jagged peaks claw at a violet sky. A long, open courtyard glows under moonlight. Jiro stands at the entrance—silent, steady, watching.

INT. MAWGUARD HALL – CONTINUOUS

They’re all here.

A carved obsidian bench stretches like a throne shared by blades. And upon it:

ORIK KRYNN.
The Warden.
Towering. Silent. His greatsword is buried tip-first in the floor, both hands resting atop the hilt, head bowed, as if in meditation—or judgment.
He doesn't move, doesn't blink. But his presence crushes the air around him like a slow avalanche.

NOCTIS KRYNN.
The Sleeper.
Sprawled upside down on the bench. Sword across his chest, sheathed in pure black—so black it eats the light.
His eyes are shut. He is very obviously asleep.
And no one dares wake him.

SYLAS KRYNN.
The Flash.
Perched perfectly atop his own katana, which is stabbed into the ground. One leg balanced, arms crossed, golden hair flowing like a banner. His smirk is razor-sharp.
He watches Jiro like a cat watches a slow bird.

MEARAMEDY KRYNN.
The Ghost Petal.
Seated at the edge of the bench, back turned to Jiro. She’s the only one not looking. Her sword rests beside her. Elegant. Understated. But every warrior sense screams: she’s deadly.
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, quietly.

MERAM KRYNN.
The Still Flame.
Standing beside the bench. No kimono. Simple clothes. Sword perfectly sheathed. His posture is so composed it looks sculpted. He smiles faintly at Jiro—
—but it’s not warm. It’s measured.

Enter: EZRAN KRYNN.

He walks forward behind Jiro, his boots echoing faintly in the courtyard. Pride in his voice, but not without tension.

EZRAN
“The son of Mulgrin Dureth… stands before the Mawguard.”

A beat of silence.

SYLAS
(still perched)
“He doesn’t look like a Dureth.”

ORIK
(voice like stone grinding)
“Blood is irrelevant.”

MERAM
(softly)
“But will is not.”

MEARAMEDY
(quiet, barely audible)
“…Doesn’t feel hostile. That’s good.”

SYLAS
(grinning)
“If he’s not hostile, he’s gonna die fast.”

Ezran looks at Jiro.

EZRAN
“Well? Say something. You came here for a reason.”

Jiro takes a step forward. His eyes don’t flinch.

JIRO
“I didn’t come here to impress anyone.
I came because I’m done being underestimated.”

SYLAS
(tilting his head)
“You’re in the wrong place for underestimation.
We just don’t care.”

From the bench, Noctis murmurs in his sleep.

NOCTIS
“…so noisy…”

The others don’t react. He’s always asleep.

A faint breeze brushes the torches. Their flames bend—then harden.

[A Month Later]

The wind carries dust across a sprawling land. All five elemental nations have gone still. From city capitals to rural valleys, attention shifts to one location:

The Tournament Stadium.

It’s not a dome.
It’s not a coliseum.
It’s a continent of war.

Wide beyond belief—carved into the earth itself. Battlefields within battlefields. Jagged terrain. Shifting stone plates. Element-reactive zones. From the air, it looks like a living map—a place where relics awaken or fall.

The arena isn’t tall. It’s wide.
Because what’s about to happen… needs space.

Cut to: The Waiting Room.

Silence. 200 participants. All standing.

The pressure is palpable. Breathing too deep might draw attention. Speaking? Risky. Every warrior present either carries ambition—or power dangerous enough to shatter it.

And then, we see them.

→ Jiro Dureth stands like a shadow sharpened into form.
His sword is slung neatly on his back. His eyes? Steady. Quiet. Calculating.
There’s grace in his stillness—evidence of training. His movements are smoother now, tighter. Precision honed under a month of relentless drilling.
But it’s his speed that’s truly terrifying now—he doesn’t just move quickly…
He arrives.

→ Ronan Reeves leans against the wall, arms crossed.
Two blackened chains wrapped around both arms, their tips faintly glowing with a low smolder. Not flame. Not light.
Heat.
His relic’s evolved—and it shows. The air around him wavers ever so slightly. His aura is held back, but the instincts of those nearby twitch with warning.
He doesn’t stand out like the louder participants. But those watching closely…
They’ll know he’s different.

A giant crystal screen buzzes to life above them.
The Relicspire insignia flares bright.

THE GRAND TOURNAMENT BEGINS
200 Participants. Champions watching. Relics awakening.

Fade out on the sound of a horn.