Chapter 1. The Welcoming

Chapter One — The Trials of Matsushima

Most who dream of entering Uzononia never make it past the gates. Fewer still survive the years within — but those who do reshape the world.

For over a thousand years, the Academy has admitted only a select few from the Five Regions. Out of hundreds — sometimes thousands — fewer than twenty earn the right to step inside. Graduates leave as guild leaders, war commanders, royal advisors, and pioneers whose names shape history.

This year, sixty-one hopefuls had gathered in Matsushima to face the Trials. Most would leave in silence, dreams shattered. A rare few would board the airships bound for Uzononia’s marble spires.

Among them were four strangers — each carrying their own ambition, each about to step into a destiny they couldn’t yet see… but which had been waiting for them all along.

Those who graduated didn’t just leave as skilled warriors, mages, or scholars… they left as leaders of guilds, commanders of armies, advisors to kings, and pioneers whose names would be etched into history. The Academy’s alumni held the highest seats in councils, discovered lost magics, and shaped the very future of the realm.

Its halls were said to be lined with more than books and training grounds — but with the echoes of the greatest minds and fighters to ever live. Some came to defend peace. Others sought power. All who entered would be tested in ways that broke the unworthy and remade the rest.

But entry was never a matter of wealth or bloodline. Skill, wit, discipline, and willpower — those were the true currencies here. The Trials spared no one, stripping away false bravado and exposing exactly who each candidate was beneath the surface.

This year, sixty-one hopefuls had gathered in Matsushima to stand before the High Council. Most would leave in silence, dreams shattered. A rare few would board the airships bound for Uzononia’s marble spires.

Among them were four strangers — each carrying their own ambition, each about to step into a destiny they couldn’t yet see… but which had been waiting for them all along.

The sun had barely risen over Matsushima’s emerald hills when the city began to stir. Bells chimed softly from temple towers, their tones mingling with the cries of gulls. The smell of salt and morning rain drifted through the narrow streets, carried by a cool ocean breeze that whispered of the sea’s eternal presence.

Four strangers awoke in different rooms of the same seaside inn, each unaware that by nightfall, their fates would be bound together.

The ocean breeze swept through open windows, carrying the scent of the tide and the distant hiss of waves against stone. Morning sunlight spilled across polished wooden floors, marking the start of their first day in Matsushima — the First Lands, where the spiritual and material realms brushed close enough to whisper to each other.

Kol — a dark-skinned high elf from Kezall, short white hair still damp from the misty morning air — rose with calm precision. His lavender eyes, sharp and assessing, caught the glint of daylight through the window. A monk trained in bone-crushing martial arts, Kol carried an unassuming black umbrella that, in his hands, became both shield and spear. Every step he took was measured, his movements already telling the story of a man who knew exactly how the day would end.

In the room across the hall, Georgie stirred awake. Towering and broad-shouldered, with sun-warmed skin and a rugged frame, he looked every bit the dockworker he had been for most of his life. But his story carried deeper scars. Seventeen years ago, when the orcs and githyanki were driven from the world, Georgie’s village was destroyed. He had been a child then, left wandering alone until a lone fisherman found him half-starved on the coast. The man took him in, raised him as a son, and taught him to live as a human. His tusks were filed down, his canines cut short — the last traces of his orc heritage hidden away. Now, with the strength of a giant and the manner of a quiet soul, Georgie prepared for a day that would change his path forever. Georgie was unsure what made him qualify to even be a part of Uzononia, as he was from a just small village the region Rilvos.

Balthazar rises next. Outwardly, he appeared a pale-skinned human with sharp green eyes behind thin silver-framed glasses. But his bloodline carried the subtle, cold-blooded grace of the yuan-ti — hidden beneath a carefully crafted humanoid facade. Those who looked too closely might catch the unnatural slit of his pupils or the faint, serpentine smoothness of his motions. Adopted into a wealthy family in Kezall who never truly cared for him, Balthazar had turned to his own mind for comfort, building devices and arcanic inventions far beyond his peers’ skill. Today, the council would see that his mind could be as dangerous as any blade.

Gaten Roze — human, the black sheep of the prestigious Roze family. While his siblings were hailed as prodigies, he was a constant reminder of imperfection. “Fortunate to be born, but never born fortunate,” his father once told him. That truth had sharpened him into a sly, sharp-tongued wanderer. The only true bond he kept was with his revolver, a silver-engraved weapon gifted by a shadowed patron whose whispers lingered in his mind. Somewhere deep inside, he still carried the memory of Julie — the childhood friend who once stood against bullies for him. She had been the only one to truly see him… though he did not yet know she now served in one of Uzononia’s elite squads.

One by one, they emerged from the inn, drawn by the same call. The streets of Matsushima bustled — monks in saffron robes gliding over arched bridges, market stalls spilling with color and spice, wind chimes singing from rooftops.

Beyond the lantern-lit arches and cherry blossom paths rose the gates of Uzononia Academy. Sixty-one candidates gathered in the courtyard, tension thick in the air. For most, today would be the end of their journey. For a few, it was only the beginning.

The path to the academy’s courtyard was lined with carved stone lanterns. Guards in lacquered armor stood at even intervals, spears gleaming in the sunlight. The great wooden gates swung open, revealing the Hall of Selection — a wide plaza with a raised dais where the Council sat, robes cascading like silk waterfalls.

Candidates filed into lines. Whispers flitted through the air, carrying fragments of nerves, ambition, and arrogance. The headmasters’ table was stacked with parchments, each marked with the Uzononia seal and class insignia.

The scribe called the first name.

Kol Kavern.

Kol stepped forward in silence. “You claim mastery over the body’s vital points,” the Martial Arts Headmaster said. “Show us.”

Kol’s fingers closed around the black umbrella on his back. Ki flared around him, pressing invisibly against the onlookers. In a blur, the umbrella snapped open mid-spin, deflecting an arrow from a conjured dummy before collapsing back into a staff. Three rapid palm strikes burst with white Ki, shattering the target’s chest in splinters.

The Headmaster’s gaze sharpened. “Impressive. That will be all.”

Kol bowed and stepped aside.

Balthazar entered next, adjusting his spectacles. “A mind for invention, a hand for the blade,” the Arcane Master mused. “Let’s see it.”

From his satchel, Balthazar drew a brass-and-crystal device, clipping it to his belt. Arcanic light threaded through the hilt of his short sword, the steel shimmering with pale blue energy. His strikes were precise — a forward slash, a pivoting cut, an upward strike that burst with crackling force. His movements carried a stiffness born of overthinking, but his skill was undeniable.

“Calculated. Controlled. Dangerous,” the Headmaster said. “That is all.”

Georgie was next. The Martial Prowess Headmaster tossed him a massive axe. “Let’s see what happens when you swing.”

The curtain parted to reveal a towering, rune-plated construct. Georgie gripped the axe, muttering, “…just like before.” His posture shifted, a primal growl rumbling from his chest. Then he charged — the axe smashing into the construct’s shoulder, sparks and steel flying. With a spin, he cleaved straight through its chest plate, cracking the glowing rune within.

The Headmaster smirked. “A soft heart, perhaps. But not soft hands.”

Finally, Gaten Roze.

“Ahh… Gaten Roze of the Roze family. We are—”

A thunderous crack split the air as an emerald Eldritch Blast roared past the Headmaster’s shoulder, exploding against the wall.

“Is that enough?” Gaten asked in a cool and cocky way.

“I see… so your powers have finally awakened,” the Headmaster said, the others whispering of his bloodline’s dormant magic.

Another master’s voice cut sharp. “Why should we let you in? What do you bring beyond your family’s name?”

“You don’t know me,” Gaten said, stepping back.

A murmur rolled through the council. One of the older headmasters leaned forward, eyes like cold steel.“Arrogance without proof is weakness. We don’t need another loud mouth who thinks power is a personality. We need warriors who are humble, disciplined, and strong in mind — not some reckless fool with a shiny trick.”

Another master chimed in, voice sharp. “He’s unfit. Uzononia has no room for the arrogant. Let him go back to whatever gutter taught him manners like that.”

The room’s tension snapped as the Principal of Uzononia — a towering figure draped in black and gold robes — rose from his seat. His voice cracked through the air like a whip.

“SILENCE!”

The council froze.

His gaze locked on Gaten, burning through the smirk.“I will allow him to join… but under one condition.”

The hall went still. Even the scribes stopped writing...

'You fight me. And you must last… one minute without getting hit.”

A ripple of disbelief moved through the council. One of the older masters leaned forward. “Sir, that’s—”

“—more than fair,” the Principal cut in, his voice like the cracks of thunder.

Gaten tilted his head, smirk widening. “One minute? That’s all? You should've given me 30 minutes.”

The Principal’s lips curled, not into a smile, but something colder. “We’ll see if you say that when the clock runs out.”

In one fluid motion, he stepped off the high dais — no stairs, no hesitation. The drop was thirty feet, but his boots struck the marble floor without a sound. The impact alone made the air shiver.

The guandao came off his back in a single sweep, its silver crescent edge gleaming under the council’s torchlight.

“Begin.”

The world seemed to explode.

The Principal was on him in less than a heartbeat, guandao slicing in a blur of steel and red silk. Gaten rolled to the side, a crackling Eldritch Blast searing past the Headmaster’s shoulder — but the man didn’t even flinch, his weapon already spinning into another arc.

Gaten fired his revolver mid-roll, bullets glowing with purple runes — clang! clang! — the guandao intercepted each one like they were slow-moving flies.

Violet mist swirled as Gaten vanished — Misty Step — reappearing ten feet behind, revolver aimed at the Headmaster’s back. He squeezed the trigger.

The Principal twisted without looking, guandao’s haft snapping up to parry the shot as his heel slammed into the floor. The shockwave rippled outward, knocking Gaten a half-step off balance.

“Five seconds,” the Principal said evenly.

Gaten’s grin sharpened. “Guess I’ll have to do more!.”

He blurred again, this time chaining Misty Step into a slide beneath the sweeping blade. Sparks flew as the guandao bit into marble inches from his head. Gaten popped up behind him, revolver to the man’s spine —

— only for the Headmaster to vanish in a flash of motion.

A cold whisper touched Gaten’s ear. “Too slow.”

The blade whistled past his face, so close the wind burned his cheek. He dropped low, firing another Eldritch Blast into the floor, using the recoil to launch himself backward and gain distance.

Thirty seconds.

The guandao became a storm — sweeping, thrusting, spinning, every movement faster than the last. Gaten ducked, dodged, twisted — a wild dance of near-misses. Every strike missed him by inches, the force of each swing rattling his bones.

Fifteen seconds.

His breathing came fast now. One mistake, one hesitation, and it would be over. But the smirk never left Gaten's face.

Ten seconds.

The Principal lunged, blade poised to end it. Gaten vanished in violet mist again, reappearing in midair above him — revolver glowing bright as a star. The shot screamed downward — but the Headmaster raised his guandao in one hand and caught the blast. Magic hissed against steel before dissipating like smoke.

One second.

Gaten landed in a crouch, chest heaving. The Headmaster lowered his weapon, eyes still locked on him.

“Time.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

The Principal rested the guandao’s blade on the floor and spoke without turning to the council. “He joins, and no one has a say.”

Murmurs erupted in the chamber, but no one dared object.

Gaten holstered his revolver, still smirking. “Light work.”

Gaten exits through the doors with cocky grin off his face.. Whispering to himself.. "I got this.."

Two hours later, the bells tolled across Matsushima — deep, resonant, and final. The air in the courtyard shifted, a quiet tension settling over the crowd. This was it.

On the dais, the High Council sat in a sweeping arc, their robes like shadows spilling over polished stone. The officer stepped forward from behind them, boots clicking against the marble. In his hand, a folded parchment bore the fate of every candidate.

He cleared his throat, the sound echoing across the hushed courtyard.

Officer: “To all who stood before us today… you came with skill, courage, and the will to prove yourselves. Many of you fought well. Many of you impressed us. But the Trials are not for the talented alone — they are for those who will shape the future of the First Lands.”

His gaze swept the rows of nervous faces.

Officer: “If your name is not called, do not see this as the end… but as the beginning of the road back here. Train harder. Grow stronger. And perhaps… next year will be yours.”

A pause. The parchment unfolded. The courtyard seemed to lean closer.

Officer: “The chosen are…”

The silence was deafening.

Officer: “Gaten Roze.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd.

Officer: “Georgie Sanders.”

Gasps. A few surprised glances.

Officer: “Balthazar Michelin.”

Somewhere in the crowd, someone muttered in disbelief.

Officer: “Kol Kavern.”

The final name struck the air like a gavel.

The officer’s voice deepened. “You four… will not walk separate paths. You will train together, fight together, and rise — or fall — together. From this day forward, you are Squad One.”

The bells rang again, sealing the decree.

The wind carried the final words like a promise.

Officer: “You may step down now. Please gather your things and plan to be by the docks, ready to board in a few hours.”

As they stepped away from the dais, the guards began calling more names from the list — the rest of the squads that would join this year’s class. Behind them, the hum of anticipation returned, candidates holding their breath for their fate.

Meanwhile, the four newly named members of Squad One found themselves standing together for the first time, sizing each other up. Small introductions turned into quiet, cautious conversation as they made their way toward the capital district of Matsushima.

Georgie: "So.. Gaten how's it feel to have magic powers?"

Gaten: "You know how it is. The Roze family? We live up to our damn name." Gaten continues bragging over and over to Georgie.

Georgie just listens nicely. Balthazar and Kol just chuckles behind them, but whispers to Kol

"This guy sounds like he's got serious fucking issues right?.."

Kol shrugs and quietly chuckles, walking under his umbrella.

"Looks like we got an interesting guy on our team."

The capital district of Matsushima had transformed into a sea of color and light. Banners snapped in the ocean breeze, paper lanterns swayed from wooden beams, and the scent of sizzling skewers and fresh sweet buns drifted through the air.

Kol, Georgie, and Balthazar moved as a loose group, drawn toward the noise and aroma like moths to a flame. Children tugged at their sleeves, asking if they were really going to Uzononia. Shopkeepers pressed free treats into their hands, eager to say they’d served a future Academy graduate.

Kol accepted a steaming dumpling with a polite nod, eating in silence while his sharp lavender eyes scanned every detail of the crowd. Georgie’s broad shoulders carried the weight of a dozen friendly slaps from locals who marveled at his strength. Balthazar, ever the observer, took mental notes on everything — from the gear the street performers used to the enchantments woven into the festival lights.

They laughed. They ate. They soaked in the praise.

Gaten didn’t follow.

“You all go ahead,” he said, leaning against a lamppost. “I need to… check on something.”

Kol gave him a sidelong glance but didn’t press. Georgie shrugged and bit into a skewer of grilled squid. Balthazar was already distracted by the clockwork bird perched on a vendor’s stall.

The streets thinned as he headed toward the clang of hammer on steel. The blacksmith’s forge glowed like a furnace against the afternoon sky.

Gaten stepped inside, leaning one elbow on the counter and sliding his revolver free with a spin.
“You see this right here?” he said, pointing it toward the startled smith. “This is a weapon passed down from the Roze family.”

The blacksmith eyed it for a moment… then barked out a laugh.
“Kid, that’s a standard issue sidearm. You can find three of those in the guard barracks down the street.”

Gaten’s smirk twitched. “Yeah, well… I’m looking to trade.”
From his coat, he produced a heavy pouch and dropped it on the counter with a clink — five hundred gold.

The blacksmith’s brows rose. “Now you’re speaking my language.” He disappeared into the back, returning with a gleaming, rare-forged revolver, the steel etched with delicate runes.
Gaten set his old one down and slid the new weapon into his holster, the weight of it promising a sharper bite.

Gaten’s smirk widened. “Now that’s a Roze revolver.”

Gaten left the blacksmith’s shop with the weight of the new revolver resting snug against his hip. His boots tapped against the damp stone streets, the air still heavy with the smell of coal and steel.

He was halfway back toward the festival lights when something caught his eye — a flicker of movement across the crowd, just beyond the lantern glow. A figure in the distance, framed against the rooftops… the way she moved tugged at an old memory he’d buried deep.

Julie.

Before he even thought, his pace quickened, cutting through the thinning crowd, weaving between merchants closing their stalls. He took a sharp turn into a narrow side stair, eyes fixed on the spot where he thought he’d seen her.

She was there — bright white hair, familiar tilt of the head — watching him from the far end of the festival. His chest tightened. Without thinking, he sprinted across the tiled roof, the festival’s glow spilling around him.

Then the tile shifted beneath his boot.

The world tilted.

Gasps tore through the crowd below as he tumbled off the three-tiered drop, crashing through a canvas awning before slamming into the cobblestones. Pain flared white-hot through his ribs, but the roar of the crowd drowned it out.

Vendors, guards, and festival-goers rushed toward him. “Are you okay?!”

Gaten pushed himself to his feet, every breath a knife in his side. He forced a smirk, blood on his lip.

“I’m fine,” he said, voice rising over the noise. “Don’t you know I’m from the Roze family!?”

He spat to the side, standing tall despite the ache burning through his body.

“Nothing. FUCKING. Hurts.”

The crowd erupted in a mix of shock and applause, but somewhere above — in the shadows of the rooftops — the figure he thought was Julie was already gone.

Gaten dusted himself off, ignoring the ache screaming in his ribs, and strolled back toward the festival like nothing happened. By the time he found Kol, Georgie, and Balthazar again, they were halfway through a plate of skewers, the sweet-smoky scent of grilled meat hanging in the air.

Kol raised an eyebrow. “Fall off a roof?”

“Nope,” Gaten said, swiping a dumpling off Balthazar’s plate.

Before anyone could press further, the crowd shifted. A pair of festival officials in gold-trimmed sashes stepped onto a raised platform, the glow of paper lanterns spilling over their faces.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” one of them called out, voice booming through the plaza, “let us all congratulate the future scholars of Uzononia Academy!”

Cheers erupted, the sound rolling through the streets like a wave..

The first firework cracked the sky, scattering green and gold embers over the rooftops. More followed, painting the night in shimmering bursts.

Georgie grinned despite himself. Kol’s lips curved into the smallest smirk. Even Balthazar allowed a rare, quiet nod of approval.

Gaten tilted his head back, watching the explosions bloom against the dark. For a moment, the light caught something else in his expression — not arrogance, not smugness, but something sharper and deeper.

A single tear slid down his cheek.

“I’ll find you, Julie,” he whispered.

Kol blinked at him. “What?”

“Nothing,” Gaten said, wiping his face with the back of his sleeve, smirk snapping back into place. “Fireworks are just… emotional, alright?”

The others stared for a beat, then shook their heads.

Somewhere above, another firework burst — but for Gaten, it was just the echo of a promise no one else understood.

The streets ahead were already alive with color and sound. Lanterns swayed in the sea breeze, banners in Uzononia’s deep blue and gold fluttered overhead. Stalls overflowed with food, music spilled from every corner, and laughter echoed between the cherry blossom-lined avenues.

It was the Festival of Ascension — an annual celebration prepared for those who earned passage to Uzononia Academy. Tonight, the city would feast, dance, and sing in their honor… before the chosen departed to chase glory among the marble spires.

“Uzononia awaits.”

The four stood shoulder to shoulder for the first time, strangers bound together by the council’s decree. The courtyard had nearly emptied, the rejected candidates filing out with heavy steps and downcast eyes.

Balthazar adjusted the strap of his satchel, fingers fidgeting against the worn leather. His mind was already racing — plans, improvements, what he could have done better — anything to quiet the pounding in his chest.

Beside him, Georgie shifted his weight uneasily, the haft of the practice axe still ghosting in his grip. He was nervous, excited… and terrified. Terrified that someone might look too closely and see what he truly was. In all five regions, half-orcs were a thing of outlawed history — and if they found out here, it would be over before it began.

Kol stood apart from the others in posture if not in distance, calm as still water, lavender eyes taking in every detail of the plaza. Every step, every twitch in a guard’s jaw, every shadow passing overhead — he noticed it all.

And then there was Gaten Roze. Hands tucked in his pockets, smirk curling at the edges, but beneath it all was a simmering vow: prove his family wrong. Show them he was more than the failure they thought he was. That meant keeping his pact secret, letting them believe his power came from blood alone. And somewhere in that sprawling academy, maybe… just maybe… he’d find Julie — the girl who once stood up for him when no one else would...

Hours later, the four stood together again — this time on the deck of a great Uzononian airship as it pulled away from Matsushima’s harbor. The wind whipped at their coats, the sails strained against the sky, and the ocean stretched endless below.

It was then Gaten noticed him.

The man stood at the stern where shadows pooled beneath the upper deck. A navy officer’s cloak draped over broad shoulders, the silver crest of Uzononia faintly visible on its clasp. His hood was drawn low, concealing all but the glint of eyes that seemed to weigh and measure each of them in turn.

The airship rocked gently, but he didn’t shift his stance. Didn’t speak. Just… watched.

As the wind tore past, his lips moved. The words were too soft to be heard clearly — almost lost to the roar of the engines — but Gaten caught just enough to feel the weight of them:

"Four threads… bound for the same loom."

Balthazar glanced over, frowning. “What did he just say?”

But before anyone could answer, a passing officer crossed in front of the hooded man. When the deck cleared again, he was gone — as if he’d never been there at all.

The airship’s sails groaned as they caught a new gust, tilting their course toward Uzononia Academy. And somewhere in the shifting crowd aboard, a pair of unseen eyes still followed them..

None of them knew it yet, but the first trial had been the easy part.

And far ahead, destiny waited...