Thirteen bells rang across the soot-choked sky, each one heavier than the last.
The iron-clad city of Draevenholt exhaled steam from a thousand brass lungs. Smokestacks coughed smog into the air, and rust-stained banners fluttered like dying embers above the 13th District Plaza. Beneath their shadow, a line of wagons screeched to a halt, drawn by mechanical horses with piston limbs and glowing cores.
Inside the last of them, Haron Velric tightened the frayed strap of his satchel. His coat—hand-me-down, two sizes too large—swallowed his wiry frame, and his boots were patched with copper wire and cloth scraps.
He looked out the slit of a steel grate as the colossal silhouette of Verdict Spire loomed into view—an ancient fortress-turned-dungeon housing the city's most sacred trial.
Today's the day, he thought, fingers twitching in his lap. Either I return with power… or not at all.
His mother's cough still echoed in his mind, raw and wet with rot. Hollowlung Fever—a lingering death born from dungeon miasma. No known cure… save for the rare [Soul-Ash Serum], priced higher than most homes in Draevenholt.
And Lyra—his little sister—deserved better than life in the soot. She wanted to become a Chronoscriber, a class known for mastering time-sight and logic manipulation. A job of prestige, clean clothes, and heated rooms.
But for that, she needed tuition.
And Haron needed power.
The wagon hissed open.
They stepped out onto blackstone tiles that steamed with residual heat from the underground vents. Trial candidates gathered—ninety-three in total. Boys and girls from across the city, draped in Bureau-issued cloaks bearing copper filigree. Most were noble-born or guild-sponsored. Their boots were polished. Their eyes sparkled with hope.
Haron stood among them like a moth in a nest of wasps.
To their right, Verdict Spire towered. A cyclopean structure of blackened steel, brass veins, and ancient sigil-etched gears, it pierced the clouds like a spear. Its base thrummed with arcane energy—the dungeon within was alive, awake.
A line of guards clad in Drazer Reaperplate stood to the sides, each holding a halberd crowned with silver flame. Their eyes, visible behind segmented helms, watched with a hunter's detachment.
Then, from within the Spire, a new presence emerged.
She walked with weight. Not from mass—but from power. Her armor hissed steam at each step, gilded pauldrons etched with her rank: Warden-Class Drazer, Evalyn Strathmore.
A voice amplifier clicked on at her throat.
"You stand at the gates of your future," she said, her voice metallic and cold. "Some of you will emerge marked, ranked, and ready to serve. Others will not. Your fate will be decided not by your name or coin—but by your actions."
She paused, surveying them all.
"And by your worth."
The gates screamed open, revealing a slow-descending lift carved from bonewood and lined with arc-light filaments. One by one, they entered. Haron stepped last, his heart pounding like the pistons of the city's engines.
As the platform descended into darkness, a soft chime echoed in his ears.
[SYSTEM INITIALIZING…]
A flicker of blue light spread across his vision.
---
╔═══════════════════════════╗
║ SYSTEM INTERFACE BOOT ║
╠═══════════════════════════╣
║ [User ID] Unknown ║
║ [System Core] — Missing ║
║ [Classification] — NULL ║
║ [Evaluation Status]… Err ║
║ ║
║ ›› ERROR 014: System Mismatch Detected ║
║ ›› ERROR 031: Path Not Assigned ║
║ ›› ERROR 078: Seed Fragment Incomplete ║
╚═══════════════════════════╝
---
Haron blinked.
What the hell is this?
The other candidates were murmuring, their own eyes glowing faintly as proper [Interfaces] unfolded before them.
A boy beside him grinned, swiping at the air.
"[Category: Sentinel Class]! I got shield mastery!"
A girl squealed. "Mine's a [Mystic Artisan]! I can enchant cloth already!"
Around him, everyone received smooth, clear messages. Haron's, however, continued to flicker—glitching in and out like a broken lantern in the rain.
Then, a final line etched itself across his vision.
[INITIATE: Trial of Origin]
No class. No core. No rank. Just this.
And before Haron could process what that meant—
The lift lurched, and the darkness swallowed them all.