Araceli was a sprawling universe governed by ancient elemental gods and natural cycles of magic. Civilizations rose and fell under celestial signs, and mortals depended on rituals, divine favor, and brute strength to survive. Power was tribal, hereditary, or stolen through conquest.
Araceli was divided into Nine Realms, each shaped by unique forces. Each realm had its own rulers, histories, and arcane traditions—until the System came.
Fifty years ago, System Genesis struck without warning.
A shockwave of glowing glyphs laced the skies. Cities lost magic. Divine temples crumbled. The stars realigned. And then… every sentient being saw it: the Interface.
"You have been integrated. Welcome to the System."
No god claimed responsibility. No seer foresaw it. It was as if a greater law—older than time—had simply awakened and chosen Araceli.
Essence Stones began appearing within dungeon gates, monster cores, meteorite craters, and buried ruins. Some believe they were always there, simply unactivated until the System rewrote reality.
Every person can absorb up to five Essence Stones. Once five are integrated, the System forms a unique Class, fusing the conceptual power into the user's soul.
Classes range from the mundane to the mythic. A baker who collects [Flour], [Fire], [Knife], [Hunger], and [Joy] becomes a Gastronome Alchemist. A noble's son with [Wrath], [Chain], [Steel], [Memory], and [Night] becomes a Vengeant Warden. A death-cultist who found [Decay], [Despair], [Echo], [Mist], and [Flesh] awakens as a Pale Apostle—one of the feared Grey-Class evolution paths.
The guild model boomed as people began hunting Essence Stones and leveling. Powerful guilds monopolized dungeon access. The most elite guilds were even rumored to have System-Linked Administrators.
Ten years after the System Genesis, the very first official mythic-tier dungeon gate manifested, an event that shook the realms of Araceli to their knees and marked a second turning point in the age of the System.
Over 20 elite guilds attempted the Gate in the first week. And 90% ended in casualty. Out of nearly 1,700 elite adventurers, guild leaders, and elite militarized raiding parties who entered the Furnace of the Forsaken Gods, less than 170 returned.
Most of the dead were not found. Survivors were System-marked with the Crimson Crest—a symbol only visible to other Mythic Clearers. The Guild of Twelve Shards, a coalition of survivors, now manages access to future Mythic Gates.
The appearance of this dungeon reignited divine interest—former gods stirred, sensing the fragments of their own dead scattered inside.
Now, after 30 years after the appearance of the Furnace of the Forsaken Gods, another mythic-tier dungeon gate has appeared.
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The Day Before the Dungeon Opened
Capital City — Gutterveil Crosswalk, Lower Ring
Rain came down in misty sheets, soft and miserable, soaking into Inola's threadbare cloak as she darted across the cracked cobblestone street. The sky was the color of old iron. Carriages rumbled through the mud, their wheels spitting up slush and grime. The scent of wet straw, ash, and too many bodies in too little space clung to the air like a second skin.
Inola pulled her hood lower over her ears.
She'd just finished her errand for the baker—another loaf delivered, another half-stale crust as "payment." Her tail twitched with irritation as her stomach growled.
She didn't notice the old woman at first. Not until a clatter rang out near the edge of the walkway, and she saw a cane slip on the slick stone.
"Ah—!"
The woman stumbled, teetering on the edge of the road as a heavy cart bore down the lane.
Inola didn't think. In two strides, she was there, grabbing the frail woman's arm with one hand and steadying her by the waist with the other. Her claws barely nicked the old shawl as she pulled her out of the way just in time.
The cart splashed past with a wet slap of hooves, the driver yelling something obscene and heartless over his shoulder.
The old woman looked up, blinking beneath her dripping hood.
She was small. Bird-boned, delicate, wrapped in layers of faded silk and wool that might've once been royal. Her silver hair peeked out beneath her scarf, coiled like clouds. Her eyes were milky, but still sharp, locked with Inola's.
She gave a grateful smile to Inola. "My, my," she said, her voice like wind through old paper. "A rare thing, that. Kindness without coin."
Inola shrugged, feeling awkward. "It's no problem ma'am. I was just passing through."
The woman chuckled. It was a warm, crinkling sound—like cinnamon on bread fresh from the oven. "Still. You could've walked right past me. Most would have."
She reached into her sleeve, fingers wrapped in rings dulled by age. When they withdrew, they held something out to Inola.
It was a ticket of golden paper, edged with shiny black lettering, that shimmered even in the drizzle.
"Here. A thank-you for the assistance."
Inola blinked. "...That's too much." The ticket looked far too expensive. Gold paper in it's self was worth a lot. Even if it was fake.
"No such thing," the woman whispered, pressing it into Inola's hands. "You saved something precious. Let this gift save something for you in return."
Inola looked down. The "ticket"—if that's what it was—felt warm. It pulsed faintly, like it had a heartbeat. Gold-black ink traced a sword and a winged horse sigil across the fabric, curling like ivy.
When she looked up again, the woman was gone. It was like she vanished. There weren't any wet footprints, no limping cane marks in the mud. Just the soft rain and the distant rumble of thunder.
Inola stood there for a long time, the ticket heavy in her hand, her expression showed utter confusion and shock.
----
The next day. The morning of her thirteenth birthday
Thistlecroft Orphanage, Upper Bunk Corner
Inola woke before sunrise, as usual. Not because she wanted to, but because the roof leaked in her corner, and the chill of water down her back made for a reliable alarm clock. She sat up, shivering, and pulled the rough blanket tighter around her shoulders.
Something crinkled in her hand. The ticket.
She'd clutched it in her sleep, fingers sore from holding it too tightly. It hadn't faded or wrinkled overnight. If anything, it was glowing slightly now—gold ink pulsing with a rhythm like breathing.
She frowned. It had to be enchanted. Maybe cursed. Or just a prank. Nobles did things like that sometimes—dangling hope in front of street rats for fun.
But something about it felt different. Important.
Inola slipped out of bed, barefoot and silent. She avoided the creaky floorboard Matty liked to spy from and made her way to the hidden back stairwell, then out into the alley beyond the orphanage wall.
She needed answers.
She headed to the lower market district where the scribe's den was. The place was tucked between a dead candle shop and a ratcatcher's shack, but Inola knew the owner: Old Grinn, a retired scrollsmith who owed her a favor for chasing off a pickpocket last year.
"Got something weird I need you to look at," she said as she barged into the dusty old shop.
Inside, the scent of old parchment, scorched ink, and pipe smoke clung to the walls like dust. Scrolls were stacked like haphazard towers, leaning dangerously. Tomes with cracked leather spines lined the narrow shelves, many bound in twine or wrapped in protective charms. Lanterns flickered with amber witchlight, casting runes across the floor that shifted underfoot.
The only clear space was the counter—barely—and the stool behind it where Old Grinn perched like a gargoyle, hunched and squinting through three layers of magnifying lenses.
The shop hummed with magic. Faint glyphs buzzed in the corners, and occasionally, a scroll would roll itself shut or a quill would twitch, writing answers to questions no one asked aloud.
Old Grinn looked up and grunted. "This better be good, girl. I was just about to crack this here enchantment. It's taken me a whole week, but I think I finally got it."
Inola rolled her eyes. The old man had been saying this for over a month now, and he hasn't gotten any farther than the third part. She waved his complaining aside, "Sure, sure. Whatever old man. Anyway, look at this. An old woman handed this fancy paper to me for helping her cross the road yesterday. Mind taking a look?"
With another grunt, Grinn adjusted his cracked spectacles and squinted at the silk strip she laid on the counter. The moment he touched it, the gold thread shimmered—and the sigil bloomed open like a living crest, revealing runic characters hovering above it in midair.
Grinn went still. Then pale. "Where... where did you get this?"
Inola blinked. "Why?"
He looked at her like she'd just handed him a dragon's fang. "This is a Mythic-Class Entry Seal. Handcrafted. Authenticated. It bears the personal crest of the royal family."
Inola's jaw slackened. "...The royal family?"
Grinn nodded slowly. "This ticket's more than rare—it's legend. Only thirteen exist. They were created decades ago for the royal family to grant direct entry to one newly discovered Mythic Dungeons."
She stared down at the ticket.
"It's real?" she whispered.
Grinn gave a faint, reverent nod. "You could sell it for enough coin to own a city block… or use it to forge a class the world's never seen."
Inola exhaled slowly. Her hands curled around the silk.
"I'm not selling it."
Grinn looked at the kid like she'd just said she planned to arm-wrestle a basilisk. "Don't tell me you're thinking about participating?!" His voice cracked like old parchment.
Inola didn't flinch. She stood straighter, eyes crimson and sharp despite the soot-stained coat and the bruise on her collarbone from a fall last week. The rain had soaked through her boots. Her tail flicked once, low and quiet.
"Why not?" she said.
Grinn stared. "Because it's a mythic-tier dungeon, girl. The kind where gods bury mistakes. The kind where elites die screaming. You think that ticket makes you immortal?"
Inola's fingers tightened around the silk. "No. I think it means I have a chance to make a life for myself."
Grinn's lips thinned. He rubbed the bridge of his nose beneath his spectacles, muttering something about cursed fate and dumb courage.
"Kid… I've watched warlocks burn alive in silver flame trying to get past the first gate. Noble brats go in with ten-person teams and still come out broken—if they come out at all. There was a reason I stopped being an adventurer. It wasn't worth my life."
Inola looked down at the ticket again.
"You said it lets me forge a class no one's ever seen."
"I did," Grinn said tightly. "And that's exactly the problem."
She looked up. "Then that's what I'll do."
And something in her voice—quiet and certain—made the air feel heavier. Like it was inevitable.
Grinn leaned back with a long sigh, smoke curling from his half-lit pipe. He looked at her for a long moment. Not as a scribe looking at a child—but as a man who'd seen enough adventurers die young to know what a real one looked like before they knew they were one.
"…Then at least take something enchanted," he muttered, shuffling behind the counter.
"Something?" Inola asked.
"A charm. A curse-stopper. A luck-band. Something. If you're going to walk into the belly of a myth, you'd best have more than a borrowed name and beast blood."
He turned back and tossed her something. It was a sheathed dagger. It looked beaten and old but it was sharp. It even came with it's own warned leather holster.
"It's nothing fancy," Grinn muttered. "But it once belonged to someone who survived the first five floors of the Furnace of the Forsaken Gods. It should come in handy."
Inola caught it and unsheathed it. The blade was made from common metal. Iron or steel, most likely.
It felt perfect in her hands.
"Thanks," she said.
Grinn waved her off, already lighting a second pipe. "Don't thank me yet. Just come back alive. And if you don't, just make sure you don't start haunting this place. The church pays an arm and a leg for their survices. Those greedy bastards."
A low chuckle escaped her lips as she turned and left the shop.
====
The rain had finally stopped, but the world still felt damp and waiting.
Inola slipped through the broken window in the back hallway—her usual way in. Matty didn't see her. Mistress Caldrina was probably asleep in her room. Baron Glore was out at one of his early-morning "business meetings," which meant the house was mercifully quiet this early in the morning.
She moved barefoot, soft and silent, across warped wooden floorboards and creaking stairwells that knew better than to betray her weight.
The dormitory was still. Dozens of children still slept on rickety bunks, curled into blankets that barely qualified as cloth. It smelled of mildew, candle wax, and the sour edge of too many dreams smothered too young.
Inola stepped to the far corner—her little kingdom. The upper bunk where she slept alone, and the two tiny cots nestled beside it.
In the closest one, curled under a blanket she had sewn from scraps, slept Talla—a beastkin girl with downy gray ears and a soft whistle to her snore. In the other was Nim, her brother, whose striped tail flicked even in sleep like he was chasing something in a dream.
Inola leaned over and brushed a bit of hair from Talla's forehead. The girl stirred, murmured something, then fell still again.
She hesitated, then pulled a threadbare scarf from under her cloak—a faded blue thing with frayed edges. Her mother's. Her last real keepsake. She'd worn it every winter since she could remember.
And now she gently folded it, and placed it between the twins' cots. "For when it gets cold," she whispered. "Don't fight over it."
Her voice caught.
Not because she was scared of the dungeon. Not really. But because this was the first thing she had ever done for herself. Not for survival. Not because she had to. But hecause she wanted to. And that meant leaving something behind.
She looked around the room. Not a soul stirred. Not a soul would remember this moment tomorrow.
Just a shadow of a girl stepping quietly away from the only home she'd ever known.
Inola turned and left without another word.
The city streets were silver-wet and ghost-quiet.
She walked alone, her stolen boots clicking softly on the stone. The ticket pulsed inside her coat like a second heart. Grinn's dagger was cool at her hip. Her tail flicked with each stride.
As the sun slowly rose, its amber light spilled over the horizon, peeling back the shadows of night and painting the sky in hues of fire and honey. Crimson light poured from the mythic-tier dungeon gate, flooding the plaza with a blood-red glow that shimmered like molten glass—ominous, ancient, and pulsing with power.
Already, a line had started to form—adventurers, mercenaries, and dreamers alike drawn to the gate's crimson glow, their faces lit with equal parts awe and fear as the air around them trembled with the promise of glory… or death.
Royal guards stood in front of the dungeon gate, their armor polished to a mirror shine, crimson cloaks billowing in the unnatural wind. Their spears were grounded, eyes sharp beneath silver helms—not just for protection, but as a warning: this gate was not for public access. It was restricted.