Years before.

  "Follow along carefully," Miss Silent said, tapping the chalk against the blackboard. The tock was small—and yet in the cool room, it rang as if someone had struck glass. "What you're about to hear is in every textbook. It's still a myth."

  The classroom on the upper floor of the Academy always felt somewhat… removed in the morning. Not just because the air up here was noticeably colder than down in the wide corridors, but because the silence sat differently. It didn't hang loosely between the desks—it lay like a cloth over the wooden tables, the inkwells, the open notebooks, the half-dried blots from yesterday.

  Pale morning light fell through the tall windows, milky and slanted. It drew bright streaks across the tabletops, made dust motes flare for a single breath and swallowed them again the moment they danced out of the light. Outside, somewhere in the courtyard, a bird called. Inside, quills scratched across paper. A chair creaked as someone shifted carefully, as if trying not to be noticed.

  In the middle of it all sat Krent, forehead propped against his hand, quill between his fingers. The cool edge of the desk pressed against his forearm, and the ink smelled sharp, almost metallic. His eyes were open—but his head felt as though he hadn't quite brought it along from bed.

  Myth class first thing in the morning… perfect for dozing off again…

  Miss Silent was not a teacher who raised her voice. She didn't need to. She stood at the front, still as a ruler, chalk on her fingertips, and her gaze drifted through the rows of desks as if it weren't just counting faces but thoughts as well. Sometimes it lingered a heartbeat too long on someone—not threatening, not exactly. More as if she were checking whether they were truly there.

  "Title," she said, and the word sounded like an order no one could refuse.

  The chalk touched the board. Slowly, cleanly, without haste, she wrote:

  The Holy Emissary of the Ancient Era.

  The scratching of the chalk was steady. It cut through the scratching of quills until the last letters stood in place. When she set the chalk down, fine white dust clung to her fingertips.

  And beneath that scratching, she began to speak.

  "Aeons ago, when the peoples of Zoras stood on the brink of extinction and the gods had already fallen millennia before…"

  A few students immediately stopped writing, as though afraid one sound too many might shatter the words. Others kept writing, mechanical, their quills faster than their thoughts. Krent forced his hand to move. The quill scratched, and the flow of ink stuttered briefly before running again.

  "Back then," Miss Silent continued, "Zoras lay between two catastrophes that wore the shapes of kings."

  She paused—not long, but long enough to be felt. The sounds didn't stop. The silence simply grew denser, as if it were contracting.

  "In the north reigned the Demon King of Thunder and Storms. It is said his wrath sent bolts of lightning from the sky like endless spears. Mountains melted, cities were not conquered but obliterated in a single strike of fire and thunder."

  At the word obliterated, somewhere a quill flinched. A drop of ink fell, round and dark, and slowly bled into the paper. Krent kept writing—but behind his eyes the sky tore open. He saw blazing lines plunging from the firmament as if the sky itself were a weapon. He saw stone go soft, as though placed inside a furnace, and houses that didn't collapse but simply… vanished.

  A single strike and a city is gone… even a powerful barrier can't withstand something like that.

  Miss Silent continued without raising her voice. That was precisely what made it worse. A loud teacher would have told it like a story. Miss Silent laid it down like a report.

  "In the south," she said, "the Demon King of Shadows and Bottomless Darkness spread. His realm began wherever light hesitated. Starless nights lay over lands that had once been bright. Shadows tore free from their owners and devoured the light of lamps. Those who stood too long in that darkness lost first their colour, then their shadow… and finally themselves."

  A quiet unease passed through the room. No outcry, no whisper—more a collective, small shift: a chair leg scraped, someone cleared their throat so softly it almost sounded like a mistake. Several heads lowered—not toward their notebooks, but beneath them.

  Beneath Krent's desk lay his shadow. A dark patch on the floor, distorted by the slanting light. He knew it was only a shadow. And yet he noticed his fingers tightening around the quill, as if it had suddenly gained weight.

  Miss Silent let her chalk hand sink, as though the subject itself were heavy. "The gods," she continued, "had long since fallen by that point. Their temples lay in ruins, their names had vanished from most prayers. There were no more miracles—only raw magic and desperate mortals."

  She paused briefly.

  In that pause, everything could be heard: the faint dripping somewhere—perhaps only an inkwell someone had moved too hastily; the distant sound of footsteps in the corridor; the soft click of someone replacing the lid of an inkwell. And between it all, like a second layer over everything, the feeling that something in the room was listening.

  "On the day of which we speak," Miss Silent said then, "the last forces of the free peoples stood on a shattered battlefield. Above them, a sky lashed by the wrath of the thunderstrike. Around them, creeping darkness—viscous as smoke and heavy as stone."

  Krent stopped writing. His quill hung above the paper, the tip just barely not touching the page. The image forming in his mind was too large, too close. The sky like a slit blanket, leaking storm and fire. The ground uneven, torn open, covered in tracks. And darkness—not as night, but as something that moved as if it had hands.

  "Every breath was hard," Miss Silent continued, "every heartbeat was accompanied by the feeling of being watched—by eyes that could not be seen."

  Krent swallowed. He realised he had been holding his breath without knowing when he'd started. Around him, several students were doing the same—small, hurried breaths, as if only now remembering they were allowed to breathe.

  That doesn't sound like a normal battle. That's more like what's left when a world has nearly given up.

  "It is said," Miss Silent spoke more quietly, "that on that day even the bravest of the brave lowered their gaze. Commanders rolled up their banners, because they had no one left who could follow them. Healers stood among the wounded and knew that the next strike would sweep everything away—wounded, healthy, hopes."

  She drew a deep breath. That inhale was the loudest sound in the room. And as if it had set the beat, one could suddenly feel just how quiet the class had truly become.

  "And then," she said, "he came."

  The words didn't fall dramatically. They fell precisely. Even so, a jolt ran through Krent's attention. His drowsiness suddenly felt out of place—as if it had wandered into the wrong room.

  "They say," Miss Silent continued, "at first it was only a single ray of light that broke through the dense, black clouds. Not ordinary sunlight—too pure, too sharp. It bored through layers of storm and shadow as though they were nothing but thin veils."

  Krent imagined the battlefield drenched in muted grey-black—a world that had forgotten what colour looked like. And into its centre cut a beam of light, so straight, so clean, that it seemed more like a blade than light. Not warm. Not comforting. Simply… absolute.

  "In that light, a silhouette took shape," Miss Silent said. "At first only a blurred outline, then clearer with every heartbeat. A human—or something that at least appeared human."

  The chalk clicked against the board as Miss Silent turned it in her fingers without thinking. Dust trickled down, barely visible.

  "When his feet touched the ground, so it is told, the thunder fell silent for a heartbeat. Lightning froze. The shadows drew back, as if holding their breath."

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  A heartbeat of silence—not in the room, but in Krent. His own pulse pressed against his ribs, as though he had taken the scene into himself. Several students looked as if they, too, had just taken a step back without having moved.

  A heartbeat of the world… sounds corny. But if even half of it is true, his arrival must have been something no one could ever forget.

  "He came in a blazing light," Miss Silent said, "so bright that even the darkness of the Shadow King recoiled. Where his radiance touched the ground, the shadows retreated as though they were burning."

  Krent saw it: darkness that shrank. Not like fog dissipating, but like something that knew pain. A few students glanced at their shadows again, as if needing to check whether they were still there. Krent felt a brief pang of foolishness at the thought—and at the same time, there was nothing about it that was truly funny.

  "It is said that his mere presence was enough to drive the fear from the hearts of those who saw him. Hands that had trembled grew still. Backs that had bent beneath burdens straightened."

  Krent's fingers tingled around the quill, as if the description had stirred something in him that hadn't yet decided whether it was hope or nerves.

  "In his eyes," Miss Silent continued, "there was said to be a prismatic pentagram iris. Some accounts speak of five rays that carried all the colours of the world within them. Others claim it looked as though entire worlds were refracting inside his eyes. And still others say that when you looked into his eyes, you forgot you had ever known fear at all."

  She turned to the board and quickly sketched a pentagram—rough, deliberately imperfect. The chalk drew hard lines. For a moment the symbol stood there, white on black, and Krent couldn't stop his gaze from clinging to it.

  Not because he didn't recognise it.

  But because in this story, the symbol suddenly seemed to carry a weight of its own.

  "On his back," Miss Silent said, "were ten wings of prismatic light. No feathers, no flesh—only pure radiance. Each wing refracted the light differently. Some descriptions speak of liquid glass, others of frozen rainbow fire."

  At the words rainbow fire, somewhere a student rubbed a fingertip nervously against the wood, as if checking whether it was really there. Krent heard the soft, scraping sound—and it fit strangely well with the idea of light that isn't gentle but cuts.

  "When he spread his wings," Miss Silent continued, "the battlefield is said to have looked, for a moment, as though it were buried beneath a dome of colours."

  Krent pictured it: a shattered field, storm above, darkness all around—and over it all, colours like a blanket that doesn't warm but shields. A dome that redefined the sky.

  "He was able to heal all wounds," Miss Silent said. Her voice remained calm, almost matter-of-fact, which only made the words more surreal. "They tell of warriors whose bodies had already gone cold. His light is said to have touched them, and they breathed again, as if death had been nothing but a brief dream."

  A few quills paused. The silence that followed was not empty. It was taut.

  "Limbs regrew, shattered bones knit themselves together, and even those whose minds had already broken are said to have become lucid again in his presence."

  A student in the back row raised a sceptical eyebrow. Not a grand gesture—but it stood out, like a dark spot on a white page. Miss Silent noticed. For a moment, something like a curt smile flickered across her lips.

  "It's a myth," she said. "No one expects you to believe every sentence literally. But the exaggeration itself tells us something about the impact attributed to this being."

  Krent slowly lowered the quill back to the paper without writing. In his mind, the thought arranged itself, as if settling onto a line of its own.

  So less: 'What exactly happened?' and more: 'What did it feel like?'

  Miss Silent stepped to the side. The chalk crunched softly beneath her fingers as she gripped it tighter.

  "Back then," she continued, "they began to call him the Holy Divine Emissary. A title full of contradictions. How can someone be a divine emissary when the gods have long since fallen? Who was supposed to have sent him? Or was he no one's messenger—and people simply needed a word large enough for what they saw?"

  The question hung in the room for a moment. Not as a riddle to be solved, but as something best not stared at for too long. Like a door you don't open because there might be cold on the other side.

  "At his side," Miss Silent picked up the thread again, "ten angels are said to have fought—so goes the most well-known version. Beings of light, some armoured in mirrored brilliance, others veiled in stardust."

  Krent heard someone quietly draw in air, as if they had choked on a word: angels. It was a term that appeared in textbooks, yes. But spoken aloud, it sounded different. As if it pressed against the teeth.

  "Depending on the source, the numbers vary," Miss Silent said, shrugging as though it were the most natural thing in the world. "Seven, three—or none at all. In some traditions, he stands on the field entirely alone."

  She let her shoulders drop again.

  "Myths change. But on one point, nearly all agree: he stood against both Demon Kings."

  Krent straightened up without meaning to. His drowsiness was gone. Or at least it had retreated far enough that he could no longer feel it.

  Two Demon Kings. One who throws lightning like pebbles. One who smothers light with a thought. And a single… whatever he is… steps between them.

  Miss Silent raised one hand, as if marking the north itself.

  "The Demon King of Thunder and Storms," she said, "whose wrath tore the sky to shreds."

  She raised the other hand.

  "And the Demon King of Shadows and Bottomless Darkness, whose realm began wherever light so much as hesitated."

  Between her hands, Krent saw the image of a world being squeezed from both sides. And in the centre: that beam of light, that silhouette.

  "It is said," Miss Silent continued, "that bolts of lightning rained down upon him, only to shatter in the prismatic light of his wings."

  Krent saw it: spears of white and blue breaking apart in mid-air, as if they had struck an invisible wall. He didn't hear the thunder as sound but as pressure, squeezing his chest.

  "Every thunderclap that tried to swallow his name," Miss Silent said, "echoed back as though it had choked on itself."

  A few students began writing again—frantically, as if they had to nail the words down before they could escape. Krent didn't write. His hand was still, and yet it felt as though it were vibrating.

  "At the same time, the darkness of the Shadow King crept toward him, searching for cracks in his aura. But where it touched him, it fractured into pale greys and grew thin, translucent."

  Krent noticed his gaze drifting unconsciously back to the shadows beneath the desks. It was absurd. And yet: when he saw his own shadow, there was, for a moment, the feeling that it didn't quite lie still. As if it moved a heartbeat too late whenever Krent moved.

  He blinked.

  Of course it didn't. Of course.

  Miss Silent let her hands fall. The light from the windows seemed a little colder—or Krent was imagining it. A gust of wind outside rattled a window frame somewhere, and the glass vibrated softly, as if the room were letting the story briefly resonate.

  "Whether he truly defeated the Demon Kings or merely drove them back, we don't know," Miss Silent said. "Some say he shattered their power and bound them in chains of light to places no mortal can reach."

  She set the chalk to the board, as if to write down that possibility—but didn't.

  "Others claim he himself fell, as the price for the peoples being allowed to breathe once more."

  At the word fell, the room grew quieter again. Not because it was surprising, but because it suddenly felt… more real. A being described like that shouldn't fall. That was precisely why it hurt to hear.

  "Still others believe," Miss Silent continued, "that he only interrupted the battle—a breathing pause in a far greater war."

  Krent tapped the quill against his notebook. A small sound that startled even him, because it was so clear in the silence. A few heads turned, then faced forward again.

  The first Adamantite… and most people already struggle just to reach Five-Point Star or—if they're lucky—eventually Silver or even Gold.

  Miss Silent shifted her tone. Not warmer. More matter-of-fact. As if stepping back, away from the battlefield, away from the wings of light.

  "What is certain," she said, "is that this event is said to have taken place roughly 15,000 years ago. From that era, we have fragments of accounts, murals, and ritual texts that speak of a being whose strength surpassed everything known until then."

  She turned to the board and wrote a single word in large letters—so large it nearly consumed the space of the story:

  ADAMANTITE.

  The chalk ground against the surface. White dust trickled down and settled on the ledge of the board. Krent stared at the letters as though they might move if he watched long enough.

  "That is what we call the highest rank a mortal can achieve today," Miss Silent explained. "We cannot say with certainty whether the Emissary was human or something else. But based on everything that has been passed down, he was the first to cross the threshold we now call the Adamantite Rank."

  The letters on the board felt like a seal. Not merely a term. A benchmark. Something you hang above yourself—even when you know you'll never touch it.

  Krent felt his stomach tighten slightly. Not from fear—more from that quiet blend of defiance and awe that sets in when you see something impossible and a part of you still thinks: What if?

  Myth or not… someone was the first to grow that strong. And we named the rank none of us will ever reach after him.

  The bell announcing the end of the period rang dully through the corridors of the Academy. Not a bright sound—more a deep toll that travelled through stone and lingered briefly in the bones.

  Chairs pushed back. Wood scraped against wood. Inkwells clicked as lids were replaced. Paper rustled. Some students began talking immediately, quietly, as if afraid to speak too loudly about something that might still be standing in the room.

  "… ten wings, can you imagine…"

  "… that bit about the shadows… I swear mine just…"

  "… a myth, sure, but those murals…"

  Krent stayed seated for a moment. He didn't look to the front, not at Miss Silent, not at the board. His gaze drifted to his shadow again. It lay there, as it always did.

  Miss Silent raised her hand once more. The chatter didn't die instantly—but it only took that small impulse, and the room remembered order.

  "Don't forget," she said, "myths are not precise accounts. But without them, we wouldn't see many things the way we do today—our ranking systems, our idea of what a single person can achieve."

  She let her gaze sweep across the class. Her smile was thin, barely more than a suggestion. And yet there was something final in it, as if she hadn't merely told the story but deliberately set it down where it belonged: in the students' minds—where it keeps working, even after you close the notebook.

  Krent slid his quill into the fold of his notebook. The ink on the tip gleamed briefly in the light. Then it was gone.

  Out in the corridor, footsteps grew louder. Voices, doors, the life of the Academy settling back over the moment. But the feeling of being watched—not by eyes, but by the possibility that stories like these don't endure without reason—stayed on Krent's thoughts like a thin film.

  Our story begins in the year 1315 after the Hero Queen, 15,000 years after the myth.