In the world of sorcery, breakthroughs had become a routine. Every sunrise brought new incantations, ancient seals unraveled, and strange, impossible powers awakened. The World Association of Sorcerers—WAS, for short—had fused sorcery with modern technology, catapulting the craft into a new era. Alongside this evolution came a strict hierarchy of ranks, each stamped like a brand upon a sorcerer's name:
1st-grade: The pinnacle - only the strongest, the legendary, were given this rank.
2nd through 8th-grade: The steady climb, each step a milestone in power.
9th-grade: The bottom rung. The forgotten. The weak.
Most sorcerers started as 6th or 7th-grade, with dreams of ascending—of tasting the divine heights of 1st-grade. But to reach the very top? That was a fantasy, a myth whispered in training halls. Some said those who were 1st-grade weren't human anymore.
And yet, the reality remained: someone had to be at the bottom. Someone had to be the 9th-grade.
That someone was Code Weber.
---
Hazen, Western Province, Eldrid Region
Seventeen-year-old Code Weber stood hunched in a narrow alley, flanked by crumbling brick walls soaked with years of rain and filth. The sun had long since sunk below the skyline, and the sickly orange glow of the streetlights did little to push back the darkness.
His eyes darted through the shadows—paranoia had become second nature. He'd been robbed twice that week already. Now, only lint filled his pockets, and the holes in his clothes were growing more numerous than the fabric itself.
"Code Weber!" a voice called.
Code turned sharply, hands instinctively balling into fists—until he saw the man.
The stranger walked toward him in black armor, the metal catching the dim light. A silver 5th-grade sorcerer badge gleamed on his chest. He had shoulder-length black hair, and though his frame was relaxed, the way he moved spoke of precision and strength.
"I'm Ran Cowell," the man said, stopping just short of him. He extended a hand, and Code hesitantly shook it. Ran's grip was firm, steady. His smile didn't quite reach his eyes.
"I've got a mission," Ran continued. "A mid-class demon's been spotted near Sylva. We need sixteen sorcerers. Thought you might want in."
Code blinked. A mid-class demon? That was serious—and lucrative.
"What's the cut?" he asked, trying to sound casual.
Ran's smile widened into something smug. "One percent."
Code's heart sank.
One percent? For a demon-hunt?
That wasn't a cut - that was a joke.
His face must have betrayed him, because Ran let out a dry chuckle. "What, you expected a better offer? You're a 9th-grade. Be grateful anyone's letting you tag along."
Code's fists clenched at his sides, but the anger didn't last. Ran was right. In a world ruled by strength, he was little more than background noise.
"…Fine," he muttered.
Ran gave a satisfied nod. "Sylva. Tomorrow. Two sharp."
As Ran turned to leave, his words echoed in Code's mind like a hammer striking glass.
"Be grateful anyone's letting you tag along."
---
The Next Day
Code boarded the train to Sylva with a half-empty wallet and a head full of doubt. The worn seat beneath him creaked as the train lurched forward, leaving behind the soot-streaked rooftops of Hazen.
He stared out the window, watching the city dissolve into green hills and winding rivers. Every bump of the tracks rattled something loose inside him—memories, fears, hopes long since buried.
All his life, he'd been branded weak. Rejected from squads, sneered at in duels, laughed out of jobs. Being a 9th-grade sorcerer wasn't just a rank—it was a curse. A mark of shame.
But maybe… just maybe, this mission was a way out. A single step toward something greater.
He closed his eyes and whispered to himself, "I'll make them see me."
---
Sylva
The moment Code stepped off the train, the air struck him—clean, sweet, tinged with blooming flowers and a faint hint of factory smoke. He flagged down a taxi and gave the address Ran had told him: a forest on the outskirts of town.
The city passed in a blur—stone buildings worn with time, shops with faded signs, children chasing each other through narrow streets. But Code barely saw it. His mind was ahead, already in the woods, already fighting demons.
When the car finally pulled to a stop, Code stepped out into the shade of towering trees. The forest loomed, dark and still, like it was waiting.
Ran and the others were already there—fifteen figures in a loose semicircle, their faces lit with quiet focus.
"Right on time," Ran said. His tone was different now—no smugness, just command.
Code joined the group silently, trying not to shrink under their stares. One by one, the sorcerers introduced themselves.
"Ran Cowell. Mission leader. I specialoxe in demonology and combat specialization."
"Kael Jensen," said a towering man with cold blue eyes. "Elemental tenzen and strategy."
Code swallowed. When it got to his turn.
"…Code Weber. I'm, uh… I'm good with a dagger."
A silence passed, as Kael raised an eyebrow.
Then the group moved on, taking their formations.
Swordsmen took their places at the front. Sorcerers formed the rear, glowing faintly with tenzen energy. Healers took the center. Code drifted toward them, unsure where else to go.
Then the march began.
---
The forest swallowed them quickly—branches crowding the path, shadows dancing on the ground like restless spirits. Code walked beside a woman named Elara, trying to keep his steps light, his eyes sharper than his fear.
The deeper they went, the more Code's skin prickled. Something was wrong. Too quiet. No birdsong. No demon sightings. Not even a scrap of movement.
And then—
"I can't go any further!" Dane, a 6th grade sorcerer, shouted from the back, his voice tinged with exhaustion and irritation.
Elara turned, concern in her eyes. "Let's just go a bit farther. We're close, I can feel—"
"Nonsense!" another snapped. "It's sunset. We're wasting time."
Before the group could argue further, Ran raised a hand.
"I sense it," he said quietly.
The tension cracked like ice underfoot. Without another word, the group snapped back into formation.
The trees thinned.
And then they saw it.
Beyond the final line of trees, the forest opened up into a vast, barren field.
At its center stood a lone structure—ancient, enormous.
A castle.