Early 1920, in the world of Kurlas.
The morning sky was veiled in a thin mist, brushing gently against mountain peaks that jutted out like ancient spears defying the wind. At the edge of the highest cliff, a young man stood, gazing down—toward a world he had only heard of in stories and books for the past fifteen years.
Jainal.
That was the name given to him by the two people he called Masters.
His long black cloak fluttered softly in the cold mountain breeze. Threads of natural magic flickered faintly across its surface—healing, shielding, living. Hidden beneath his right wrist was a magitek dagger, and on his left, a barely visible mechanism for firing tiny, poisoned bolts.
Strapped to his back was a uniquely folded bow: Whisper of the Wind, a weapon he and the late Sage Else had crafted from rare monster materials. He understood every bolt, every magical component, and every scar that had shaped that weapon.
Today, it would speak for the first time in the real world.
> "Master Gujarat, Master Else... I'm going down now.
Whatever awaits me, I won't turn back."
His footsteps left tracks in the fresh white snow as he descended a narrow path—known only to those who had lived at these heights. A path leading to the world—to war, to lies, and to truths yet uncovered.
Kurlas was not unfamiliar to Jainal—at least in theory. He had spent most of his life studying: elemental magic without a core, metallurgy and monster processing, the histories of kingdoms, and the magitek techniques born from the union of science and sorcery.
But the real world... felt different.
The birds no longer sang as they did in his childhood. The air felt heavier, as if thick with something unseen. Even the sunlight seemed weary, dulled by drifting dust blown in from the west—where the borders burned endlessly with war.
In the distance, he saw the silhouette of the first village he would visit: Karsel. Remote, small, and—according to Master Gujarat's notes—once a haven of neutral blacksmiths.
But even peaceful villages were no longer spared from the fire of conflict.
---
That first day's journey left Jainal mostly silent, absorbing the voices of a world he didn't yet know. Amidst the whistling wind and the crunch of his boots against the frozen earth, there was no sound of people. He hadn't met a single soul. And perhaps, that was not a good sign.
By dusk, Jainal arrived at a hill overlooking Karsel Village. His sharp eyes narrowed. He saw smoke—not from chimneys, but from ruin. Thick and black. Rising quietly into the orange-red sky.
He took a deep breath. His hand brushed the inside of his cloak, checking every piece of equipment. One more step, and he would no longer be the boy from the mountains.
He would become a witness to the world.
> "The first step... begins in a place already burning."
With the wind echoing in his ears, Jainal descended the hill—toward the first shadow of a shattered Kurlas.