"It… it worked! The heroes, they've arrived! The summoning ritual worked!"
A wave of jubilation rippled through the group of figures clad in immaculate white robes, their garments stitched with intricate embroidery. Some clasped their hands in reverent joy; others grinned openly as their eyes fixed upon the four teenagers sprawled across the cold, stone floor, each struggling to make sense of their sudden displacement.
"Steady yourselves," came a deeper, more composed voice. From behind the excited crowd stepped a man whose bearing was far more dignified. His robe was no different in design, except for the brilliant gold thread woven into every embroidered crest. "This is no time for careless celebration. We must first assess the heroes."
He strode forward with a poise that silenced the chatter. Stopping before the bewildered youths, he spoke with ceremonial gravity. "Heroes… please, arise."
The first to fully regain consciousness was a young man whose golden hair caught the light like strands of molten sunlight. His face held the kind of effortless beauty often reserved for storybook protagonists, radiating both grace and an unshakable sense of importance. "Where are we? Who are you people?" His voice was firm, though faint traces of confusion lingered beneath the question.
Even as he spoke, another figure stirred. A girl, her long blonde hair cascading in silken waves to her shoulders, pushed herself upright. Her delicate features were framed by that shining hair, and her beauty was such that no words were truly needed to describe it.
The third youth rose in silence. His hair was black, so black it seemed to drink in the light around it, straight and smooth, falling in a curtain that concealed one of his eyes. His slim frame and androgynous elegance lent him an almost fragile air, the kind that could easily be mistaken for feminine beauty. Yet his demeanor radiated mystery, an untouchable distance.
"Do not be alarmed," the gold-embroidered man continued, his voice warm yet formal. "We are the bishops of Lyssera's Cathedral, charged with conducting the summoning ritual that brings forth the chosen heroes to deliver our world from the clutches of the undead."
The Head Bishop explained, aiming the deliver understanding to the teenagers.
"Head Bishop! There is… another!" cried one of the robed figures, pointing toward the last teenager who had begun to stir.
"That's impossible," the head bishop murmured, brows knitting. "The ritual was prepared for three. Never four."
Yet the truth was undeniable. The fourth figure rose to his feet slowly. His hair was silver, almost spectral in its pallor, and his skin bore a ghostly whiteness that spoke of years of frailty as if he had been ill for a lifetime and survived only by a thread. His frame was the thinnest of them all. There might have been a certain handsomeness to him if not for the lifeless shade of his complexion.
"How can this be?" the head bishop muttered, troubled. "The rite was meant to summon three alone…"
"Perhaps we should bring them before the Elder for evaluation," suggested one of the bishops. "The Elder will know what is to be done."
The head bishop inclined his head slowly. "A wise course. We will proceed at once."
And so the four were gathered and escorted through the grand halls of the cathedral toward those who held the highest authority, the Elders of the Order of Lyssera.
As they walked, the bishops began to explain the truth of their arrival.
This world was called ERETRAIA, a land where many races dwelled, with humankind, elves, and dwarves standing as the three great pillars of civilization. Together they ruled the known world, each race holding dominion over vast territories.
The human continent, Aldrion, the Heartland of King's, now lay under siege by a terrible force: the undead.
The bishops spoke of them in grim tones: creatures that swept across the land, choking it in a shroud of deathly miasma. Wherever their corruption touched, life withered, fields blackened, livestock perished, and towns fell silent.
The first stirrings of this horror had come from the north, where a death mage had risen with ambitions to enslave all life. That single necromancer's conquest had grown unchecked, joined by others of his kind, each sworn to extinguish the living.
For five years the war had raged. Humanity fought with all it had, but each year the shadow crept further south. In desperation, they prayed to their goddess. In answer came a revelation: summon three heroes from beyond their world, and the tide of death would be turned.
And so the summoning was prepared, leading, impossibly, to this moment.
At first, the four teenagers found the story absurd. But disbelief waned when one bishop casually raised his hand, conjuring a sphere of flame from empty air. It floated above his palm without searing flesh or sputtering out. Coupled with the medieval grandeur of the city streets they passed through, stone towers, arched bridges, banners snapping in the wind. Soon, the reality of their new situation became undeniable.
"Here we are," the head bishop finally announced, halting before an immense iron door. Its surface was carved with symbols older than any kingdom. "Beyond this gate await the Elders. They will judge you, and from their verdict your fate as heroes will be decided."
With a deep groan, the doors swung inward of their own accord. The four youths hesitated, exchanging uncertain glances before stepping inside together.
The doors sealed shut behind them.
Darkness swallowed everything. It was the kind of darkness that pressed close against the eyes, where even the faintest outlines were lost. Then, light bloomed. A single sphere, small yet brilliant, floated above the chamber's center. Its glow reached only far enough to reveal the four standing upon a raised dais, as though they stood in a place of trial.
"Four heroes?" A disembodied voice spoke from the shadows, its tone edged with suspicion. "The prophecy speaks of three, not four."
"Four? Five? Three? It matters not," said another voice, unmistakably female yet steely. "The prophecy requires only three."
"But which of the four stands outside its blessing?" demanded a third, male and commanding.
"Test their blessings," the first voice, the first elder proposed. "A hero's gift cannot be forged."
"Yes," the woman, the second elder agreed. "Call forth your status. Let us see the mark of the goddess upon you."
"Reveal yourselves," the third elder ordered. "Let us cast out the pretender."
The teenagers exchanged tense glances. A prickle of unease ran through them, but one by one they willed the words that would display their statuses.
---
RYAN RICHARDS
[Race]: Human
[Rank]: A Rank (82,000 Existential Value)
[Blessing]: Crest of the Shadow Monarch
[Skill]: Shadow Puppeteer (Epic Rank)
[Attributes]:
—[Constitution: B | Endurance: A | Stamina: B]
—[Magic Power: S | Willpower: A | Soul Power: A]
---
Whispers stirred among the unseen elders.
"An A-ranked hero with an existential value of eighty-two thousand," murmured the first elder in awe. "The goddess has indeed smiled upon us."
"And blessed with the Crest of the Shadow Monarch…" the woman's voice, second elder added. "A rare and potent boon. He is no doubt a weapon worthy of the Order."
"Ryan Richards," the third Elder's voice declared. "We, the Elders of the Order of Lyssera, recognize you as a true hero candidate. Now, we on to the next."
The focus shifted to the blonde-haired girl standing at Ryan's side.
---
BRIDGET FREEMAN
[Race]: Human
[Rank]: Special A Rank (450,000 Existential Value)
[Blessing]: Reverence Obedience
[Skill]: Caller's Right (Epic Rank)
[Attributes]:
—[Constitution: B | Endurance: B | Stamina: A]
—[Magic Power: A | Willpower: S | Soul Power: S]
---
"Another blessing of the goddess," said the third elder, thick with satisfaction.
"Truly, we are favored," the first elder agreed warmly.
"Bridget Freeman, Special A Rank. You are accepted as a hero candidate. Your blessing will serve the Order well," the second elder pronounced.
Two had been confirmed. One position remained. And now the heaviness of the chamber bore down on the last two teenagers, the oppressive attention of the Elders pressing against their very bones.
The trial was far from over.