Earlier that same day— March 1st, Year 299 XE—two of the Ten Great Sovereigns were already heading toward an immutable future.
In Atteria's capital, Capril, the echoes of this catastrophe would reach the royal palace at a union's most inconvenient hour—a tremor beneath the already unstable foundations of the kingdom.
Ramone Mari walked briskly through the cobblestone streets, passing marble spires and bustling marketplaces, the morning sun catching on the mana-lit lanterns that floated above the thoroughfares.
A faint tremor tickled the ground beneath his boots, easily dismissed among the city's usual flutter—yet somehow, it made him pause.
Capril thrummed with the rhythm of a kingdom on the edge of change. Couriers glided along in mana-carts, carrying letters and parcels between spired rooftops. Street performers juggled shimmering orbs that hovered midair, their subtle magecraft both artistry and a practical convenience.
To Ramone, this vibrant chaos was normal. This was home.
A weathered sign nailed to a post caught his eye:
>Legendary Sword Asvyxia for Sale
Once owned by Giovanni the Great.
Ramone's dark brown eyes narrowed with amusement. "Oh, look, another fake relic," he murmured, meeting the vendor's nervous gaze.
She faked a smile, a blush creeping up her neck.
Only an idiot would buy that, he thought. Everyone knew the World Council had the real one.
Another vendor, his voice raspy from shouting, called out over the market chatter: "Artifacts from the Convergence War! Genuine relics! Real mana-infused alloy from the old towers! Whoever holds these holds the world's secrets!"
He paused, a wry smile touching his lips. The small trinkets—glinting stones and crude metal charms—were laughably fake.
He was fond of those who honored legends, but fancied himself a more hands-on person, the one to actually uncover them.
The city unfolded in layers: armored guards moving alongside aristocrats in polished attire, scholars balancing heavy tomes as their enchanted ink pens scribbled across pages, and children darting between alleyways, their laughter bouncing off stone walls.
Above it all, the spires of the Congress of Aristocrats gleamed—a monument to tradition masquerading as progress.
Atteria, once a proud province of the Kingdom of Irie, had carved its own destiny, at a great cost. After the bloody civil war split the land, Eiria clung to tradition, ruled by an unbroken royal bloodline but Atteria embraced change.
Its system was a delicate, often strained balance of aristocratic lineage, ideals of merit, and an elected Prime Minister, who held equal rank to a duke, representing the people.
Though still revered, the King shared power with the Congress—a fragile balance, tested constantly by lingering resentments and whispered ambitions.
Ramone's father, Prime Minister Giovanni Mari, stood at its center.
As a man from a small village up north, Giovanni was a scholar, a cartographer, and a wanderer who had crossed more borders than most had read about. Over time, his intellect and charisma had reshaped politics all over—earning admiration, envy, and distrust in equal measure.
Giovanni Mari was a paradox: a statesman respected even by foreign rulers, a leader beloved by the people—yet he was not one of them. No matter how much he gave to Atteria, he would always be an outsider.
But his son…
His son was different.
Ramone adjusted the strap of his satchel. His thoughts drifted to King Masamune Amano, the man who had held the kingdom together for decades, now weakened by age, his once sharp eyes clouded.
The aristocrats gathered like wolves, each hoping to claim succession through marriage or manipulation.
Ramone knew his father was a constant thorn in their side, and a reminder that merit, not birth, could shape a kingdom. On top of that, Masamune treated Ramone as if he were his own son, which placed him in a precarious situation.
Ramone was the embodiment of Atteria's ideals, a symbol of merit and progress. Unlike the aristocrats who inherited their status, he had earned his barony through his own accomplishments, proving that lineage alone did not determine one's worth. He was everything the kingdom had fought for—nobility shaped by talent rather than birthright.
And that was the problem.
Ramone made his way toward Capril Academy, weaving through crowds and occasionally nodding to familiar faces. Students practiced small spells or engaged in dueling exercises in courtyards, the hum of magecraft barely noticeable to the untrained eye.
The academy loomed ahead, a towering spire of marble and glass, home to the brightest young minds in the kingdom—future leaders, artists, alchemists, warriors, and merchants all walked its halls, chasing destinies yet unwritten.
But he did not wish to be any of those things.
He felt the weight of expectation, the invisible chains of duty, pressing down on him. He had grown up in these streets, among commoners and aristocrats alike, his laughter echoing in the crowded markets and his footsteps familiar in the grand hall. Unlike his father, he was not seen as an outsider. He was one of them—perhaps even their future king.
But Ramone had no interest in the throne. He admired his father, he respected the king and the weight of duty, but the thought of ruling filled him with a suffocating dread.
He wanted to be an explorer or a great wanderer like the men he had heard about in stories, like his father had been before settling in Atteria. To explore forgotten ruins, to traverse underground labyrinths, to find the city in the sky and unravel vast mysteries left behind by ancient mages, said to be capable of manipulating the very fabric of reality—that was his dream.
But it seemed fate had other plans.
His father's influence and his own potential made him a threat to the aristocracy, and now, with King Masamune's failing health, the pressure to take up a role in the kingdom was growing unbearable.
As he neared the main entrance of the academy, a familiar voice called out, carrying the clarity of someone who had always known their path, even if he had not.
"You look troubled, old friend."
Ramone turned to see Her Highness, Princess Akira Amano, stepping lightly from the shadowed archway. Her eyes—sharp, intelligent, and somehow unyielding—met his. Even among the higher-ranking aristocrats, she carried herself with a quiet authority that demanded attention.
As the elder daughter of King Masamune and a queen whom many believed held more control over the Congress than half the dukes combined, Akira had been raised in the heart of a storm.
"I'm always troubled," Ramone replied dryly, his gaze returning to the passage along the school corridor.
"More than usual," she noted, walking backward beside him. Her gaze flicked toward the palace, its golden spires glinting in the Afternoon sun. "Dad summoned you again, didn't he?"
Ramone sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. "This morning. He keeps trying to convince me that my place is here, in the capital. It makes my head hurt."
"I enjoy the cyclical weather of the All-Season-Zone," he added. "That's about it."
The academy gate faded from view as they faced the training grounds in the middle of the courtyard.
"That's one thing we can agree on," Akira nodded, crossing her arms. "But you can't keep avoiding this, Ramone. The Aristocrats are turning against your family, their whispers growing louder by the day. If Dad names you his successor, you won't just be fighting politics. You'll be fighting history itself."
Ramone's smirk was brief and bitter. "They hate me already, especially your mother. But if the old man names me as his successor, they'll have no choice but to accept it. They can't pretend the Irie Civil War was about upward mobility and then fight it when a commoner rises to the throne."
Akira arched an eyebrow. "You're implying it wasn't?"
He nodded. "Well, my father told me otherwise. And he was a scholar at Ashura Grando. With how everyone acts around here, I believe him."
"You'd take a Metzian's word over centuries of Atterian history?" Akira teased.
Ramone shrugged exaggeratedly. "Don't tell anybody else. It'd look terrible on our dear Prime Minister."
She laughed softly, shaking her head. "So, do you actually have a plan, or are you just counting on fate to bail you out?"
Ramone reached into his pocket, pulling out a small, worn coin. He flipped it once, catching it midair. "I always have a plan. And if I don't—" he held up the coin, "—I flip it."
Akira rolled her eyes. "That's not a plan. That's gambling."
"Depends on who you ask." Ramone fought back a smirk. "But if it comes down to it, I'll just make a tactical retreat—maybe to Holy Metzia. Heard the weather's nice this time of year."
"Or maybe we can get married..." Akira paused as she let out a nervous chuckle before a genuine smile settled on her lips. "I'll rule in your stead if you're not up for it."
Her words hung in the air.
Ramone's grin faltered. The silence between them said enough—the promise, the politics, the man she'd been promised to. A man with the favor of nobles, the ambition of a king, and the kind of spotless legacy Ramone could never match.
Though neither of them mentioned his name, the tension he brought into every room lingered like smoke. Ramone hated that man almost as much as he pitied her.
And Akira? She bore the arrangement like a soldier carrying a shield too heavy for the battlefield. She didn't speak against it, not openly—but there were moments, small cracks in her voice or subtle silences, that told Ramone more than any confession ever could.
Akira watched him for a moment before exhaling.
"Alright then," she said, shifting her stance, determination flashing in her eyes. "Let's have a duel. It'll clear your head."
Ramone finally looked at her, a flicker of life in his eyes. "Let's do it."
She blinked, as if surprised he took her seriously.
Then, she chuckled. "I was joking," she admitted, voice softening. "I just wanted to see you smile, even if only for a moment. "
Ramone grinned, the first sign of genuine amusement he'd shown all morning. "Then let me teach you a few battle techniques instead. A fair trade, don't you think?"
"Okay, but you know my ability is mainly for defen...."
Before Akira could finish, a sharp clang rang out.
A figure in full fencing gear stepped onto the training grounds, drawing immediate attention. The rhythmic clang of practice blades ceased, replaced by an almost reverent silence.
The stranger's black fencing mask concealed their face entirely, their posture rigid and focused. Their uniform was high-quality but devoid of insignias, making it impossible to discern their affiliation.
The air grew tense, the unspoken question hanging heavy: who was this intruder?
The masked individual strode forward, stopping just short of Ramone.
"You are Ramone, I take it. Son of Giovanni Mari-Sensei?" they said, voice slightly distorted by the helm, a low, almost metallic timbre. "I'll take you up on that duel."
Ramone raised an eyebrow, a flicker of annoyance mixing with curiosity.
Bold.
Akira leaned in, whispering, "Huh? Sensei? Who the hell is that?"
"No idea," Ramone muttered back.
He turned to address the challenger, his voice laced with a hint of challenge, "and if I refuse?"
The masked opponent tilted their head slightly, a subtle movement that conveyed a clear message. "Then your reputation is weaker than I thought."
Gasps rippled through the onlookers, a collective intake of breath.
Ramone sighed, the familiar weight of expectation settling on his shoulders.
Why does this always happen?
Ramone rolled his shoulders as he eyed the masked challenger. Something about them felt off—too composed, too deliberate. He could refuse, of course, but something told him this duel was inevitable.
Still, he had a rule for moments like this.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a worn silver coin, its edges smoothed by time. The faint etchings of a crown on one side and a sword on the other had nearly faded, but he knew them by heart.
He ran his thumb over the surface, feeling the familiar grooves. This coin had been with him for years—a relic from his mom who once told him that luck is just another kind of skill.
He held it up, turning it between his fingers. "If it lands on Crown, I walk. If it lands on Sword, I fight."
Akira groaned. "Oh, come on, you're really doing this?"
Ramone ignored her, flicking the coin high into the air. It spun, catching the light, tumbling end over end before landing neatly in his palm. He slapped it onto the back of his other hand, hesitating just a second longer than usual before lifting his fingers.
Sword.
He huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Guess I'm fighting."
The masked opponent didn't react, standing as still as ever.
Ramone tightened his grip on his practice blade and met their seemingly uninterested gaze. "First to three points."
The challenger nodded.
"Also, no mana or magecraft," Ramone added promptly.
It was one of the more renowned policy changes from ten years ago—unsupervised use of magecraft in duels was strictly forbidden at the academy. Ramone didn't know where the masked opponent had come from, but a sneaking suspicion told him they were not one of the students.
Without another word, they both took their stance. The courtyard was silent, save for the faint hum of anticipation.
From a tree above, a single leaf drifted lazily toward the dirt between them, and Ramone counted in his head.
Three… Two…
One.
The duel began.