The night sky didn't just shatter—it was torn asunder, a cosmic fracture ripping open the fabric of reality itself.
From that gaping wound in the heavens, Gareth Valven fell.
No gentle descent. No welcoming embrace.
Only a deafening roar—a torrent of searing light shards burning with the fury of forgotten gods and ancient power.
Time unraveled around him; seconds stretched into eons. Past and future collided, memories bleeding into prophecy.
Then, abrupt silence.
He crashed onto cracked stone beneath a relentless golden sun. Above him, the echo of a shattered throne pulsed—a heartbeat of power and ruin.
Shadows stirred around him, watchers of this alien world, their eyes flickering with curiosity and latent menace.
Gareth Valven had arrived.
Not by chance. By destiny.
---
The land was vast and unfamiliar.
He didn't speak, only stared at his hands as a thousand questions clawed at his mind.
Where am I?
The eyes of the townsfolk weighed on him—curious, cautious, unyielding.
He rose and made his way toward a nearby tavern, its medieval timbers groaning with history.
Children played in dirt-strewn streets, laughing as they crafted crude toys from scrap.
What a quiet, refreshing world, Gareth thought, breathing in the mingling scents of fresh bread, tilled earth, and smoke from stone chimneys.
A blacksmith's hammer rang steady in the distance; farmers unloaded baskets brimming with ripe fruit at the village well.
Wooden signs creaked above tavern doors, painted with symbols known only to locals.
An old woman approached, her eyes sparkling with warmth.
"Hi, little one. Care for some cookies?"
Gareth blinked, surprised, then nodded.
With a mouthful of warm sweetness, he asked, "Can you tell me where I am?"
The old lady chuckled softly.
"You're in Sunstead, dear—a place where the sun shines bright and folks work hard."
She glanced at the bustling tavern, then back.
"Strangers don't come here often, especially one's who fall from the sky like you."
Gareth's brow furrowed. "Why haven't I been captured? Especially after that grand entrance?"
The old woman smiled knowingly.
"Grand entrances are almost normal around here. People falling from the sky... washed up from nowhere. It's how this land welcomes some."
---
Gareth's voice softened, nearly childlike.
"Does this world have magic?"
Her eyes sparkled.
"Magic? It's in the very air we breathe—sometimes a gift, sometimes a curse. It walks quietly here, in the wind... in the heart."
He asked eagerly, "How does it work? Does it work Like the magic in those Isekai stories?"
She laughed gently.
"Patience, little one. I'll explain."
Her voice lowered, mixing with the rustling breeze.
"Veilbound Root. Everyone has one. It's more than magic—it's the soul, the will, and belief all wrapped as one. The core of who a person truly is."
She pulled a brittle twig from her satchel.
A faint golden shimmer pulsed from her palm.
The twig trembled, fragile—then slowly sprouted green buds, life unfurling with quiet strength.
"This is the Veilbound Root."
Gareth's eyes widened. "Impossible... but amazing."
Later, Gareth sat in the tavern, watching the lively crowd.
His gaze kept drifting to a tall man at the counter—a fierce aura radiating from him.
Others gave the man space and lowered their voices when he passed.
Gareth's curiosity pushed him forward.
"Mind telling me more about this place, sir?" he asked cheerfully.
The man smiled thinly.
"I'm Garric the Veil Seeker, a merchant from Aurensport, the second district of the Kingdom of Sion's."
Gareth's eyes lit up.
"Sion's... so that's where I am. How many districts or states in this kingdom sir?"
Garric's eyes narrowed.
"Don't you know? Didn't you go to school? Or are you just an outsider?"
"Yeah, I'm an outsider," Gareth said quickly.
"Six districts," Garric said, voice sharp. "Built on the Six Virtues of the Sun.If you want to survive here? Learn them fast. The people here in Sion don't take kindly to strangers who don't know their roots."
Gareth swallowed hard.
"And if someone breaks those rules?"
"Trouble. The kind you don't want."
He glanced toward the tavern door.
"This place watches all. You're already being watched."
Before Garric could say more, the tavern door creaked open.
A group of stern men locked eyes on Gareth, demanding his identification.
Unprepared and vulnerable, Gareth almost faced execution.
But Garric stepped between them, speaking quietly with authority.
The men backed down and left.
Gareth breathed, "Thank you, sir. I owe you my life."
Garric smirked.
"Remember, kid here, alliances matter more than strength. Keep friends close, enemies guessing."
He paused, then asked quietly, "What brings an outsider like you to Sion's?"
Gareth hesitated. He thought to himself
"I can't say I'm from another world."
He said calmly, "I came to learn the magic of the Kingdom of Sion's. I want to inherit its power it's mystery."
Garric nodded thoughtfully.
"Interesting. What's your Name?". Garric asked curiously. "Gareth Valven." Gareth reply is calm "And I Need coin?" Gareth said embarrassedly
Gareth's eyes widened.
"Please, I'm new here."
Garric handed him gold coins.
"Come. I'll take you to Aurensport."
Horse hooves clattered softly over cobblestone as they left Sunstead.
Ancient trees formed a dense canopy, dappled sunlight filtering through thick leaves.
Three days passed through rolling hills, wild forests, and winding dirt paths filled with the fresh scent of earth and growing things.
A salty breeze grew stronger; the sea's blue horizon unfolded ahead.
Aurensport welcomed them with the cries of merchants and the slap of waves against wooden docks.
Ships of every size bobbed in the harbor, filling the air with salt and promise.
Garric rode steadily, eyes sharp beneath weathered brows.
His scars whispered of battles untold.
Though calm, he carried an intensity—always weighing threat and opportunity.
Gareth sensed layers beneath the merchant's rough exterior—loyalty twisted with suspicion, kindness edged by ruthless pragmatism.
In the bustling market, a child's voice called.
"Father!"
Garric's face softened instantly.
He dropped his guarded mask, kneeling to embrace a smiling girl no older than eight.
"Liora, my star," he whispered.
For a fleeting moment, the hardened man was simply a father, filled with hope.
At Garric's mansion near the port, Gareth was shown to a modest guest room.
The next day, training in the courtyard, Gareth met Garric's daughter.
Tall, sharp-eyed Aelina observed him.
"You must be my father's guest."
Gareth nodded cautiously.
She smiled faintly.
"If you want to survive here, swordsmanship isn't just strength—it's reading your opponent's intent before they move."
She gestured to the yard.
"Come. Let me show you."
That night, Gareth lay awake, Aelina's words echoing.
Survival meant more than magic or strength. It meant facing danger head-on.
Morning brought the registration hall, where Gareth was tasked to defeat a monster of average strength with his new teammates.
Dren, burly and confident; Kael, sharp and calculated; Rina, fierce and unyielding.
Their mission: hunt the Roath Drogen, a monstrous beast terrorizing the outskirts.
The battle was fierce.
Blades clashed, arrows flew.
At last, Gareth struck the killing blow.
Relief was brief.
Rina stumbled, caught by the dying beast's claw.
Her scream silenced the forest.
Chaos erupted as allies of the beast attacked.
One by one, Dren and Kael fell.
Gareth's breath ragged, death's cold grip tightening.
Sweat poured as he turned and ran—faster than ever.
The cries of his fallen comrades faded into darkness.
Bursting through the treeline, Gareth collapsed in the safe zone's alley.
Tears streamed.
"I thought this was a game... but this is real. I almost died."
His hands trembled.
"I ran... left them behind..."
But through pain, determination sparked.
"I have to be stronger... for them. This can't be the end."
As Gareth's breaths slowed, he leaned against the cold stone wall, eyes fixed on the horizon where the first light of dawn crept over the distant hills. The weight of loss pressed heavily on his chest, but beneath the pain, a spark of resolve ignited.
From the shadows nearby, a pair of eyes gleamed—watchful, unreadable.
A faint, flickering symbol shimmered briefly on the worn stone beside him: the fractured crown of an ancient throne, its jagged edges glowing with a cold, otherworldly light.