This world is unlike any other.It is not made of continents, nor seas, nor endless forests of green. Instead, the earth has been shattered into the heavens themselves.
Thousands upon thousands of floating landmasses drift through the boundless blue, like islands scattered across an ocean of clouds. These sky islands hang suspended in the air by the glow of colossal mana crystals buried deep within their cores, crystals that pulse with power older than any kingdom, older even than written history.
But such power does not manage itself. Every island has an architect: a chosen master whose magical system allows them to shape, grow, and govern their floating domain. It is said that when the first islands rose from the surface long ago, the architect's powers were born alongside them, bound by destiny to tame the skies.
Architects wield systems that can level, expand, and even merge their islands. Their power is near divine, and they serve as both landlords and rulers. Noble families cling to them like vines, for it is only through the architect's power that an island can survive.
At eighteen years of age, young nobles face a choice: inherit a portion of their family's territory within the island, or venture forth to claim a new landmass under their own name. Entire alliances of noble houses are held together by these decisions, their strength rising or crumbling depending on how well their architects thrive.
For commoners, people like me, the choices are far crueler.
We have two paths. The first is to remain on a given island, subject to the architect's every command. Most of us spend our lives tilling fields, harvesting crops, or working as artisans, feeding the dome-dwellers who dictate our fates.
The second path is far less secure: to live aboard airships, roaming the open skies in search of fortune, scraps, or temporary labor on one island or another. Freedom exists, yes, but so does hunger.
I was born on Arcadia, one of the great islands belonging to the Meritous Faction. To call it home would be generous. To call it hell would be more honest.
Arcadia is split into two halves: the inner dome and the outer ring.
The dome is a crystalline sphere that gleams like a second sun when the sky is clear. Wards and glyphs inscribed by the island architect keep it strong against demons, storms, and even rival factions. Behind that enchanted glass live the island's nobles and merchants, wealthy, decadent, untouchable. To enter the dome, one must "donate" an immense sum of gold, and pledge a permanent tithe of twenty percent of all future earnings to the architect's coffers.
The outer ring is where the rest of us rot. Fields stretch endlessly, broken up by clusters of sagging wooden houses. We peasants work from dawn to dusk, only to hand over ninety percent of our harvests so that the inner dome might feast. When sky demons descend upon the island, they strike our homes first, and the inner dome rarely spares a thought for our survival.
My name is Maximillion, age twenty-one. The third son of a poor farming family in the outer ring.
Third sons inherit nothing. My eldest brother will claim our family's house and meager plot of land, while my second brother will likely serve under him. As for me? At best, my parents will treat me as free labor until the day they must start paying wages. At worst, I'll be cast out when I become a burden.
They do not love me. To them, I am coin lost to the wind.
Yet even here, under the dome's shadow, opportunity can be clawed from ruins.
Scattered among the skies are ancient relic-islands, remnants of a forgotten civilization said to wield both magic and technology beyond comprehension. These "ruins" contain artifacts of immense value; books, weapons, enchanted trinkets, or tools lost to time. Once every month or so, Arcadia's airships ferry us young men and women to one such ruin. We are given little food, crude weapons, and less than a day to explore. Whatever we salvage is surrendered to the island's guards in exchange for pitiful coin.
I have been on many such raids. And though I was beaten bloody during my first attempt, caught trying to conceal an artifact, I learned. I survived. I adapted.
On one raid, fortune finally smiled on me. Among a collapsed hall of marble and stone, I found a small leather pouch. At first glance, it seemed ordinary, no larger than a coin purse. But when I inspected it, I realized its nature: a [Pouch of Holding], a spatial artifact capable of storing vast amounts of items within its tiny frame.
That pouch became my salvation.
For years, I have hidden my true finds within it. While I surrendered worthless scraps to the guards, I kept the treasures that might one day buy my escape. Inside my pouch rests an assortment of books, jeweled trinkets, and even a mana pistol from the old age. More precious still are two artifacts that have kept me alive: a [Bottomless Waterskin] and a [Daily Bread Box], magical containers that provide food and drink.
One day, I swore I would buy passage to one of the great sky nations, empires where employment programs exist for men like me. One day, I would leave Arcadia behind.
But that day has not yet come.
Today I find myself once again on a small airship, its wood creaking as we approach a ruin shimmering in the distance. Around me, a dozen other youths huddle in silence. Some grip their lucky charms, others whisper prayers. I simply touch my pouch, hidden beneath my tunic, and remind myself that survival matters more than glory.
When we land, a soldier clad in steel and arrogance barks at us to disembark. His voice is rough, his eyes bored.
"You know the drill," he growls, tossing crude spears and dented lanterns into our hands. "You have until sunrise tomorrow. Be here when the bell tolls, or we leave without you. Anyone missing is presumed dead."
A murmur ripples through the group. We all know what that means.
He throws us small sacks containing a crust of bread and a waterskin barely filled. For most, this is all they will eat until dawn. For me, it is merely extra. My artifacts will keep me from starving.
"Listen well," the guard continues, pacing in front of us like a wolf among sheep. "All spoils must be sold to us upon your return. Refusal to comply means confiscation, without payment. Resist, and we break you."
I know his words to be true. My scars remember.
Clutching my assigned spear, I move with the others toward the ruin's entrance. Unlike the crumbling husks I've seen before, this one radiates vitality. Its archways are intact, its spires unbroken. Strange glyphs, elegant, humming with power, glow faintly across the surface.
Elven runes.
Ancient. Dangerous. Valuable.
The markings pulse in time with my heartbeat, as though the ruin itself is inviting me forward. A low hum fills the air, almost melodic, almost alive.
I tighten my grip on the spear.
This ruin is different.