---
📖 Chapter 1: The Forgotten Class
Part 1: The World & Academies
The continent of Elyndra stretched like a vast tapestry of kingdoms and forgotten ruins, where rivers ran red with history and mountains bore the scars of ancient wars. Legends said the land itself had once been forged on the anvil of gods, hammered into shape by celestial flames. Whether true or not, every child grew up hearing those words, and every clan, every royal branch, every academy claimed they were the rightful heirs to that divine spark.
To live in Elyndra was to live in a world of bloodlines and cores.
The bloodline one was born into determined how much the world expected from you. The core you awakened determined how far you could climb beyond those expectations. Together, they formed the ladder of power, a ladder all aspired to climb, yet most never touched beyond the first rungs.
At the summit of this ladder stood the Academies of Might, each one a colossus of prestige.
In the North, the frosted peaks of Glacium Academy, home of the Winter Royals, trained warriors who wielded cold as easily as a blade.
In the West, the golden towers of Solari Academy glittered, where the Sun-Blooded forged flames into spears that could split armies.
In the South, the desert sands hid Obelith Academy, whose rune-weavers commanded storms and mirages that warped reality itself.
And in the East, rising above oceans of mist, the ethereal spires of Lunaris Academy shimmered like starlight, sheltering bloodlines tied to the moon and dreams.
These were the Landmark Academies, each a fortress of history, producing heroes, generals, and kings. Every five years, they gathered in the Continental Tournament, where the strongest students displayed their might before the Overseers themselves.
And then… there was Ironveil Academy.
A small, crumbling institution wedged in the heart of the central region, surrounded by farmlands and villages so poor they were barely marked on maps. Its forges were old and cracked, its libraries missing entire shelves of scrolls, and its students… well, there were barely any.
It was known as the Academy of Forgotten Flames, a place where the hopeless went when they could not afford, or were not chosen, for greater halls. Its specialty was forging and enchanting, a discipline most considered a "support craft" rather than true combat. Who cared about a boy hammering weapons when one could command storms or summon beasts?
The common saying in Elyndra was cruel but constant:
> "Those who cannot wield power, wield tools for those who can."
That was Ironveil's fate. The lowest of the low. The shame of the academies.
But fate has strange ways of weaving its patterns. Sometimes, what the world discards becomes the ember that burns it all down.
---
In a remote village called Makok, where smoke from chimneys mixed with the earthy scent of tilled soil, a boy walked the dirt path with nothing but a small pack slung over his shoulder. His cloak was worn, patched so many times it looked like a quilt of survival. His boots were scuffed, his hands calloused, and his eyes carried both the dull weariness of hardship and a sharp glint of hunger—hunger for more.
This boy's name was Jofyn Vale.
No royal sigils marked his bloodline. No grand clan name shielded him. He was a commoner, son of a blacksmith who had died to fever, raised by a mother whose hands had known only toil. The only thing Jofyn inherited was his father's old, cracked hammer—its handle splintered, its head rusted with age.
To anyone else, it was worthless.
To Jofyn, it was everything.
---
The academies had opened their gates for a new generation. Hundreds of youths marched to Solari, Glacium, Obelith, and Lunaris, hoping to carve their names into history. But Jofyn? His letter bore the crest of a dim flame surrounded by iron shackles—the mark of Ironveil Academy.
"Even there, you must shine," his mother had whispered before he left, pressing the hammer into his hands. Her eyes were tired but proud. "Your father believed the forge speaks to those who listen. Perhaps it will speak to you."
Jofyn had smiled, but inside, he wondered. Could a boy like him, with no bloodline, no training, and only scraps of knowledge from an old village, ever hope to stand among those destined for greatness?
Still… curiosity burned in him like a secret flame. Unlike most boys, Jofyn had always been drawn not just to weapons, but to the mystery of how they worked. Why did a blade sing differently when forged under starlight instead of day? Why did a hammer strike feel alive when he focused on his breathing? Why did the old runes carved into the village's shrine glow faintly whenever he touched them?
Others laughed at him for asking.
But Jofyn couldn't stop asking.
And so, on that day, with the world mocking Ironveil Academy and dismissing its craft as useless, Jofyn walked toward his destiny… carrying the hammer of his father and the questions of his soul.
---