15,840 years since the first Ethorg appeared.

  14,522 years since the first Wizard reached maturity.

  14,519 years since the first Signer existed.

  4,040 years after the First Signer War.

  2,017 years after the Second Signer War.

  And exactly 1,500 years buried in the thick shadow of oblivion...

  "Over two millennia have passed since the fall of the final empire of the Ramos Dynasty, an event that saw thousands of Signers entombed forever within the legendary ice of Mount Hasas. The fleeting hollow of loss felt by the sons and daughters of Emperor Wofbat could not drown out the joyous laughter and the endless, drunken melodies of victory. The Wizarding world could not have asked for a better opportunity to reclaim its absolute dominance.

  Five hundred years after that upheaval, the last remaining Signers vanished into legend. A thousand years more, and legend became myth. Fading records were systematically erased by the 'Black Hand' within the Sacred Tower, the seat of the Wizarding Union that now rules the Great Continent of Orancle.

  No one knows, no one remembers, and no one dares to hope for the sight of a Signer, blade in hand, traversing Milderenlet for a brighter tomorrow—the kind depicted in the rare, crumbling carvings of the ancient Ronxstil Temple.

  Two thousand years of doubt, leading only to oblivion. Two thousand years of a hollow peace, stained by purges and silences... The Signers have been utterly struck from the history of the four continents."

  Year 1744 after the Unification Day — The Altar of Yor’Ikarim

  The Great Wizard Alaris sighed, resting his gaunt, vein-streaked fingers upon an ancient stone table—one carved from the very pedestal of the Great Lord and True Signer, Drakon Heraton. His eyes remained shut as a cold tear traced a path down his weathered cheek, marked by the dark liver spots of age. His heavy brown cloak, hood pulled low to hide silver hair that reached his waist, only deepened the sense of desolation against the howling mountain winds. The gale tore at the blue triangular banners of the Crestorim Empire, the realm where Wizards now held absolute power.

  "Lord Fris’kost will not wish to be kept waiting, Master," a voice spoke softly from the steps below the circular sanctum.

  "A Wizard is not to be called 'Lord,' The’olard," Alaris sighed, his azure eagle-eyes snapping open to survey the endless void from the mountain peak.

  "You should not speak such things before the Council," The’olard replied, remaining in a respectful kneel upon the sacred stone steps, his expression unreadable.

  "Only a Signer is worthy of the title 'Lord'," Alaris explained calmly. "That is the law of the ancestors."

  "The Signers do not exist, Master. They are nothing but fairy tales. We shouldn't—" A faint, dismissive smirk flickered across The’olard’s lips.

  "You will have your answer another day, when you have truly grown up," Alaris replied, meeting the youth's arrogance with the patient smile of a mentor.

  "I am a grown Wizard, Master."

  "Only in body, The’olard. You are young, and you have much to learn if you are to become the man people expect of you—the son of Fris’kost."

  The’olard fell silent. He was the brightest of the Ryul clan, more cunning and patient than a Menfais—that half-leopard, half-tiger creature with a snake-like tail that could stretch for meters while stalking its prey. He knew that arguing with the Great Wizard would only delay the mission his father had entrusted to him: a turning point in the struggle to suppress the "dark and rebellious" ideologies regarding a race the Council believed should not exist: the Signers.

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  "Must thousands of years of communion with the human world—the sincere Ethorgs—end today by my hand?" Alaris whispered. "When the two dimensions close, the humans of that world and those of this one will be severed forever. Two societies, once bound, will be torn apart. Oh, am I doing right or wrong..."

  "Master, the hour has come." Another child stepped past The’olard, ignoring the prince's irritated glare. The child approached Alaris and reverently offered a long, dark-brown staff. The aura radiating from it was crushingly powerful, a testament to its divine origin: the Las Beuria Life-Tree, birthed from the primal soil of Gaia, once taller than the mighty Mount Ang’Per.

  "Then it is time," Alaris shook his head, exhaling a final sigh.

  The great sage, the ancient cedar of the Orancle forests, felt a surge of heat tighten around his heart. Planting the staff firmly into the sacred altar, Alaris closed his eyes, channeling his entire lifeforce into the thick green smoke billowing from the Yor’Ikarim sacrificial table. His body erupted in light, releasing iridescent motes that coiled around the sanctum.

  The young acolyte, momentarily losing his composure to childhood wonder, stared at the beautiful display before remembering his duties. He turned and retreated, kneeling on the step below Prince The’olard.

  Peering with mischievous eyes, the young priest watched as thousands of light specks flickered from fortresses, portals, caves, and even marshes across the land. They soared upward at Alaris’s world-shaking command, like a thousand rising stars, merging in the sky to form a brilliant new star in the Immortal Constellation.

  The light dimmed as Alaris withdrew his energy. It contracted, pulsed, and then flared one last time—a radiant ring of faith, friendship, and final sincerity that exploded outward. Alaris collapsed, gasping, his body withered and spent after performing one of the Four Great Forbidden Arts. His salt-and-pepper hair had turned stark white. He had aged years in the span of a few heartbeats.

  "A normal man would not have survived that spell," The’olard remarked suddenly.

  "And you are here not just to witness it, but to prove to the Council that I am nothing but a stubborn, senile old man?" Alaris smiled weakly.

  "You knew? Then why perform the spell, knowing it would leave you so vulnerable?"

  "Because I am a Wizard of the Crestorim Empire. I have a duty to obey the Council's mandates, even if it costs my life," the Great Wizard replied. "But I suspect the order to kill me came only from your father, old Fris’kost, didn't it?"

  "Heh," The’olard smirked. "You truly are the only elder I respect in a Council full of cowardly, rotting fools. Yes, my father ordered your death the moment the portals were sealed. Your existence—and your support for the 'search for the sign'—is a cancer upon the system we intend to build. You are a tumor that must be excised."

  "Very well," Alaris nodded. "But you will have to fight for what you want. I will not go quietly."

  "As you wish," The’olard bowed, offering a final, hollow gesture of respect.

  As his angelic face looked up, his armored hand erupted in sparks. He lunged at Alaris with a lethal, deceptive strike.

  Clang! Golden sparks flew, instantly turning blue as they struck a frost shield Alaris had conjured from the moisture in the air. With a flick of his wrist, the old man unleashed a wave of energy that sent The’olard reeling back toward the stone stairs. With another graceful movement, a spinning circle of ice manifested in the air, lunging forward to bind The’olard in a frozen grip.

  The’olard frowned, a flicker of shock crossing his face. For the first time, he realized the terrifying depth of the Great Wizard's prowess. Even drained of energy, Alaris was a formidable foe.

  But Lord Fris’kost would never send a man incapable of the task, even if it were his own son. The’olard reacted instantly. Pointing two steel fingers toward the ground, he whispered an incantation that pierced through the bedrock. As Alaris struggled to reinforce the icy bindings, the earth beneath him buckled. The Great Wizard was forced to release his spell, leaping into the air to hover on a cushion of wind, staring down at the massive, crude stone creature roaring below.

  "Summoning the Mountain Spirit?" Alaris gasped. "Only those who have reached the level of a God-Wizard can do that. How can you?"

  The’olard smiled—a look as beautiful as a star, yet as predatory as a hunter over its kill. He had nothing left to hide. Tearing away his velvet cloak, the prince revealed a muscular frame. On his left bicep, a shimmering mark glowed—a circular pattern of intricate runes that resembled both leaves and forest spirits.

  "You... you..." Alaris was truly shaken now, his resolute gaze crumbling into disbelief at the symbol before him.

  "Yes, I am a demi-god!" The’olard declared. "This mark is a gift from my mother, a descendant of the ancient fae."

  "Hahaha!" Alaris suddenly burst into a fit of laughter—both joyous and bitter.

  "What is so funny?" The’olard demanded, narrowing his eyes.

  "I am laughing because you are more naive than I thought!" Alaris countered. "And your father, Fris’kost, is even more foolish. He has been played by his own kin. Your precious Tyra Stryde..."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Don't you and your father want to silence the world? To stop any thought of the Signers?"

  "And?"

  "Ignorance has blinded you both. You seek to destroy that which you do not even recognize. Let me tell you, young heir of the Empire: that mark on your arm is not of the fae. Neither you nor your mother are demi-gods. You are a Signer—a Bearer of the Mark!"