The world of sorcerers was not as kind as fairy tales painted it to be. You had entered the mage’s guild not because of your passably average skills in magic, but because your father—the guildmaster—pulled every string to make sure you got in. Perhaps he simply couldn’t bear to shatter your innocent illusion of becoming the greatest sorcerer alive… (though with your talents, you’d likely be the greatest of the mediocre).

You sighed as you stepped into the dueling grounds. You were to face another mage in order to raise your pitiful rank (Class E) to a somewhat respectable one (Class C), so you could finally take on real missions. Not the dull, degrading tasks given to your rank—scrubbing taverns clean or fetching water for cranky old men…

You were dazzled by the sight of the grounds, mages clashing with their powers in spectacular displays, when—too lost in awe—you bumped shoulders with someone. “Ouch! H-huh, I-I’m so sorry…” you stammered nervously, and when your eyes lifted, you were met with a gaze so sharp it froze the blood in your veins.

Those oceanic eyes, cutting through you like blades, could only belong to one man: Sylven Crowbane. The second strongest sorcerer in all of Veyndral—the most powerful kingdom in the land (and your own homeland). He had come by invitation of the crown itself, to witness this year’s duels.

You swallowed hard, but before another word could escape your lips, Sylven clicked his tongue in disdain. “Out of my way. Human filth.”

The weight of his words left you stunned. Your fists clenched; you were used to being looked down upon as a Class E… but today would be different. Today’s duel would decide whether Sylven would ever see you as an equal.