Life 1: Week 1

Week 1 Schedule

Day 1 – Arcanis (Structured Magic)

Morning: 1: Arcane Gunsmithing(Lecture) Afternoon: 1: Magical Ballistics(Lecture) Evening: 1: Guncaster Fundamentals(Lecture)

Day 2 – Draveth (Combat & Grit)

Morning: 2: Guncaster Fundamentals(Field Training - Body) Afternoon: 3: Guncaster Fundamentals(Field Training - Gun) Evening: Instructor Office Hour – Guncaster(Weapon Training)

Day 3 – Caelith (Prophecy, Stars, Dreaming)

Morning: 2: Magical Ballistics(Field Trials) Afternoon: Attend Guest Lecture – Reinforcement Magic[Affinity] Evening: Club: The Librarians(Welcoming/Orientation)

Day 4 – Ferradine (Runes, Crafting, Mechanics)

Morning: 2: Arcane Gunsmithing(Workshop - Tool) Afternoon: 3: Magical Ballistics(Workshop - Alchemy Pouch) Evening: Instructor Office Hour – Arcane Gunsmithing(Gun Mods)

Day 5 – Veilmere (Planar & Spirit Magic)

Morning: 3: Arcane Gunsmithing(Practicals) Afternoon: Instructor Office Hour – Magical Ballistics(Bullet Crafting) Evening: Club: The Librarians (Bookshelving - Multiversal Gunslingers)

Day 6 – Zarvian (Beasts, Exploration, Danger)

Morning: Explore the Redhook Linehouse Dormitory(Unlock Carts) Afternoon: Underground Familiar Fight Circuit – Look for Pet Evening: Join Secret Society – Union of the Oppressed

Day 7 – Hearthrest (Recovery & Reflection)

Morning: Rest(Stress)– Linehouse Bathhouse Car Afternoon: Rest if need/Meditation – Lean about levels Evening: Form Student Study Group (Low Ranked First-Years)

Total Actions: 21 / 21

Classes (Locked-in): 9 Clubs/Society: Librarians (2), Union of the Oppressed (1) Extra Training: Guncaster x1, Arcane Gunsmithing x1, Magical Ballistics x1 Recovery/Mastery: Rest, Meditation Other: Pet Hunt, Dorm Exploration, Study Group, Guest Lecture

-

Day 3(Week 1 of school)

Day 1 – Arcanis: A full theory day. No bullets fired—but plenty loaded into the brain.

Morning: Arcane Gunsmithing – Lecture with Elra Vintock. Topic: Design Principles of Magical Firearms

The lecture was held in the Ironroot Spire, one of the academy's machinist towers—a squat, smoke-streaked cylinder of red-black alloy and stone, built like a nail jammed in the earth. Arcane steam vents hissed from its seams. The whole structure resonated faintly with power, like a slumbering war machine. Thankfully lectures were not held in the sweltering Forge district of Smeltrune, where molten steel ran like water and your eyebrows might singe off during office hours, Ironroot was cool, contained, and precise—a place where heat was stored, not wasted.

Inside, the lecture chamber smelled faintly of iron, oil, and brimstone—half classroom, half battlefield museum. Arcane energy thrummed quietly beneath your boots. Every surface was inscribed with filigree runes, pulsing a slow amber. The walls were lined with mounted relics: scorched barrels, shattered arcane capacitors, a flintlock embedded with a still-humming firestone.

You sat among a packed crowd of students—this was an introductory course, open to all after all, and anyone with a spark of curiosity for guns or smithing had signed up. Most were first-years like you: fresh-faced new students from across the planes, hoping to understand the difference between a spellgun and a firecracker. Some wore forge-aprons or arcane-stitched uniforms. Others looked like they had no business near an anvil but couldn't resist the allure of weaponized magic. The classroom buzzed with low chatter and a variety of magical accents. Some students looked eager, scribbling in auto-inking notebooks the moment they sat down. Others looked like they had wandered in by accident and stayed for the explosions.Still, not everyone was new.

Though there were some more senior students also here for whatever reason to learn something new or get a refresher. From an angelic-looking girl, radiant and eerily calm, leaned against the back wall with a sleek, futuristic sniper rifle slung across her back. It didn't hum—it purred. Her wings twitched at the noise in the room. A hulking saurian, scales glinting under faint illusion runes, slouched near a heating vent, idly tapping clawed fingers against his knee counting down everyone who entered. And then there was the warforged, all bronze plating and ticking gears, its eyes like twin scope lenses. It sat perfectly still—save for the subtle rotation of its clockwork rifle's energy core, spinning with silent precision.

Elra Vintock, your instructor, did not walk. She stormed in. Stocky and flame-haired, she wore smoke-lensed gear goggles, soot-streaked overalls, and reinforced mechanical plates along her arms and back that clanked with every movement. Sparks danced from the magitech regulator bolted to her hip like a gunslinger's charm. "Greetings class," she barked. "Let's begin!" She didn't waste time. Within minutes, she was sketching firing chamber schematics in the air with a smoldering glyph stylus.

"Magic ain't delicate," she explained. "It's explosive. You either bind it or get blown apart. Your gun is a cage, not a wand. Build like it." She walked students through magical core housing, spell matrix chambers, and recoil channel dampeners using war-torn weapons she had on display. When she activated a shattered gun core to show you what not to do, half the lecture hall ducked for cover. You didn't flinch, already expecting these antics after spending time with her in the forges.

Arcane Gunsmithing - Class Progress 3/100

Roll for Class Progress[1d8(Talent) +1 Instructor Bonus + 1 Day Bonus +1 Relationship Bonus]

Rolled 9!

Arcane Gunsmithing - Class Progress 12/100

Threshold 1 Reached!(10)

Skill Gained: Arcane Gunsmithing 1(0/3): +1 Bonus to crafting, fixing and modifying guns

-

Afternoon: Magical Ballistics – Lecture with Instructor Liora Fenwick. Topic: Arcane Trajectories & Kinetic Laws

In the afternoon, Joshua found himself back at the Veyltower stepping into the Bluelight Dome, and for a moment, forgot to breathe. The room was an architectural marvel—half lecture hall, half celestial observatory, with a vaulted glass ceiling that shimmered with active enchantments. Starscapes danced across the dome in real-time, synced with unknown constellations that shifted as spells arced through simulated space. Floating projection panels hovered in concentric rings above the class, replaying spell collisions in elegant, slow-motion ballet: bolts of raw mana spiraling, bouncing, piercing—then unraveling like threads of light.

The floor was terraced like an arena, with crystalline seats arranged around a sunken center where complex trajectory glyphs spun in luminous loops, creating ever-changing spirals of kinetic data. The room pulsed with restrained energy—like a symphony waiting for the first strike of the conductor's wand.

Joshua took his seat among a quieter, more focused crowd than this morning's. This class, while also introductory, drew a different breed: students with math-scarred notebooks, enchanted visors, and twitchy hands built for pulling triggers and calibrating timing runes. Some leaned forward eagerly; others scribbled equations mid-air with inkless quills. In one corner, a duo of magic engineers whispered heatedly about "drag coefficients in anti-ether fields."

Then she arrived. Instructor Liora Fenwick, dressed in flowing robes of silver and deep violet, seemed to glide into view rather than walk. Her hair shimmered like braided starlight, woven with arcane threads that responded subtly to motion. With no obvious announcement or magical cue, the entire dome fell silent. When she spoke, her voice rang out like crystal chiming in perfect harmony—neither loud nor soft, but impossible to ignore.

"As you all know we will be studying Magical Ballistics in this class. Today we will cover.."

With that class begin, "Each bullet is made of intent. Each aim, a conversation with probability and purpose. You are not shooters. You are negotiators—with gravity, heat, and force." Holographic trajectories spun around her as she compared mana-pulse shells, lightning rounds, and resonance-burst bullets. She offered a calm demeanor—but her tone was sharp and to the point.

At one point, a student—a warlock in a worn bomber jacket—raised a hand and asked about "magical vacuum shots in zero-space corridors."

At one point someone asked about "magical vacuum shots in zero-space corridors," and she paused mid-lecture to look them over before saying. "Very good question."

Magical Ballistics - Class Progress 5/100

Roll for Class Progress[1d8(Talent) +1 Instructor Bonus + 1 Day Bonus +2 Relationship Bonus]

Rolled 7!

Magical Ballistics - Class Progress 12/100

Threshold 1 Reached!(10)

Skill Already Gained: Arcane Physics(Ballistics) 1(2/3): +1 Bonus to launching, flight behavior and impact of projectiles

+1 Skill Progress

-

Evening: Guncaster Fundamentals – Lecture with Cassian Varn. Topic: Mana Channeling Through Firearms

Tired or not, your final lecture was the one you cared most about. Guncaster training.

It was held deep beneath the academy, in a long, narrow chamber known as the Runebreak Vaults—a space carved into the bones of the old fortress, never fully renovated, never meant for comfort. The walls were dark stone reinforced with arcane iron bands, every surface crisscrossed with glyph-etched pipes that pulsed with raw, undiluted mana. The air buzzed with low-frequency pressure—like standing too close to a thunderstorm that hadn't broken yet. The lighting was dim, save for the glow from the pipes and the faint blue shimmer of a reinforced shielding ward at the far end of the room. That shimmer bore the scars of countless magical impacts—burn marks, pitted glass, and a single embedded bullet that hummed quietly. It hadn't been removed. It was part of the lesson.

This class was smaller than the others—not by design, but by survival rate. These weren't just students curious about magic and guns. These were the ones who wanted to merge them—or already had. You saw reinforced gloves, experimental visors, field-worn utility belts. One student was missing an arm, replaced by a mana-channeling prosthetic. Another carried countless pistols. No one spoke above a whisper and they all stood guarded.

Instructor Cassian Varn, former warmaster and quiet legend, stood with his arms crossed as students filed in. He was massive—horned, scarred, cloaked in a long, weather-worn coat that had clearly seen combat in more than one realm. His one intact horn was chipped, the other replaced with a metal spike engraved with warding runes. A sidearm the size of a small cannon rested in a mag-lock holster at his hip. He said nothing for the first fifteen minutes—just watched each of them take their seats. Watched how each of them carried their weapon, or if you even bothered to. Watched your posture. Your eyes. Your breathing.

He didn't introduce himself. Just stared. Taking no roll call. Offering no syllabus. No welcome speech.

Then, without a word, he drew his gun—one fluid motion. He loaded a single glowing round, aimed at the far end of the chamber, and pulled the trigger, firing directly into a shielding rune at the far end of the room. The shot cracked like thunder. The ward flared with a ripple of golden light. The embedded bullet hummed louder—now joined by its twin. "This is the language we shall speak in this class," he rumbled.

"Now that I have a feeling for all of you, let's start. A sword is an extension of the body. A spell is an extension of the will. A gun... is both. Respect that, or lose control."

His teaching was brutal, blunt, and exact. No coddling, no repetition. You drilled trigger-tempo syncing, focus-loop tethering, and the 'snap-cast' technique—a way to channel spells through muscle reflex rather than mental incantation. He didn't praise. He didn't scold.

Joshua fumbled at first. Everyone did. The air was filled with static and muttered curses, burned fingers, and smoking training pistols. But when your channel finally aligned—when the spark flared through your weapon without backlash and your grip didn't sear—Cassian grunted in approval as he moved onto the next student.

By the time class ended, your hands were steady, your heart was racing, and your head ached from all the knowledge stuffed in there. Still he would call it a good day.

Guncaster Fundamentals - Class Progress 0/100

Roll for Class Progress[1d8(Talent) +1 Instructor Bonus + 1 Day Bonus +1 Relationship Bonus]

Rolled 7!

Guncaster Fundamentals - Class Progress 7/100

-

Day 4(Week 1 of school)

Day 2 – Draveth: A full theory day of grit and gunfire. Growth through pain.

Morning: Guncaster Fundamentals – Field Training: Body Conditioning & Spell Recoil Control

There were no desks today. No chalkboard. Just sand, steel, and pressure. The training yard behind the Runebreak Vaults was more crater than field—a gouged expanse of dirt lined with impact zones, jagged scorch marks, and fragments of spellshot casings half-buried like fossils. Every breath of air carried the sharp tang of gun oil, mana residue, ozone, and dried blood. Cassian Varn was already there when you arrived—arms folded, coat off, horns gleaming under the sun. His gaze swept the arriving students like live targets. "Today's lesson: your body! It is the barrel. Treat it like one."

The morning began with brutal drills—weighted sprinting with spell-loaded gear, recoil absorption forms, barrel stance conditioning, and a nauseating exercise where you fired half-loaded shells while holding your breath inside a containment rune.

Joshua learned quickly that spell recoil wasn't just something to suppress—it was something to ride. The mana backlash moved through you. Varn stalked the field like a warden, he didn't offer corrections so much as barked observations like gunfire:

"Too stiff." "Your shoulder's ahead of your will." "Control the breath, or the bullet controls you."

Some students collapsed. One vomited. Another's pistol cracked down the grip, and they were escorted off the field in silence. But you—you adjusted. Bit by bit, mistake by mistake, you began to flow with it.

By the end of it, you were soaked through, your wrists ached, and your muscles trembled. But your focus was sharp. And when you fired that last round—clean, centered, synced—you didn't just hear the shot. You felt its hum.

Body 6 - Stat Progress 0/60

Roll for Body Stat Progress[1d6(Body) +1 Instructor Bonus + 1 Day Bonus +1 Relationship Bonus]

Rolled 7

Body 6 - Stat Progress 7/60

Tip: If you want to progress even faster w/ training get some aids!

-

Afternoon: Guncaster Fundamentals - Field Training: Target Drills & Heat Compression Flow

By midday, the sun had risen to a merciless blaze overhead, casting sharp shadows across the cracked stone of the training yard. The air shimmered with heat—and pressure, magical and otherwise. Cassian Varn, ever practical, tossed each student who stayed behind for more lessons an enchanted canteen, the water inside so cold it stung your teeth. No speech. No praise. Just a curt gesture toward a nearby stairwell, descending into the narrow space below the yard.

It was a claustrophobic, rune-sealed trench of carved basalt and spell-etched copper, lined with flickering containment wards and designed for one thing: combat under stress. Narrow enough to limit movement. Enchanted enough to simulate full-scale live fire. "Shooting still targets is for archers and crossbowmen. We fight things that shoot back."

Moving glyphs began to hover—target dummies layered in shifting wards, flickering between physical and arcane states. The trick was not just hitting them—but knowing when they'd become real. The catch? You only had milliseconds to tell the difference.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Joshua drilled nonstop as the man imparted knowledge on them while getting drilled, basically learning while under fire. He covered target syncing via breath and step rhythm. Matching your breathing and footwork to the pace of your trigger, until the shot became a heartbeat.

Varn shouted over the spellfire: "Your weapon doesn't care how tired you are! MOVE. BREATHE. PULL."

Some students burned out, stumbling, spells misfiring from sloppiness or ego. You didn't. You were faster now. More fluid. Your gun didn't shake in your hand—it aligned with your stride.

Guncaster Fundamentals - Class Progress 7/100

Roll for Class Progress[1d8(Talent) +1 Instructor Bonus + 1 Day Bonus +1 Relationship Bonus]/3

Rolled 9/3=3

Guncaster Fundamentals - Class Progress 10/100

Threshold 1 Reached!(10)

Skill Gained: Guncasting 1: +1 Bonus to spell damage & effect of magic cast through firearms

+1 Skill Progress - Guncasting 1(1/3)

-

Evening: Instructor Office Hour – Guncaster Focus: Close-Quarters Weapon Training

By evening, the sun had dipped low, casting long shadows across the academy's walls—but down in the sublevels of the Runebreak Vaults, there was no night, only the cold glow of enchanted steel and runes that never slept.

Only six of you remained. Varn said nothing as he dismissed the others. No explanation. No ceremony. Just a glance, and a gate opening behind him with a hiss of ward-locks. You followed him into a circular chamber, lit by the pulsing glow of reflective ward-runes etched across the walls and floor. It felt like stepping into the chamber of a revolver—tight, coiled with tension, purpose-built for violence.

"You think your gun's a distance weapon?" Varn said, turning to face you all. His voice rumbled like a shell being chambered. "That's a weakness. Get close. Be precise. End it."

What followed wasn't a lecture. It was a baptism. He demonstrated each motion only once—corner-roll blast setups, elbow-braced firing positions, and the brutal, instinct-driven snap-back cast, where you unleash a spell mid-recoil, twisting your own body's momentum into a curved arc of burning intent.

Then he made you do it. Over. And over. There was no pause. No reset. Only movement. Only pressure. Only pain.

Finally, he summoned the last lesson: A hardlight golem, humanoid in shape, forged from spell-anchored geometry and conjured to hit back. "No help. No cover," Varn said flatly. "Just you. Your instincts. And your trigger."

The golem didn't wait. It struck hard, fast, and with none of the restraint a normal sparring partner might offer. You blocked, dodged, rolled. You got hit—twice in the ribs, once across the shoulder. But you got back up. You recalibrated your grip. Let the breath settle. And on the fifth clash, when the golem surged forward for a finishing blow, you slid under its swing, pivoted off your back foot, and fired a charged snap-cast at point-blank range—right between its faceted, glowing eyes.

The spell burst like a flare. The room blinked white. The golem fell in pieces of burning geometry. Silence. Joshua stood there, chest heaving, pistol still humming, your arm shaking from the channel overload. Cassian Varn watched. He didn't speak. Didn't clap. Didn't smirk. But as you holstered your weapon, he gave you a single nod—barely perceptible. Small. Subtle.

+1 Skill Progress - Guncasting 1(2/3)

+1 Relationship Progress - Relationship with Cassian Varn: 1(1/3)

-

Day 5(Week 1 of school)

Day 3 – Caelith: A day of discovery and new opportunity.

Joshua sat alone in the Dining Car of the Redhook Linehouse, chewing through something approximating toast—enchanted to always be warm, and tasted like cinnamon. Outside the window, the sky shimmered with a dreamlike sunrise—lavender clouds dragging through gold-threaded stars, as if the day itself wasn't quite ready to wake.

A warm mug of caffeinated coffee steamed between his hands. His shoulders still ached from yesterday's recoil drills. Then it came. A small envelope, about the size of a playing card, slid across the table without a hand attached. No messenger. No sound. Just motion—like the world itself had decided to deliver it.

He blinked and looked around. No one was paying him any attention. He opened it. Inside was a single line, etched in delicate, angular script that glowed faintly with auric ink: "To learn, to seek, to never unsee. Tonight. After duskfall. Come alone." —The Librarians

Morning: Magical Ballistics – Field Trials with Professor Liora Fenwick

The Ballistics Range was carved into the side of a mist-shrouded cliff, overlooking a mirror-still lake that shimmered like a pool of starlight. The air smelled of ozone and salt, tinged faintly with copper. Auto-shifting platforms lined the edge of the precipice, while target pylons floated across the water—spinning, flickering, phasing. Each was protected by a carousel of enchantments matrices: reflective shields, elemental veils, illusion casings. And today, they moved.

Professor Liora Fenwick was already on-site when you arrived. She stood motionless above the platform, hovering inches off the ground, her silver-and-violet robes trailing behind her like a comet's wake. She didn't greet you. She didn't smile. With a single flick of her fingers, the glyphs came alive—spiraling into the air with surgical precision, casting the cliffside in flickering arcs of light.

"Theory is where we begin," she said, her voice cool and crystalline. "But today... we will learn first hand how motion works in the field."

You were issued live spell rounds, each one humming with arcane potential: Velocity shells, sensitive to air current and caster pulse. Phase-piercing rounds, useless without split-second timing. Displacement bursts, designed to bounce around corners like vengeful fiends.

The assignment was simple in description—land three consecutive hits on three different targets. The reality however was chaos. Each pylon rotated between shield types, elemental states, and illusionary projections, phasing in and out like ghosts in a dream.

One student froze mid-cast and dropped their spell core. Another overshot and ricocheted into their own platform shield. A third panicked and tried to brute-force through a null-phase shield—the spell ate itself mid-flight.

You adjusted. You stopped aiming with your hands. You started listening—to your breath, to the rhythm of the targets, to the way the wind danced off your fingertips before you pulled the trigger. First shot—missed, too late. Second—close. Clipped a shield just as it rotated. Third—you exhaled, too early.

The round bent with the wind. It ricocheted once off a mist-shield, once more against an invisible wall —and struck a cloaked pylon mid-transition, collapsing its illusion field in a silent ripple of light. The glow faded. The platform steadied. Fenwick said nothing. But she didn't correct you.

Instead, she turned her gaze to the next student—her silence a kind of recognition, a quiet signal to keep going. "Correct your tempo," she said without turning, "and the shell will follow."

Roll for Class Progress[1d8(Talent) +1 Instructor Bonus +2 Relationship Bonus]

Magical Ballistics - Class Progress 12/100

Rolled 4

Magical Ballistics - Class Progress 16/100

-

Afternoon: Guest Lecture – Reinforcement Magic

The auditorium was packed. You'd never seen so many upperclassmen in one place, all of them alert, respectful, even nervous. Guest lectures were rare. This one was rarer.

The hall itself matched the weight of the occasion—dim and intimate, its dome lined with floating diagram-runes and constellations projected from a central glyph cluster. Diagrams of muscles, nerves, auras, and fracture points shimmered around the space like celestial anatomy. Then, the doors opened. And the air shifted.

The speaker arrived not with flair—but with gravity. A presence like a boulder at rest—not moving, but impossible to ignore. The speaker, Elydia Veyren, Moonspeaker, veteran of the Seventh Gate, appeared as a contradiction: part philosopher, part warrior. One limb replaced by a glowing crystalline prosthetic, robes faded and mended in places, her spirit cloaked in stillness. Her skin shimmered with a cool, pearlescent sheen, kissed by starlight and the quiet gravity of the moon. Her hair—long, silver-lavender waves—fell like liquid dusk down her back, unbound and radiant beneath the floating glyph-lights of the auditorium.

When she finally spoke, her voice didn't echo. It settled.

"Reinforcement is the will to remain whole in a world that wishes to break you. It is focus given form. To reinforce the body is to hold an idea so hard that reality bends around your will." She spoke of: Kinetic Threading, enhancing joints and ligaments to redirect force. Sigil Stacking, short-term multipliers woven into breath patterns. Mental Anchoring, keeping one's mind grounded under magical pressure.

When a student asked, "What happens if your body can't hold the spell?" Elaris looked at her for a long moment. "Then the spell will hold your body—for as long as you last." The room was silent for the rest of the hour. "My advice: Only reinforce what you are prepared to destroy. You'll never cast harder than you believe you can break." Joshua left with his thoughts running faster than his heartbeat.

-

Bonus Scene: To help understand Magic

The auditorium was emptying fast, a quiet hum of conversation rising as students filtered out—some stunned, some inspired, others clearly shaken. Joshua remained seated for a moment, watching as the moon elf woman began packing away her projection scrolls and folded a shimmering spellcloth into a pouch on her belt. He stood, hesitated—then walked down the steps toward the stage.

"Excuse me," he called, careful not to rush. "Do you have a minute?"

She looked up—not startled, just aware. Her crystalline prosthetic stopped mid-fold as her eyes settled on him. "You stayed quiet," she said, not unkindly. "That usually means you were listening. What do you need?"

Joshua scratched the back of his neck. "I have Reinforcement Magic. I was wondering... how does magic actually work? Not the forms or techniques. The core of it."

A slow smile crept across her face—small, but real. She stepped down from the platform so they were eye level. "That's a better question than most dare ask. Magic isn't a tool. It's not a trick or a resource. Magic is—a conversation. Between your soul and the world."

"It begins with intent. It responds to will. But what it becomes… depends on your affinity."

She reached into her satchel and pulled out a simple copper medallion etched with eight spiraling stars. With a gesture, a projection bloomed—a scale, faintly glowing, each tier divided into stars and labels.

"Affinity is how closely you're attuned to a type of magic. It's how deeply your spirit syncs with that expression of reality."

She pointed to the first tier. "Most like you start with nothing when they awaken—when the soul recognizes a path. The begin with a 0✩ affinity with their magic, and that is where the long journey begins to get closer and truly master your magic begins. Then its the 1✩ Affinity: Low, Mid, High, Peak. Followed by 2✩ and so on. But that is neither here nor there for you."

Reinforcement Magic 0-✩: 10/100

Roll for Magic Progress[1d4(Magic) +2 Lecture Bonus]

Rolled 4

Reinforcement Magic 0-✩: 14/100

-

Magic Affinity Ladder

0✩ –

1✩ –

2✩ –

3✩–

4✩ –

5✩ –

6✩ –

7✩ –

8✩ –

9✩ –

-

Evening: The Librarians – Welcoming & Orientation

The door opened before he touched it. He stepped into a reality folded like paper and stitched with stars and entered into the Grand Library as it swallowed the world behind him.

A space that shouldn't exist—built of architecture forgotten by history, infused with living parchment and magic-stabilized time distortions. Shelves floated in impossible configurations. Staircases climbed into fog. Bookshelves twisted like trees. Lanterns floated. Quills scribbled without hands. Maps whispered. Tomes pulsed and whispered names as he passed. The air shimmered with the pressure of unsaid truths.

But what struck him most… was the silence. Not the silence of emptiness. The silence of reverence. A voice echoed—cheerful, absurdly casual from between the rows. "You made it, Mr. Samuelson. It's great to see you decided to join our club!"

Joshua turned. A figure waited at the center. A tall man in a waistcoat and rune-sashed cravat stepped out—gray hair in a ponytail, spectacles glowing faintly with identification glyphs. Standing out were the goat legs along with the fluffy ears and large horns.

"You're that guy I met at the club fair," Joshua noted.

"I'm Curator Marlowe, a Librarian. We've had eyes on you since you joined the academy," Marlowe said, with a bow. "We noticed your hunger for magic and knowledge, and the Library invited you when you showed curiosity."

"Creepy much," Joshua muttered.

"Flattering, actually," Marlowe winked, leading him deeper into the stacks. "We only keep an eye on those that are worthy."

They passed display cases holding varying magical items, some strange and others terrifying and weird. "We are not simply collectors," Marlowe continued. "We are field agents of preservation. If a spell shouldn't be cast, we find it first. If a relic might end a city, we file it away before it's unleashed."

They continued on their way passing hallways where staircases crawled like centipedes. and towers floated in the void like candlewax, bound in rings of light and shadow. Bridges stitched themselves together as they walked. Staircases coiled like dragon spines. Lanterns didn't burn with flame—but with stored sunlight from dead civilizations.

Then they came to a gate where stood two figures in robes of ink-black and star-thread silver. Their faces were veiled. They did not speak. They only nodded once and turned walking ahead.

"Well there is where I will leave you. Best of luck," the man said. With a nod, Joshua followed after them, deciding not to remark how cult-like this all felt. He was led through a ceremonial passage lined with doors, each carved with a single glyph. As he walked through each, his heartbeat matched the rhythm of a rising chant behind him.

The Eye –

See what others have buried

The Lock –

Seal what cannot be destroyed

The Quill –

Write only what costs

The Mirror –

Face what is true

The Flame –

Burn ignorance

The Chain –

Break comfort

The Key –

Find danger first

The Map –

Leave no place unexplored

The Unwritten Book –

Become that which cannot be predicted

Each archway pulsed as he passed, registering his presence like ancient sentinels. Not all glowed warmly. A few flickered, uncertain. One nearly went dark. At the end of the hall stood a chamber of silence, circular and rimmed with hovering pages that wept ink and light. In the center was a floating pedestal, upon which rested a leather-bound tome that throbbed faintly with a pulse—as if alive.

All around him, twelve Librarians in ceremonial robes stood in a circle, their faces obscured by masks of brass, glass, feather, gears, and bone. No two alike. The lead figure stepped forward. Her mask was a mirrored spiral. Her voice, a chord of many tones—young, old, human, not.

"Joshua Samuelson. You arrive unbound. Unread. Unwritten. Write your name in the Book of Unwritten Chapters and walk down the path of a guardian of knowledge and magic!"

In the center, an ancient pedestal. Upon it: a single, leather-bound book titled Joshua Samuelson – Unwritten Chapters. Joshua took it. The stylus was cold and humming. When he pressed it to the page, blood—not ink—spilled gently from the tip. His name wrote itself. It shimmered, sank in… and vanished. The book snapped shut.

"Your vow is accepted. You are now one of us, Joshua Samuelson. However, you must choose your path!" From the void, new pedestals rose up. Upon it hovered three medallions—not relics, but callings. He was offered three paths to walk down as a Librarian:

The Watcher's Eye

—

For archivists, historians, appraisers, and magical scholars.

The Wayfinder's Compass

—

For explorers, ruin delvers, and gatetravelers.

The Preserver's Seal

—

For vault wardens, curse sealers, and containment agents.

The three medallions hovered before him, pulsing like hearts trapped in crystal. Joshua reached out—not because he understood it all, but because something in his blood leaned forward. He chose the Wayfinder's Compass.

It snapped to his palm. The moment he closed his fingers around it, a shimmering path flared outward from the pedestal—etching itself in the air like a map unfolding in real time, made of light and ink and memory. All around him, the robed Librarians stirred. Their masks dimmed. Their robes shifted. And then—they laughed.

One by one, the masks came off, revealing students of all years and disciplines—smiling, relaxed, no longer cloaked in eldritch solemnity. Someone clapped. Another tossed him a biscuit wrapped in preservation paper. Someone else handed him a mug. "Welcome to the weirdest club on campus," one said, grinning.

Gone was the cult-like reverence. And before him stood pretty normal people, maybe not normal since they were magical, but nonetheless not terrifying shadowy figures. "We just like making a good first impression," someone explained with a wink.

Before Joshua could reply, the crowd parted—and a figure approached, boots echoing on marble, coat fluttering like he'd just stepped off a windblown cliff. He looked early-thirties, roguishly handsome, sharp-eyed, and impossible not to notice. A long trench coat embroidered with realm coordinates swept behind him. His Wayfinder medallion was worn but polished, tied to a lock of spell-preserved hair. He carried a sigil-marked satchel slung across one shoulder, the strap fraying like it had been chewed by monsters from at least three planes.

"So you're the new firsty we got on board," the man said, clapping him on the shoulder.

"Name's Talor Vance. 8th-year. Ruin-runner. Gate-buster. Responsible adult. Technically." He flashed a grin. "You just joined the Compass branch, which means you're now licensed to explore restricted zones, file hazardous findings, and probably get yelled at by at least three faculty members per month."

He leaned in, voice conspiratorial. "I'm your liaison. I'll teach you the ropes. Maybe get you killed a little. Kidding. Mostly."

Talor tossed him a notebook bound in reptile hide. "First rule of the Compass? Record everything. Second rule? Nothing you recover comes home unless you understand what it wants. Third rule—bring snacks." He held out his fist for a bump. "Welcome to the crew, Samuelson. You just made your life about ten times more dangerous… and a hell of a lot more interesting."

-

🜁 The Wayfinder's Compass

"Where no path exists, you make one. We go where none ever been or dare to."

Role:

Explorers. Gatewalkers. Ruin Delvers. Treasure-Hunters. Magical Cartographers. Gatewalkers. Custodians of the Key & Map.

What They Do:

Wayfinders are the blade that cuts through the unknown and the ink that writes new maps into magical history. Chosen for their grit, intuition, and disregard for comfort, they operate in the liminal cracks of reality, where few dare tread and fewer return.

Traverse Unstable Realities:

Enter collapsing pocket dimensions, realms stitched from dreams, paradox zones, cursed ruins, and myth-bound vaults. Where normal physics breaks, Wayfinders walk.

Artifact Retrieval & Triage:

Hunt down arcane objects deemed too dangerous to be left behind—sentient spellbooks, weaponized relics, time-lost scrolls, or constructs gone rogue—and bring them back intact… or contain them on the spot.

Planar Trailblazing:

Open temporary routes through

planar storms

, spell-collapse zones, or even dream-rivers. Sometimes, their paths don't exist until they're walked—and sometimes, they unravel the moment they pass.

Magical Cartography & Survey:

Create living maps of new leyline configurations, reality fractures, abyssal rifts, or regions born from violent

spell-collisions

. These maps often require psychic attunement to read, or bleed ink when danger is near.

Lost Agent Recovery:

When a Librarian goes dark in a sealed ruin or an interdimensional sinkhole, Wayfinders are dispatched to find them—or retrieve what's left. Often, they're the only ones who can read the remnants of a broken trail.

Where They Operate:

The Wayward Atlas:

A vault-bound chamber of semi-sentient maps—many require riddles, truths, or offerings to unfold properly. Each map must be negotiated with, as some are alive, encrypted, or cursed to deceive.

The Compass Gate:

A colossal archway lined with

doors from across the multiverse

, shifting with time and will. Only trained Wayfinders can divine the correct door—or create a new one that led into the unknown.

The Glass Horizon:

An observatory perched at the edge of existence, that observes fractured timelines, fate's discarded drafts, unknown probabilities, and loosened karmic knots. Wayfinders come here to study causal bleeds, speak to time-ghosts, and peer at almost-realities to anticipate dangers not yet born.

Perks of the Path:

Compass Attunement(Innate Wayfinder Gift)

:

Once per journey, if you're truly lost—physically or metaphysically - your soul-bound compass can locate a key object, lost person, or missing path.

Multiversal Key(Innate Wayfinder Gift)

: An item forged from paradox metal, attuned to your presence. It opens doors that should not exist—backdoors into dying realms, forgotten dreamspaces, or sealed timelines.

Pathfinder's Instinct

: Navigate shifting dungeons, pocket realms, or cursed ruins with uncanny accuracy.

Enigma Unraveling

: Disarm magical traps. Solve intricate magical puzzles. Bypass mystic locks.

Dimensional Cartography

: You can create and decipher living maps—scrolls that redraw themselves in real time, tracking shifting spaces, hidden passages, planar distortions, and cursed terrain.

Multi-Realm Survival:

You've adapted to deadly and impossible environments. You can resist void exposure, dream corruption, planar storms, and chaos weather. Your rations stretch longer, you recover faster in hostile spaces, and your sleep can be delayed.

-

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.