Far beyond the bounds of familiarity, in the nethermost reaches of the Far South of Shawnforth, there lay an enigmatic expanse: the Thrasher Desert.
It was Amon Brooke Thrasher, a peripatetic geologist, an ordinary human, who first beheld this famed landform some five centuries past, following a prodigious fourteen-year peregrination. He sought not riches nor glory, but a sanctuary for his beleaguered province — a realm once filled with tranquility, now despoiled by the raid of a rapacious kingdom.
Scholars have long speculated that the aggressor was none other than Zion, during its imperial zenith, a time when the now harmonious and genial kingdom was a sovereign line being drunk with rapacity and rampant with malevolence. The eminent philosopher Henry Heaven Tremblay once described Zion's insatiable dominion with a chilling axiom: "All beneath the seven heavens was the rightful possession of Zion."
And so it was that the desert became an oasis of reclamation, a sublime haven for the displaced. But unlike the typical arid wastelands of lore, the Thrasher Desert harbored subterranean freshwaters, coursing beneath its scorched crust. The Earth brimmed with rare and resplendent minerals: Goz copper, Red steel, Gloydon, and the fabled Preacher's Platinum.
For a fleeting moment in time, joy reigned. The people erected a fledgling province, their spirits rekindled. Yet jubilation proved ephemeral.
Zion descended with unrelenting ferocity, butchered every soul, and claimed the territory in blood. The massacre seeded the very discontent that would one day topple the Empire in a cataclysm of revolt.
Now, five centuries hence, cartographers and scholars unearthed startling revelations: the desert's size had vastly misreckoned, now spanning half the dominion of ancient Zion. Its mantle still whispers with untapped mineral wealth. But amid this discovery arose the eldritch and inexplicable.
The sands were strewn with monolithic anomalies—vast, curved edifices of Black Obesin, a tenebrous and obdurate stone being unearthed under dead volcanoes. These horn-like colossi soared to heights of thirty Creters. They were not built, but found—mute and unyielding. The mystery surrounding their genesis kindled fleeting intrigue, yet, as with all great enigmas, curiosity dimmed.
To the boreal edge of the desert stood a Zionite bastion. Under the blistering gaze of the noonday sun, Estrellos, mirages shimmered like apparitions, and waves of heat undulated across the parched horizon. The stronghold, though primarily subterranean, bore surface structures that hinted at forgotten grandeur.
Constructed of Virgin cobblestones and Vermin stones [what you people call limestones], the fortress was now largely submerged by the elements. Sand, detritus, and the leavings of beasts cloaked it in an accidental camouflage, aided by hardy desert flora like the Sun Iris and Wertoln leaves.
"Seventy-five degrees Malcey," muttered a voice. "Marginally more merciful than yesterday's inferno."
Perched atop one of the towers, in a chamber with scant shade, dwelt a man grievously vexed by the unrelenting heat. His physique was sculpted, his skin the hue of tempered copper, hair curled and obsidian. Bare-chested and clad only in billowy shorts, he scrutinized a peculiar circular device—a thermometer, its slender needle trembling at seventy.
He slid the drawer open with practiced ease, the hinges whispering like secrets in the still air. The thermometer slipped from his fingers, landing with a muted clink, forgotten. His gaze settled on a small, faded photograph tucked within — a woman's face, worn by time, yet cloaked in an unfathomable beauty. Her features bore the cryptic signatures of age, but her eyes — a deep, otherworldly blue — seemed to see beyond the veil. Her hair was white as bleached wheat, her skin pale and soft as fresh snowfall, almost spectral in the drawer's half-light.
Then — the shriek of an alarm. Sharp. Jarring. It fractured the silence.
He flinched, then moved swiftly, almost ritualistically, shutting the drawer with a snap. A whisper left his lips:
"Oh yes," he muttered, almost as if remembering something he had long tried to forget. "I nearly forgot."
He pivoted, his footsteps soundless on the stone. At the desk where he'd just sat, his hand reached not for a tool, but for a wand, nestled like a sleeping thing. Forged from pure Slaver, it resembled a miniature staff, its surface etched with faint, indecipherable runes that shimmered in the dim light. As his fingers closed around it, the air seemed to tighten.
He bolted through the doors, grabbing a deep brown overalls and hurriedly putting them on. He nearly slipped as he hit the hallway at full speed. The corridor was alive with motion — people everywhere, rushing in every direction. Men and women shouted over one another, exchanging hurried questions and unfinished thoughts. Even a few kids — rare sights in this sector — weaved through the chaos like pros, clearly used to the commotion.
"What's the scale of this one?" someone shouted over the noise. "I heard it's a big one!"
The voice belonged to Worker 45, a tall man built like a broomstick — all limbs and sarcasm. He jogged up beside him, barely breaking a sweat, which was impressive given how his legs looked like they might snap in a strong breeze. He wore the same uniform as everyone else, the deep brown overalls, but managed to make it look slightly more dramatic, which was probably unintentional. Probably.
"Big enough," the man replied, barely slowing down. "Let's just hope it's not another protocol-failure drill. I still haven't recovered from the previous one."
"Recovered?" Worker 45 scoffed. "I don't know about you, but I can't wait to bare my claws into those demons."
The two halted before a great ironclad gate, its surface etched with ancient sigils that pulsed faintly, as though stirred by their presence.
"Well," the man said, exhaling as he caught his breath, "this is no mock trial."
He gave a weary, almost theatrical sigh. "Splendid."
From the folds of his coat, he drew forth a thin rune-card, its edges glinting with arcane script. At once, the gate responded — a smooth, metallic orb emerged from a hidden aperture, hovering like a watchful familiar. It was the size of a dried sand-fruit, its dull casing forged from moon-alloy, brittle yet bound by enchantment.
The orb's shell opened like petals, revealing a smaller core within — a single emerald eye that glowed with quiet sentience. It cast a spectral beam upon the card, followed by a soft, deliberate chime.
"Welcome," the orb intoned in a voice both feminine and forged, "Worker Forty-Two, and…"
It hesitated — the eye shifted, spun once, then locked again with focus.
"…and welcome, The Circus Master."
In the Bastion, titles bore weight beyond names — they were legacies, whispered in halls, etched into scrolls, feared or revered.
The gate hissed like a serpent disturbed, then parted with a thunderous groan, sliding wide to reveal a vast chamber drenched in shadow. Far across the shifting sands — fifty Creters away — a behemoth stirred.
It was a thing of monstrous design: plated in thick, earth-hued scales, it marched on fifteen powerful legs, each one gouging deep into the sand. Behind it whipped five serpentine tails, their tips crowned with onyx spikes sharp enough to cleave bone and stone alike. And then its face— Almighty forbid — its face.
Five crimson eyes burned in the gloom, and its mouth twisted into a predator's grin, filled with jagged, saber-like teeth, as though some mad god had gifted it a smile.
"Indeed," Worker 42 said, his knuckle being cracked, "it's a big one."
A fine warmup, wouldn't you say? Worker 42 grinned, his voice light, but his stance battle-ready. "Or are you planning to give the 'haven't yet recovered' excuse when you get your ass beaten?"
The Circus Master answered with a smirk, tilting his head just so. "I may be too fast for you to even see it."
Their eyes met — a shared spark of rivalry — and then, as if guided by fate itself, they leapt forth from the stronghold's maw.
To the beast's many eyes, a blur of searing light rushed towards it, and above, a gargantuan veil, like a tent, descended to enshroud the creature's doom.
Edith was present, though scarcely anyone took notice. Her new membership with the Adagar faction had not been premeditated — indeed, it was an unforeseen detour. Unlike Caesar, who had only just embarked on his first year, Edith was already in her second.
Being transferred from another academy far away in another kingdom, she had a headstart. She attended her classes without fail, yet cloaked herself in near-invisibility, as though deliberately dissolving into the background.
To the outside world, she was an icon — poised, self-assured, and born to lead. As the second daughter of the first wife of Romeo Audrey Billington, the illustrious Senator of Education and Information in Zion, such perceptions were all but inevitable. Expectations loomed over her like a crown too heavy to bear. Yet beneath the façade, her confidence flickered like a dying ember, waning under the weight of legacy.
Her admission into Black Medows Academy was followed by the ceremonious revelation that she was a Prodigy [no surprise ] and a prominent member of the Paragon 11. But that distinction was quickly marred by a humiliating defeat at the hands of a first-year: Izobel Kyra Edgar.
She rarely spoke with her father, though admiration for him lingered like an echo. She revered his insatiable hunger for knowledge, a passion that had seeped into her bones as if by inheritance.
Edith Dorothy Billington — fifteen years old, a prodigy, a polymath, but not a human, she was a Titan; very large mystical creatures that roamed the lands for maybe aeons. She was a vision of ethereal beauty, being dubbed The Eye of Beauty, and not without reason. Her obesin-black hair with golden tips cascaded to her waist, framing a countenance both striking and enigmatic. Her amber eyes were deep enough to lose oneself in, her face symmetrically sculpted, crowned with a razor-sharp jawline, plush lips, and a dusting of freckles that softened her otherwise regal features.
Her physique was formidable, honed and lithe — the kind of beauty that radiated power rather than fragility. Of tall height yet commanding in presence, her figure incited awe and envy alike. A perculiar feature was her teeth, sharp, jagged teeths that could easily slice through human skin and bone. Yet to Edith, the mirror was an adversary. She saw not allure.
Her insecurity had been etched into her from childhood. At the age of eight, a sudden growth spurt had warped her perception of her own form. What others lauded as elegance, she regarded with unease. Her faith in others was tenuous; her belief in herself, even more so.
After settling into her first class — The Language of Henzen, a sacred tongue native to the ancient heart of Zion — Edith cloaked herself in anonymity. She uttered not a single word, veiled her features beneath heavy folds of fabric, and chose the most distant corner of the room, where shadows softened her silhouette and the world could forget her presence.
Her amber eyes, sharp yet weary, were fixed on her Personal Status. The words glowed faintly in the air before her, and she felt a wave of nausea rise in her throat.
Name: Edith Dorothy BillingtonBlessed Name: RuthYear: SecondYear Rank: 3rd out of 178Divinity: Pathway — If an attack is launched, it follows a traceable course. A Pathway user can manipulate that trajectory.Divinity Class: Valour — A defensive skillAttributes: Neverland, Child of the Soil, Brawler, Archer, Titan ShiftClass: Sentinel — The shield, the frontline, the immovable strength of any unit.
"Third? Third is shameful," Edith thought bitterly. "Who claimed first? How did I fall to third? This is absurd. Disgraceful. I should just—just vanish, disappear, die, die, die…"
Tears welled up uninvited as she cupped her hands over her face, silent sobs wracking her slim frame. Then, gently, a hand touched her head—steady, calm—and began to pat her hair.
"Wow, you're crying over third place?" a voice teased lightly. "I got thirteenth, and you don't see me wailing about it."
She lifted her head and was met with a familiar sight—two radiant eyes, their pupils shaped like lilac-colored crosses, laced with faint streaks of crimson. It was Antonio Los Tenoch, her classmate and confidant. He was a boy of beauty and quiet depth, fifteen years old like her, his hair a luminous shade of violet that shimmered at the tips. A single earring adorned his left ear. Like Edith, he bore Titan blood, though not of noble lineage.
Antonio's father served under Edith's adoptive father, administering education in the lower wards of Zion. Antonio never sought her approval or bowed to her prestige. That, perhaps, was why she trusted him.
Edith wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her robe and turned toward the towering chalkboard at the front of the room. She couldn't let herself crumble—not here, not in front of Antonio.
"Thank you," she murmured. "But what would my father say if he found out I came in third?"
Antonio's lilac eyes narrowed. He crossed his arms and said with rare seriousness,"If your father isn't proud, then he doesn't deserve your effort."
Alarmed, Edith reached out and clamped her hand over his mouth."Don't say that," she whispered hoarsely. "I owe him everything. I'm not even his by blood. He's Human, and he still chose to raise me. My mother was a full-blooded Titan."
Antonio mumbled beneath her hand,"Mh, mhmmhm mhhm mhhm…"
She blinked, realizing she was still covering his mouth, and quickly let go.
Antonio pulled a rubber band from his pocket, gathering his lustrous purple hair into a lazy bun."Still not sure how that even works. Your mom's like… ten feet tall."
Edith pouted."So? My mom's the best."
Antonio grinned."Alright, princess."
She rolled her eyes and giggled,"Brat."
Before long, Edith had snatched the rubber band from his hands, twirling it between her fingers. Their laughter filled the air like music, untouchable by worry.
Their Henzen instructor entered — a Titan from the southern reaches of Shawnforth. She had clearly consumed height-reducing elixirs, and while round and ruddy, her radiant grin — filled with sharp, wolfish teeth — betrayed nothing but warmth. Edith found comfort in it.
Titans and Dwarves were now officially welcomed in Black Meadows. Zion's anti-discrimination edicts had made quiet but steady progress.
The lesson was simple, a review of basic Henzen verbs: come, go, do, play. But Edith barely absorbed them. Her thoughts buzzed like hornets.
Their second class, Physical Education, was a breath of fresh air — literally and figuratively. With her Titan heritage, Edith far outmatched her peers in physical ability. She left Antonio to join the boys' bracket while she joined the girls'.
The changing rooms were luxurious — full of mirrors, toiletries, and beauty enchantments. Despite her attempt to stay low-profile, Edith's presence turned heads. Many recognized her from the Trials. Familiar faces dotted the room — faces she deliberately avoided.
The day's sport was kickball — a strategic game of eleven versus eleven, with the goal of kicking a leather sphere into the opposing net. The game was held on a sprawling field behind Black Meadows, its grass still dewy with morning mist. Their coach was a Human woman, energetic and firm.
Everyone clamored to have Edith on their team. After all, who wouldn't want a Paragon Eleven prodigy in their ranks? But she, ever elusive, chose her team through random draw.
Still, murmurs followed her like shadows. Her presence caused a stir, and anxiety began to coil in her stomach.
She was named captain.
The ball — a gleaming orb of white leather — rested at her feet. She inhaled deeply, the scent of fresh earth and grass filling her lungs. The wind teased her golden-tipped hair.
A whistle split the air.
She dashed forward, the ball at her feet. Her movements were fluid, precise, powerful — and as she ran, her hair caught the light like a golden flame, dancing in the morning sun.